I hope you like cranberries?
Ryder gave me one last amused look before turning away with his friend. The moment the door shut behind them, I let out a slow, ragged breath. My heart was pounding, my hands were shaking, and my smile – heaven help me – was still plastered in place.
If bluffing counted as cardio, I'd just burned a thousand calories.
But I wasn't out of the woods yet. Whether Ryder Vaughn was here on vacation or for something else, I just knew he'd be back.
And me?
Assuming I stuck around, I'd need to do a whole lot better the next time around.
8
Home Dump Home
Ryder
Griff was glaring at the rickety structure like the thing was about to gobble him up for lunch.I could see why.
The place was a total shithole – too narrow, too decrepit, and too damn ugly compared to the shimmering lake.
When Griff turned my way, I gave him a wicked grin. "Home sweet home."
From the look on his face, he'd rather live in the gutter.
No. He wouldn't.
I knew this from experience. Living on the street sucked ass. No roof. No walls. And no peace and quiet when you shut your eyes – which was why years ago, I'd learned to sleep light and wake fast at the first sign of trouble.
It was also why I didn't skimp on property today – a condo here, a skyscraper there, and plenty in-between. Unless the world went up in flames, I'd never sleep rough again.
But back in the day? I would've felt pretty damn lucky to be sleeping in a quiet dump on the lake.
Griff, of course, had other thoughts. "It's not a home," he grumbled. "It's a boathouse."
A shithouse was more like it.Still, I gave an easy shrug. "House, home. What's the difference?"
I watched as Griff took it all in – the sun-bleached boards, the peeling paint, and the narrow balcony that looked one stiff breeze away from collapse.
The place wasn't a fixer-upper. It was a lost cause.
It was perfect.
Griff flicked his chin toward the looming monstrosity. "A home is for people. That's for boats. You see an oar up my ass?"
I laughed. "No, but from the look on your face, I wouldn't rule it out."
When he only scowled, I fought to keep my amusement in check. The guy had no idea how much thought I'd put into this little exile of his.
This wasn't punishment. This wasn't even about the bet.
It was an intervention.
For months now, Griff had been running on fumes, restless and cynical. Sure, he was filthy fucking rich, but he'd forgotten what it was supposed to mean. He treated money like a bad habit, something shameful instead of something earned.
As for myself, I was tired of watching him brood and drift, like a boat missing its anchor.
So, yeah. I might've gone a little overboard when setting this up.
