I felt heat rush to my cheeks. "Sorry, I meant really nice."
This made her snicker. "No, you didn't."
Well, this was awkward.I felt the corners of my mouth tug into a reluctant smile. "Can I blame the hangover?"
Surprise flashed across her face. "You're still hung over?"
I had to laugh. "No, but I still want to blame it."
This made her laugh, too. "Deal." She gave me a wicked grin. "But only if you tell me more."
I tried to sound casual. "About what?"
"Youknowwhat," she said. "Or rather, you knowwho."
Yup, I sure did.And the way it sounded, I would be spilling my guts one way or another. But hey, it wasn'tallbad. After all, there were thingsIwanted to learn, too.
"Deal," I said. "But in return, you've got to tell me what Franny said. And…" I almost hated to say it. "Do you care if I bake some bread while we talk?"
This made her frown. "Now? But you've been on your feet all day."
I glanced toward the lower cupboard where I kept my mixers and whatnot. "Yeah, but I've got a bread machine, so it won't bethathard." This was technically true, but Tessa was right. I'd been on my feet for hours, and I was dying to take a load off. Still, I tried to smile. "So, is it a deal?"
"Nope." She lifted her chin. "I've got one better. You talk.I'llbake."
My heart warmed at the offer, but guilt made me pause. "But that doesn't seem fair…to you, I mean."
Tessa waved away my concerns. "You've been working for what? Twelve hours?"
"More or less," I admitted.
"Yeah, well I only worked for eight. And I'm living in your house. The least I can do is bake your bread." When I still hesitated, she added, "I'm not taking no for an answer." She grinned. "So spill it, sister."
15
The Art of Duffel Digging
Griff
In spite of the open windows, the boathouse still smelled like the mutant love-child of mustiness and dead fish.
Ignoring the funk, I kicked the door shut with my heel and dropped the garbage bag full of bedding just inside. I'd been using it for a laundry bag, but that didn't change the fact that it was plastic, black, and made me look like I was trying to rob Christmas.
So much for washing the sheets.The island's only laundromat closed at ten, and I'd gotten there at 10:03. I'd traveled on foot, not knowing how the Santa sack would do on a bike.
Plus, I still didn't have a bike lock. Call me cynical, but I wasn't that trusting, especially with wheels that weren't my own.
Now, back in the boathouse of horrors, I debated whether to sleep on the bare biohazard mattress or dig through the duffel and pray it contained something I could substitute for sheets. A beach towel. A blanket. Hell, I'd take a novelty poncho at this point.
Poncho or not, I wasn't putting the old sheets back on the bed – not without washing them first. And the laundry, it seemed, would have to wait until tomorrow.
My only hope was the duffel, which I still hadn't fully explored, probably because I could only imagine what kind of crap Ryder had packed on my behalf.
So far, I'd dug only deep enough to find the toiletries and the clothes I was wearing now, along with a monogrammed bath towel and the flashlight that had saved my ass last night after flipping off the overhead light.
But the duffel was big, which meant that a good, deep look was long overdue. Ideally, I would dump it all out, check the goods, and shove most of it back in.
The plan had only one hitch. There wasn't a single trustworthy surface in the shithole I was calling home.
