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But it would have been totally unfair to take out my frustration on Brady. He didn’t know who Carly was, so I couldn’t really blame him, and I told him just that.
“That’s a fucking shit storm, bro, but you didn’t know. If I had a dollar for every chick I fucked who turned out to be a pain in my ass, I’d have the fucking money we need for the tournament.”
Brady’s lips quirked up as he let out a breath he’d been holding. “You don’t say! That might be the only way out of this mess, you know? Our bodies and the shirts on our backs are pretty much all we have to our names. How the hell are we going to find ten grand by the end of next week?”
I laughed at his goofiness. We’d been joking about our only ticket out of the island being aRisky Businesstype of deal with the rich, bored trophy wives who came here often without their husbands, looking for a good time. Of course we’d never do anything like that, my mom would have cut my balls off.
“No, dude, seriously, what are we going to do?” Brady asked. “I know none of us would fuck to earn the money we need, but if we can’t surf for it, we’re totally screwed. Our only skills are surfing and fucking.”
I hadn’t felt an ounce of the confidence I showed when I’d spoken next, but Brady was feeling shitty enough about his fuck up without me making it worse. “You know that’s not true. We have the skills we need to be a success if we get the money to start our business. I’m a classically trained chef, you’re a kick-ass mixologist, and Matt was first in his class when he got his business degree. We just need fate to cut us a goddamn break.”
I shake my head, remembering the flicker of hope in Brady’s expression at those words. Truth be told, I’m not in the mood to go hang out at the bonfire tonight, so I take my time in the kitchen, getting ahead with all the prepping for breakfast and thinking of a way out of this mess.
I know I might have to show my face at tomorrow’s party, but right now I need peace and quiet to think.
I throw one last look at the kitchen. There’s nothing else I can do in here today, so I might as well walk back to my cottage and keep mulling over our problem.
I lock the door and move a few steps to the side, avoiding the garden where guests might still be lingering around, since the bar is still open for another hour.
I’m so busy turning my problem over in my head and drowning in my mental pity party that I almost miss them.
A strangled gasp makes me turn to look at the main building I just left, and that’s when I see two figures in the darkness of the small porch that leads up to the owner’s suite.
It looks like a couple tangled in a passionate kiss, but something is off, so I take a step closer, trying to focus my gaze on them. The woman seems to be struggling, so I call out, “Is everything okay over there?”
The woman shoves the man away from her, and when he stumbles off the few steps of the porch, I notice it’s Greer and the son of Mr. Manning’s guest.
I don’t go any closer, waiting for reassurance that everything is fine.
“Yes, Drew, thank you. Tristan was just leaving.”
The man turns around slowly, throwing an annoyed glance my way. “Yeah, I was leaving. Good night, Greer. See you tomorrow.”
He steps away, shoving his shoulder into mine as he walks past me. Whatever’s up his ass, I don’t want anything to do with it. I have enough problems without getting involved in the owner’s daughter’s fight with her boyfriend. But I stand here until I’m sure he’s gone and she’s locked her door behind herself.
I make a mental note to tell the guys about this Tristan character and how big of a douche he is. They don’t need to tangle with the prick and end up fired, because a tool like that would definitely run to his daddy and Mr. Manning to complain.
I shake my head as I walk away. I thought Greer might be different, but if that’s her type, then I’ve clearly got it all wrong.
