Of Mustard, Mold, and Mystery Men
Maisie
The smell hit me first – damp wood and something distinctly fishy. I meant that literally. The smell of dead fish was nearly overpowering as I followed Griff up the creaking stairs.
Finally, when he pushed open the door, I saw it – his island home.
From the open doorway, I stared in surprise. A slanted ceiling hovered over sparse furniture and sickly yellow walls. A narrow bed sagged near the far corner as a rickety table stood guard beside it, surrounded by exactly one folding chair.
The kitchenette looked like it belonged in a horror movie, complete with a flickering overhead light and a fridge that groaned like it had eaten bad seafood for lunch.
I didn't enter because the squeamish part of me didn't want to.
Next to me, Griff let out a low scoff. "See? A dump, just like I said."
Good Lord. This was worse than a dump.
Bracing myself, I finally stepped inside, slowly, like I might fall through the floor if I moved too fast. "You weren't kidding."
He didn't say anything as he followed after me. He just let me look. There wasn't much to see – just enough to send my head spinning as the contradictions hit home. Griff – the guy with big-city, alpha vibes, the bike-fixer, the expert kisser – that guy was living here?
I took a long look around. None of this made sense.
Yes, I knew about the bet.
But this wasn't just some stripped-down rental. This was the kind of place you only called home if you had nowhere else to go.
So why was he here?
And more importantly, who was he really?
Griff turned and pointed toward the tiny balcony. "Look, waterfront."
I was no stranger to the cost of real estate on the island. This place – this stinking dump – had to be worth half-a-million, easy, if not more. I'd lived on the island for most of my life, but never within view of the water, because, well…who had that kind of money?
Not me, that's for sure.
But this place? All it needed was a good wrecking ball. The land – that was the real prize. But the building itself – not so much. And how on Earth did it pass inspection?
As I looked from wall to wall, I noticed that all of the windows were wide open, letting in a cool breeze that should've been refreshing.
Maybe it was. But I still felt grubby.
Grasping for something to say, I asked, "So…you leave the windows open?" As I spoke, I glanced at the ceiling and shivered – not from the breeze, but from the sight of a big water stain above the bed.
Yikes. No wonder he didn't mind bunking down with me in the tent.
Last night, of course, no tent had been needed. I'd slept alone in my double bed. And Griff? Apparently, he'd slept here.
I actually felt sorry for him.
I wasn't sure what stunned me more – that he was living so rough or that he didn't seem the least bit ashamed.
Looking away from the balcony, he said, "You should smell it when I don't."
I'd been so lost in my own thoughts that it took me a moment to recall that I'd just mentioned the open windows. I gave them another glance. There were three windows total, plus the balcony.
It was perfect for air-flow, so why did the place stink? I asked, "So you leave them open all the time?"
"Except when it's raining – or when there's rain in the forecast." He grimaced. "You should get a whiff of it then."
I shuddered to think.
His face registered concern. "You okay?"
"Yup. Totally fine." I was just reeling, that's all. This version of Griff didn't line up with any of the others I'd seen.
First, he'd been a random rich guy. Then, he'd been a hard worker. Finally, he'd been the guy who'd captured my heart.
And now?
Now he was living in a shack like someone on the run. I recalled Franny's half-baked theory – that Griff was some kind of hit-man in hiding. At the time, I'd considered it silly. And I still wasn't buying it, because for one thing, hit-men made a lot of money.
Didn't they?
Bet or no bet, no self-respecting hit-man would live in a place like this.
He gestured vaguely toward the kitchenette. "I'd offer you a drink, but the fridge only has mustard and mold."
I felt a twinge of panic. "You haven't touched it, have you?"
He gave me a wry smile. "What? The mustard?"
"No, the mold," I said. "That can be dangerous, you know." Yes, I sounded like a priss, but mold was no laughing matter, and I hated the thought of Griff getting sick.
He gave the fridge a dismissive glance. "Yeah, that's why I keep it shut."
Earlier today, when I'd given him the full details of my loan fiasco, I'd felt like a giant loser. Sure, the debts had piled up under my dad, not me. But I was the one who'd gotten that stupid consolidation loan, figuring that with enough hard work, everything would be fine.
It wasn't.
And it was getting less fine with every passing day.
Like a total dumbass, I'd believed the financing company when they'd told me not worry about the September deadline, promising that I could refinance it for a longer term once I had a good tourist season under my belt.
Yeah, right. I'd gotten nothing in writing, and they'd already reneged. This meant that every single penny of the loan would be due in one big chunk – and not terribly long from today.
To Griff's credit, he had listened without judgment or pity. He'd actually made me feel better, telling me that somehow we'd work everything out.
It was the "we" part that had made me go all misty.
Did I believe him?
I had at the time. But looking at this place, I wasn't so sure.
I mean, if he had any financial sense at all, why would he be living here?
The bet. Yes, I know.
But no matter how many times I reminded myself of what he'd told me, I couldn't quite make myself believe it.
There had to be more to this story.
Right?
I was still sorting through it when he looked toward the nearest window and muttered a curse.
It startled me back to the present. "What's wrong?"
He frowned. "I've got company."
I forced a laugh. "Don't tell me it's Sierra."
When he replied with only a strange look, I felt compelled to add, "It was a joke. Obviously." But was it? In my own mind, I wasn't so sure.
Griff gave me a smile that never reached his eyes. "Yeah, funny." Except it wasn't. I could tell by the set of his jaw and way his sharp gaze returned to the window.
My stomach gave an odd little lurch. What if Sierra was here?
I moved forward to see for myself. To my infinite relief, I saw no sign of Sierra. But I did see a good-looking blond guy on a bike. He looked expensive – like Griff – or rather, like Griff had looked the first time I'd laid eyes on him.
Recalling Tessa's description of Griff's so-called friend, I asked, "Is that Ryder?"
Griff was still focused on the window. "Yup." He turned and gave me a wry smile. "Wait here. I'll be back in thirty seconds."