by Nicola Marsh
He shook his head, disgust twisting his mouth. ‘Not a single day went by when good old Fred didn’t berate me for being a burden on them, for taking attention away from him, for being a financial drain even though the old coot had millions.’
‘No offence, but your grandfather sounds like an asshole.’
‘He was. He actually told me why he didn’t like me once.’ He drained the rest of his beer and slammed the bottle down on the table. ‘He said I was nothing like my father and it was my fault my parents died in a car crash because they were on their way to check out a boarding school for me in rural New South Wales when it happened.’
‘Shit...’
Polly couldn’t comprehend lumping that much vitriol on a child, let alone a child left in your care. Ryder’s grandparents had a lot to answer for. She mightn’t have been as close to her mum as she would’ve liked, but Barbara had never made her feel unloved or a burden.
‘I was four when the car accident happened and I barely remember them, but Pop never let me forget what a useless waste of space I was.’
Wishing she’d never probed at this obvious sore spot, she said, ‘What was your gran like when he was alive?’
He shrugged, his eyes glazed as if lost in memories. ‘She seemed to like me. Then again, he reserved his hatred for me in private, when she wasn’t around.’
Hating the injustice of a grandparent taking his grief out on an undeserving child, her eyebrows rose. ‘And she didn’t pick up on his animosity other times?’
‘If she did she never let on. Fred was her world. They were old school. He controlled the money, she ensured his home was perfect. A match made in heaven.’ He snorted, an ugly sound ripped from deep within him. ‘Pity living with them was my version of hell.’
It all made sense now—how Ryder would spend every spare minute at their place, how he’d linger until dinner time and quickly accept if her mum asked him to stay, how he’d accompanied them on most of their outings. It made her wonder if Barbara had known about the situation next door and that was why her mum had treated Ryder like another son.
At times Polly had resented the bond between her mum and Ryder, as her mum had lavished him with the attention she’d rarely paid her daughter. Back then, she’d liked Ryder but she’d been a tad jealous of him too. Now her heart broke for what he’d had to endure and she was glad her flighty mum had welcomed him into their family.
‘I had no idea,’ she said, resting a comforting hand on his forearm.
He stared at it for a moment before shrugging it off. ‘Nobody did. I preferred it that way.’
‘Will you visit her while you’re in Sydney?’
He jolted like she’d prodded him with an electrical current. ‘Considering we haven’t kept in touch since the accident, it’s doubtful.’
Shocked, Polly struggled not to gape. She may not be close to her mum but they kept in regular contact. And whenever Barbara visited Sydney they caught up, usually over high tea and a shopping jaunt. Babs may still be critical of the clothes Polly wore and her lack of style, but her mum made time to see her and that counted for something.
‘So you haven’t been in contact for over five years?’
‘Something like that.’ He grimaced and swiped a hand over his face. It did little to eradicate the tension. ‘The only reason I know the battleaxe is still alive is because she withdraws the money I regularly deposit in her bank account.’
Despite his shuttered expression, Polly saw hope warring with anger. Ryder may be livid at his gran but he still wanted to offer support any way he could and for him that involved money.
Not that it was any of her business, but a small part of her wished she could facilitate some kind of reunion between them.
‘That’s a good thing you’re doing—’
‘I do it for me.’ He thumped his chest with a closed fist. ‘Because I don’t ever want to feel indebted to her.’ He sniggered. ‘I guess it’s my way of flipping the old man the finger, proving that I owe him nothing.’
Polly’s heart ached for his overt pain because he wouldn’t be this bitter if he didn’t care. She racked her brains for the right thing to say and came up blank.
He stood abruptly, the back of his chair slamming against the concrete wall behind him. ‘Do you mind if we call it a night? Jet lag is catching up with me and I’ve got a shitload of work to catch up on.’
She wanted to call him out on shutting down and in turn shutting her out. If he reacted this way from merely talking about his grandparents then he’d bottled up his resentment for too long. But he was the one with the psychology degree, not her, and she didn’t have the faintest idea how deep his bitterness ran. Besides, he’d made it perfectly clear they were nothing beyond sex and she had no right to delve.
‘Not a problem,’ she said, rising to her feet, wishing she could turn back the clock fifteen minutes so their playful banter would’ve led to something else instead.
She’d done this with her big mouth and inquisitive questioning. Idiot. He wanted to be alone. She saw it in every tense line of his body, in the bunching of his neck muscles. If they were a real couple she’d stay and comfort him.
But they weren’t. They were friends who’d agreed to have sex and right now her friend needed her to leave. She wouldn’t push it.
‘Call me if you need me,’ she said, planting a soft kiss on his cheek, before trudging to the door.
So much for a fun night. She’d screwed it up royally, rather than screwing him.
CHAPTER TEN
RYDER HAD FUCKED that up.
He’d planned a sensual, romantic evening with Polly in his suite but now the strawberries, champagne and hand-crafted chocolates that had been delivered lay on the table, taunting him.
He could be in bed right now, exploring her body, driving her crazy, sating his relentless lust for her, obliterating the memories he’d dredged up by losing himself in her.
