Chapter 10
Cozy as a Crime Scene
Ryder
Now that Griff had gotten a good eyeful of the outside, it was time to show him the best part – the place where he'd actually be sleeping.
It was no luxury suite.
I nodded toward the boathouse. "Your place is upstairs."
He gave the upper level a long, slow glare. "My place. But not my choice."
No kidding.
But hey, we couldn't all be choosers.
I led him around to the side door and pulled it open. Right on cue, a musty wave of dockside funk hit like a punch to the face. I'd expected it. Hell, I'd counted on it.
But Griff? Yeah, he looked surprised, and not in a good way. Perfect. If the smell didn't break him, nothing would.
The stairs groaned under our weight as we climbed up the narrow stairway – me bounding, Griff trudging. When we reached the top, I threw open the door with an extravagant flourish to reveal a studio apartment smaller than Griff's guest room in Chicago.
The place was a dump, sure, but it was dry, had a view, and most importantly, it proved a point. Things could always be worse.
I said, "Cozy, right?"
He grimaced. "Yeah, cozy as a crime scene."
I grinned. "Oh, come on. You've slept in worse."
His silence said otherwise. And that only made me grin harder.
The guy was taking it exactly as I'd hoped, with insulted pride, reluctant endurance, and a spark of challenge underneath – a challenge he sorely needed, whether he realized it or not.
I watched as his eyes zoomed in on the tiny bathroom, located directly across from us. The door was wide open – just like I'd left it.
Glumly, he studied the small space – so obscenely compact that the toilet was barely a foot from the sink – and I didn't mean next to it either.
I pointed. "Look, you can shit and shave at the same time." This was no joke, but it was funny just the same.
At this, he turned and gave me a look so sour, it could've curdled milk.
Then came the fridge moment. I'd scoped it out last week and left it as-is, containing half a stick of butter, off-brand soda, and a bottle of mystery mustard. I strode forward and opened the fridge nice and wide. "Look, something to go with your pastries."
He didn't look amused. Clutching the pastry box in one hand, he stalked forward and shut the fridge good and hard before turning to ask, "Where's the fish?"
I put on my innocent face. "What fish?"
He frowned. "The place reeks of it."
He wasn't wrong. The tang of dead fish hung thick enough to taste. Call me a bastard, but that was my doing, having paid a local fisherman to clean his latest catch near the dock.
Did that make me an asshole?
Probably.
But hey, anything to jolt Griff out of his rut.
I flashed him a grin. "Hey, I did say waterfront."
He didn't even smile. Then again, I hadn't expected him to.
What I was expecting was for him to consider how lucky he was that he'd left dumps like this firmly in his rearview mirror. And if he didn't consider it? Hey, I was just the guy to remind him. "Just like your place in Chicago. Am I right?"
When his jaw tightened, I had to say it. "Home sweet home."
He looked one good shove away from decking me – which, honestly, I might've deserved. But he didn't. Instead, he looked toward the balcony, and for the first time, I saw something new flicker in his eyes.
Sounding puzzled, he said, "It can't be the same one."
I kept my gaze trained on Griff. "The same what?"
He pointed. "That seagull."
I turned to look. Sure enough, through the grimy glass of the balcony door, I saw a big white bird perched on the railing. It was staring inside, watching us like it had a beef.
It was my turn to frown. "What's it looking at?"
Griff scoffed. "Don't ask."
We both fell silent. The bird stared. We stared back. Eventually, I gave up and turned back to Griff. "So…you ready to quit?"
I wasn't even sure what I wanted – for him to cave, so I could gloat, or for him to stick it out, so he'd finally get it. Either way, I'd call it progress. A few nights in this dump, and his Chicago penthouse would feel like paradise.
Griff's reply was instant. "Hell no."
The guy was no pussy, I'd give him that. Still, I had to ask, "You sure?"
"Positive."
Huh. Apparently, he needed this more than I thought. And now, I was thinking ahead. "So I've gotta ask, how much money was in your wallet?"
I wasn't merely curious. I was concerned, even as I worked to hide it. Under the terms of the bet, the loser had to survive on nothing more than the cash in his wallet, which ruled out credit cards, wire transfers, and even checks.
Griff's jaw flexed as he replied, "Just over three hundred."
Shit. "Dollars? For thirty days?" I forced a laugh. "No fucking way. I figured you'd have a grand at least." I nodded toward the pastry box, still in his hand. "Damn, I should've bought you two dozen."
He didn't reply, but I caught the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. He was starting to see the humor in it – or at least trying to.
See? My plan was working already.
I smiled. "Aw, cheer up. At least you've got a roof over your head."
He let out another scoff. "Yeah. A leaky one."
This wasn't true. I mean, yeah, the roof had been leaky. But I wasn't a total dick. I'd had it patched just last week, which was pretty damn generous considering the place was set for demolition later this summer.
I'd kept the ceiling as-is, just to make him think. And judging from his face, he was thinking plenty – probably imagining a faceful of rain as he slept on the narrow bed.
I waved away his concerns. "Eh, better than nothing." But then, concern made me ask, "You sure you can live on ten bucks a day?"
He shrugged. "I've done it before."
"Yeah, but not lately."
His voice sharpened. "I'll be fine."
That was the pride kicking in. I was glad to see it. "If you say so."
"Yeah, well I do." His chin jutted in that stubborn way I knew all too well.
There was no way he'd be quitting today.
But tomorrow? Yeah, we'd see about that.
I smiled. "Good thing you have your phone."
"Yeah? And why's that?"
"So you can call me when you quit."
Now he did grin. "Dream on, fucker."
I laughed. That was more like it.
Hoofbeats clopped from somewhere outside, announcing the arrival of the carriage I'd hired to take me to the island's only airport. Soon, I'd be on my jet, sipping good bourbon and congratulating myself on a job well done.
But as I turned for the door, I couldn't stop myself from giving my friend a final chance to bail. "Need a ride?"
"In the carriage?" Griff said. "No thanks."
Forget the carriage. "I meant in the jet."
He laughed – not a real laugh, but a decent effort. "What? And leave this place?" He tossed out another grin. "Home sweet home, right?"
Touché.
Shaking my head, I turned and started down the stairs, calling over my shoulder, "You won't last a week."
Outside, the sun hit the water like a field of glass. The horse snorted, the carriage creaked, and somewhere behind me, a seagull squawked.
I climbed into the carriage, still thinking about Griff – and about a certain blonde behind a coffee counter with eyes full of secrets I wanted to unravel.
It's not that I was interested. It was just that, like I said, I was a curious guy. And Tessa Sinclair? She'd piqued my curiosity like nobody in a long, long time.