Page 155 of When Wrecked Meets Ruined
“He brags about Ridge all the time,” Jesse said. “Ridge is the chosen one now.”
“I wouldn’t go that far,” Ridge said. “He keeps telling me that I should be playing for Dallas, not New York. During the season, he’s a Monday morning quarterback and calls to tell me where I could have done better. Still a pain in the ass.” Ridge shook his head, but there was no bite in his words.
“So, what’s your house like?” I asked Ridge.
Pushing his plate away, he leaned back in his chair and studied my face before answering. “It’s my dream house.”
His dream house?
My gaze dropped to my plate, so he couldn’t read my expression.
Had he bought that house for his supermodel?
Had they designed it together?
I had no idea what Ridge’s dream house would look like. I’d told him mine and had described it in detail, but he’d never had a dream house as far as I knew. Now, I guess he did.
“It belongs on one of those shows when the ballers show their cribs,” Quinn said, freeing Fable from her highchair and setting her down.
It must be pretty spectacular. With the kind of money Ridge was earning, the sky was the limit, so he’d probably gone all out.
“Is it done yet?” Jesse asked, keeping an eye on Fable, gathering all her plastic toys strewn across the patio. She toddled over to the pool’s edge and threw them in the water, laughing.
“Almost. Just some snagging to do. They’re filling the pool this week, and I still have to buy all the furniture and shit.”
“Daddy!” Fable shrieked. “Go swimming.”
“It’s bedtime,” Quinn said. “You can swim tomorrow.”
“No,” she said, lips pursed and brow furrowed. “Now.” Then she jumped in the pool, and Ridge laughed as Jesse cursed and dove in after her.
* * *
After dinner, Ridge and I were left alone while Jesse and Quinn put Fable to bed. We cleared the table and stacked the dishwasher, and Ridge grabbed us two more beers. We carried them outside to the seating area on the patio with the same outdoor sofa and chairs Quinn and Jesse had on the patio in California. We took a seat on the couch but not so close that we touched and propped our feet on the teak coffee table.
“How’s Bob the Builder?” Ridge asked.
Bob the Builder? Quinn must have kept him informed. Ben was a contractor. “If you’re referring to Ben, he’s great. How’s your Swedish model? Carrie, was it?” And just like that, we were playing our little games again.
“Carina. She’s Norwegian. And she’sgreat.” He punctuated his sentence with a lazy grin.
Well, good for her. I fished the lime out of my bottle, sank my teeth into the flesh, and ripped the fruit off the rind.
“You still make everything look so violent,” he said, sounding half in awe that I had that unique talent.
You still make me feel violent.
Why did he do this to me?
Why did he make my pulse race and my heart pound?
Why did I still want to punch him… or kiss him?
I gritted my teeth. Ridge chuckled under his breath.
“What’s so funny?” I asked.
He shook his head. “You. Me. Us.”