Instead, he’d shut down.
When she’d asked about Gran he should’ve given her a trite answer and moved on, changing the subject quickly. Instead, he’d taken one look into her dark eyes, glimpsed the genuine interest and had opened up like a geyser, spewing forth all sorts of family secrets better left untold.
Then he’d asked her to leave.
Smooth.
Not.
He’d been tempted to go after her but he was no good to her in this mood and from past experience it would take time before he shook it off—time, and a bottle of bourbon.
But the thought of drinking alone left him cold and he turned his back on the chocolates and strawberries and stomped back out to the balcony.
The view was something else, and no matter how many cities he visited around the world trying to inspire people to be better versions of themselves, this vibrant city held pride of place in his heart.
It irked that he hadn’t been back in five years, but once his career had started taking off he’d been on a constant whirlwind of motivational speaking tours and empowering employees of companies in need of a makeover.
Breaking his leg and nearly being killed had given him a wake-up call that had changed the direction of his life, but rather than coming home and confronting the past he’d used his new lease on life as a lesson in avoidance.
As long as he made regular deposits in his grandmother’s bank account, and as long as she kept withdrawing the money, he believed he was paying his dues. She may not have bestowed love on him as he’d been growing up but she’d put a roof over his head and he owed her. That was what the money was ultimately about. He knew she didn’t need it—his grandparents had been rich in their own right from savvy investments—but every time he checked the account and saw she’d taken the money he felt vindicated in doing the right thing.
So why was he still so hung up on the past?
Before he could second-gu
ess his impulsive decision, he strode back into the suite, picked up his keys and headed out the door.
* * *
As Ryder drove the winding streets through Cronulla he remembered the first time he’d made this trip. He’d never understood why his gran had always used a driver if Pop wasn’t around, until Pop died and he realised Gran couldn’t drive. He’d hated sitting in the back seat of their fancy car, staring at the back of the driver’s head. The guy had worn a cap, just like in the movies, and it had made Ryder uneasy that he got chauffeured around when most kids had taken the bus or ridden a bike.
On that dreary Saturday a few weeks after Pop died, he’d been filled with excitement. He’d hated their old house in Double Bay. It resembled a museum with its vast halls, sweeping staircase and dusty paintings of old folk. He’d never been allowed to bounce a basketball or kick a footy. In fact, he hadn’t been allowed to do much of anything when Pop was around. Besides, it had been easier not to draw attention to himself and avoid the old coot, because if he’d spotted Ryder he’d inevitably heap unwarranted criticism on him.
‘Why can’t you be tall like your dad? Why can’t you get better grades? Why can’t you win the top prize for academic and sporting excellence?’
The questions would be biting and endless, and Ryder had soon grown attuned to his grandfather’s footsteps and would do anything to avoid him.
If Gran had noticed she’d never said, though at least she’d been more affectionate before Pop had died. She’d praise him and smile and save him the best cut of roast lamb on a Sunday. But Pop dying had changed her in ways he couldn’t fathom. She’d shut down and shut him out.
It had gutted him.
But for him, Pop’s death had been a reprieve, almost a godsend, and he’d anticipated being a tight-knit team with Gran moving forward. Instead, she’d looked right through him most days, not caring if he’d spent most of his time with the Scanlons next door.
Archie and Polly’s mum, Babs, had lavished attention on him. No surprise why he’d gravitated towards their house every chance he’d got. He’d loved hanging out there after school, doing homework with Archie while teasing Polly. Babs would give them milk and cookies, and she wouldn’t hover. And the evenings she’d asked him to stay for dinner they invariably had chicken nuggets and chips or frozen pizza. It wouldn’t have mattered if she’d served him crap on a plate, he would’ve stayed because the raucous family atmosphere around the Scanlons’ dining table had made him feel alive.
He often wondered if not having parents made him crave the kind of family Archie and Polly had. And even though their father had done a runner when they were young, they seemed unaffected by it. Archie revelled in his role as man of the house while Polly was Polly regardless: quiet, studious, geeky, with a sharp wit she directed mostly at him.
As he turned left into his old street, one block away from the beach, his heart gave a betraying leap. This was foolish, a ridiculous whim, but as he pulled up outside his gran’s house and killed the engine a wave of nostalgia swamped him, leaving him gasping for air.
He knew where she’d be: in the front room, in a recliner by the window, reading. His gaze drifted across the front of the house, noting the general air of neglect in peeling paint and faded trim, before finding the window.
There she was, silhouetted by the ornate lamp near the window, her head bent, her shoulders rounded. He couldn’t see much of her beyond that but the familiarity of it all brought a lump to his throat.
The only time his gran had remotely acknowledged he existed back then had been the evenings spent in the front room, reading. She’d be in that same chair, poring over a boring biography, and he’d lie on the couch, his head on a pillow, his legs hanging over the end, reading comics or adventure novels.
He’d catch her watching him at times, a small smile on her face, and that brief glimpse of almost-happiness had ensured he joined her in that room, with a book, whenever he wasn’t next door.
He would’ve rather been gaming or watching videos online, but the emotional distance between them had been so great that if those evenings reading together were all he got, he took it.
