Sour Grapes (The Blue Plate Series) (13 page)

“From that guy you mentioned the other night?” Ryan finishes for me.

“Yes, in part,” I say, glad to focus on anyone other than my mother. Once I start, I can’t stop, and my entire history with Nick tumbles out. “Nick never tried to make it work between us. He was constantly pulling away, never letting me get close. After all the support I gave him, everything I sacrificed, he at least owed me that much.” I hate the bitterness in my voice—the last thing I want to be right now is bitter. Not when everything about this evening has been so uncomplicated.

Ryan scratches his jaw, carved and covered in stubble, and studies me in an unnerving way that feels too probing, too intimate. The buzz of neighboring chatter, glasses clinking, and forks scraping across plates surround us. Finally he says, “Isn’t that the risk of loving someone? Giving a piece of yourself without the promise of reciprocation?”

“Not if you’ve earned it.” And I
did
earn it.

His gaze remains fixed on me. I want to ask him what he sees, but I don’t. I’m too afraid of his response. “I believe you have to earn the privilege to tell someone you love them, but you’re not entitled to be loved in return,” he says.

The possibility that what Ryan says is true—that the effort I put into winning Nick’s heart, gaining my mother’s approval, achieving the utmost success in my career, has all been for naught terrifies me. Because that’s not how life is supposed to operate.

“With determination and perseverance should come great reward,” I say.

“It should,” he says with a single, decisive nod. “Maybe you haven’t gotten to the end of your race yet.”

Wiping a thumb across the condensation dripping down my water glass, I ask, “So, if you’re right, then what do I do?”

“You’re already doing it—practicing your renovation skills, experimenting with using handcuffs, getting frisky with squirrels.” He winks. “The point is, Marge, you’ve got to relax, live a little recklessly. Quit worrying about everyone else and figure out what brings
you
happiness. No regrets, remember?”

His words tip my world on its axis. I hadn’t realized how long I’ve waited for someone to speak them aloud and grant me permission to act on them. Bon Bon thought I could be just the medicine Ryan needs, but she has it reversed. It’s time I engaged in some good old-fashioned, no-strings-attached antics, and Ryan is the perfect reset button.

An hour later, we’re the last diners in the restaurant, too caught up in conversation to even notice. The owner pays our bill, probably to get us to leave so the kitchen staff can begin breaking down the cooking area. With his palm on my lower back, Ryan escorts me outside. Save for his Blazer, the guest parking lot is empty. The only sounds are our shoes crunching on the gravel and an owl hooting in a nearby tree.

The night has taken on a dreamy quality, and it feels as if I’m buzzing in a sort of tipsy state that has nothing to do with the wine I’ve consumed and everything to do with my renewed sense of confidence.

Ryan is staring at me with an expression I can’t quite read. It’s part contemplative, part desire, part something else. I wait for him to speak, but he remains quiet.

As I start moving toward his SUV, he grabs my hand and draws me around to face him. We’re standing so close I can smell the remnants of his aftershave and feel his breath on my forehead. Ryan brushes an errant strand of hair away from my cheek, his callused thumb ghosting over the sensitive spot below my ear. I swallow, my chest tight, as though there isn’t enough space for my heart to fit inside my rib cage.

Ryan slides his hand around to cradle the back of my head, while the other travels down and settles on the curve of my hip. “If I kiss you again, is there going to be a jail cell on the other end of it?”

“Only one way to find out,” I say with a breathless laugh.

He pulls me flush against him, and then his lips are on mine. An electric jolt shoots through me as the pressure of his mouth changes from tender and coaxing to needy and demanding.

And I’m right there with him, matching everything he’s giving. My palms skate over his broad shoulders and arms, his shirtsleeves stretched over the hard muscle beneath. He tastes like the chocolate cake we shared for dessert. Like something I could eat every day for the rest of my life.

I weave my fingers into the soft hair that curls slightly at the nape of his neck, tugging gently at the roots. Ryan lets out a sexy grunt that I want to hear over and over again. He lifts me off the ground, and I hook my legs around his waist. He steps backward until I’m pressed against his car. With the dark surrounding us, it feels as if we can do anything and not get caught. A rush of heat shoots through me at the idea. I reach for the buttons on his—

Sudden loud barking makes us jump apart, our chests heaving.

I sway a bit before regaining my balance. I glance at Ryan, who looks as disoriented as I feel. Sticking her head out the open window, Bordeaux paws at the inner door handle.

Ryan pushes on her nose and mutters what sounds like, “Great timing.” Snorting, Bordeaux ducks back inside and drinks from the water bowl on the floor mat. Ryan turns to me, rubbing a frustrated hand down his face. “She’s a resource guarder, and I’m her favorite toy.”