He didn’t know how long he sat in the car, watching her, but it somehow soothed him knowing she was okay and stuck in her routine.
He would confront her, but not tonight. He had to gather his thoughts and get rid of the funk plaguing him before he could see her.
They had a lot to resolve and this time he wouldn’t leave without saying his piece.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
ARCHIE RARELY DROPPED BY, especially not at nine p.m. They led very different lives. He went clubbing and pub-crawling and did exciting things like visit escape rooms with his mates. Polly stayed in and ate way too much chocolate while watching English crime dramas.
So the fact he’d texted her, saying he’d be around in fifteen minutes, could only mean one thing.
He wanted to lecture her about Ryder.
For as long as she could remember Archie had been protecting her. She guessed it had something to do with the fact their mum had labelled him the man of the house even before he’d hit his teens and he’d grown into the role—warning her off boys, sneaking looks at her texts, pulling a major intimidation act when she’d coerced a guy to be her date for the year eleven formal.
She’d been annoyed by his overprotectiveness growing up but had known it came from the right place. But at almost twenty-eight she didn’t need his opinion on who she should and shouldn’t date, and she’d be telling him exactly that.
Ironically, she’d just arrived home and had been glaring at the lingerie bag when her brother’s text had arrived. She’d wanted to make an excuse, in no mood to see him after the way her evening with Ryder had been cut short thanks to her delving into his private life.
But she knew her brother and if she fobbed him off tonight he’d think something was wrong and would hound her even harder tomorrow.
So she’d stowed the bag with her lingerie purchases in the back of her wardrobe and slammed the door shut, as much on her memory of what had happened when she’d lost her mind in that dressing room and turned into a wanton goddess as to hide the evidence from Archie.
She didn’t wear risqué lingerie like that burgundy bodysuit but seeing Ryder’s reaction when she’d put it on had ensured she’d purchased it along with the blue satin knickers and bra he’d chosen too.
She’d model that other combo for him next time—and keep her big mouth shut. Probing into his past had ended their evening prematurely and she’d been kicking herself ever since. It annoyed the crap out of her that she couldn’t turn off her analytical side most of the time and it had resulted in Ryder shutting her out.
No guy liked to be pitied and she was pretty sure he must’ve read every distressing feeling on her face when he’d told her about his grandparents and what he’d gone through growing up. She’d wanted to hug him but his body language had been as closed off as his expression.
She’d made a monumental blunder in pushing him for answers and no way in hell would she make that mistake again, despite wanting to know every little thing that made him tick.
A loud rap at the door had her squaring her shoulders, ready for battle. If Archie thought he could lecture her, he had another think coming.
Mustering her best blasé expression, she opened the door. ‘Hey, Arch. What are you doing here when you could be out indulging in your usual nocturnal debauchery?’
He didn’t laugh as he usually would and a deep frown grooved his brow. ‘You know why.’
He stalked past her and headed straight for the lounge room, where he dropped unceremoniously into an armchair. ‘What’s all this crap I hear about Ryder wanting to date you?’
She sighed, closed the door and joined him in the lounge room, sitting across from him.
‘Do I ever voice an opinion on the myriad bimbos you date with
a never-ending revolving door policy?’
He flipped her the finger.
‘The point is, I don’t. So what gives you the right to question anybody I choose to hang out with?’
‘Come on, Pol, this isn’t some random guy you’re hooking up with. It’s Ryder.’ He gave an exaggerated shudder. ‘It’s gross.’
‘Why? Because we’ve been friends for ever and we respect and like each other?’
‘Stop being so damn logical.’ He folded his arms and slouched further into the chair. ‘It could get messy.’
‘We know what we’re doing.’
‘Do you?’ He hesitated, his forehead crinkling in concern. ‘Because Ryder’s a player, sis. It’s who he is. He’s dated extensively over the last few years. It’s what he does, always chasing the next best thing. He doesn’t do long-term relationships and he’ll leave Sydney sooner rather than later.’ He grimaced and swiped a hand over his face. ‘I don’t want you to get hurt.’
She didn’t blame him for worrying about her because everything he said about Ryder was true. But she was a big girl sick of playing it safe and being with Ryder lent her life some much-needed excitement. She’d be a fool not to go for it. ‘I know what Ryder’s like and that’s the beauty of this. I have absolutely no expectations.’
A blush crept into her cheeks. ‘He’s not taking advantage of the situation, because we’re both going into this with our eyes open.’
Archie eyed her with respect, but he hadn’t lost the frown. ‘You’re talking the talk, sis, and it’s admirable, but aren’t you kidding yourself?’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘I’m not blind. I reckon you’ve had a crush on Ryder since we were kids. So don’t tell me you’re not emotionally involved and will happily watch him board a plane and not return for another five years? Or move on to the next woman a week after he dumps you?’
Since when was Arch the logical one? It wasn’t like she hadn’t contemplated this very scenario. She knew the risks involved and that was exactly why she was doing this. She’d never been a risk-taker, ever. She dealt in cold, hard facts as a statistician and weighed decisions in her life as carefully.