I let out a shaky laugh, my whole body vibrating with pent-up energy. “Or maybe she’s warning us that we’re about to have an audience,” I say, gesturing to the hostesses emerging from the side entrance of the restaurant. They walk around the building to the service lot.

Ryan’s expression morphs from slightly irritated to focused and determined. He leans in close to me, his lips grazing the hint of collarbone peeking out from beneath my shirt. Air catches in my lungs and my skin prickles, but I force myself not to fidget, not to move for fear I may collapse right here on the gravel. Skimming his mouth up my neck, his breath stirring wisps of my hair, he whispers in my ear, “What happened to living recklessly?”

My brain is a fog, so I only manage to blurt, “Show me.”

A devastatingly wicked grin spreads across his face. “Follow me.”

Without hesitating, I buckle myself into the passenger seat of his SUV as Ryan slides behind the wheel. While he drives, I study his profile and how the moonlight casts him in shades of gray, as though he’s been caught in a flashbulb. It’s easier to absorb him this way rather than in vivid color, which can be too bright and blinding, like staring at the sun.

Ryan must sense my eyes on him because he looks over at me, his gaze lingering a little too long everywhere. I wonder if he’s contemplating parking on the side of the road and hauling me over the center console so I straddle his lap. The thought does nothing to calm my racing heart or ease the tension building like a slow boil in my stomach.

He turns onto a cobbled path that leads to a large cottage constructed of limestone and wood and accentuated with a copper roof.

“I expected you to live at the winery,” I say.

“I did for a while, but once we expanded, I bought this place and tore down the residence on the estate. We needed the space for the bottling line.” He pulls into an open-air garage and cuts the engine. Bordeaux pants and whines over my shoulder, scratching at the headrest. “Chill out, you neurotic beast,” Ryan says, petting her head in an effort to quiet her. “You’ll be lying in bed in two seconds.”

So will we, if I’m lucky.

Hopping out of the car, Ryan releases Bordeaux from the confines of the backseat. She barks and darts through the doggie door. We enter the house to find Bordeaux has already curled into a ball on an oversized pillow in a corner.

For a moment, Ryan and I stare at each other in silence, his gaze dark and so intense it triggers a flutter of nerves in my chest. But the good kind. The kind filled with anticipation and longing. He clears his throat, and I think he’s about to suggest a glass of wine or a quick tour, but instead he crosses the distance between us in two long strides.

“C’mere.” Then he’s kissing me again with hot, drugging kisses. His hands are all over me, one buried in my hair, the other traveling down the length of my back, over the slope of my hip, around the curve of my butt, learning the contours of my figure.

His shirt is clenched in my fists as Ryan drags his mouth down my throat, tracing my pulse with his tongue. A moan falls from my lips, transforming into a gasp when his teeth bite the sensitive part where my neck meets my shoulder. I feel him smile against my skin, the stubble on his jaw brushing my cheek.

Oh, he’s fighting dirty.
But I crave it—ache for it even.

Ryan recaptures my mouth, his fingers slipping under my shirt, trailing up my stomach to my bra. He cups me through the delicate lace, his thumbs sweeping across my nipples. And it’s as if thunder cracks, desire rattling deep in my bones, because we’re tugging at each other’s clothes, removing them in between kisses as we stumble through the house, bumping into furniture, toward what I assume is his bedroom.

We make it as far as the great room before we collapse on a large sofa in a tangle of limbs. Ryan bats impatiently at the throw pillows, and they land with a soft thump on the floor. There are no lights on in here, but there may as well be. Floor-to-ceiling windows take up one wall, and the moon, huge and luminous in the sky, bathes the room in a silver glow.

Ryan hovers over my naked body, his strong arms anchoring him above me, his erection pressed against my thigh. The heavy ache between my legs is unbearable—it’s been
so
long.

His gaze roams over every inch of my exposed skin, drinking in the swell of my breasts, the dip of my stomach, the Alaska-shaped birthmark above my left hip. My chest expands and contracts with labored breaths under his appraisal.

“You’re so gorgeous,” he says, his voice rough. It’s all the incentive I need to pull him to me, our lips meeting in a frenzied kiss, tongues stroking and teasing. I run my fingers over his sculpted shoulders, across the faint smattering of hair on his chest, down to the ridges lining his stomach, and lower, gripping and squeezing where he’s hard and ready for me.

He lets out a string of curses, and an overwhelming surge of lust and power shoots through me because he’s not the only one skilled at making a person come unhinged.

Ryan trails his mouth along my body, nipping and sucking and caressing places that shouldn’t leave me squirming but do—the hollow of my throat, the crook of my elbow, the spot above my anklebone. He pays special attention to my taut nipples, the tender area below my belly button, the sensitive skin on my inner thighs. I don’t even attempt to censor the desperate noises I’m making.

I grab the back of his neck, unable to handle any more, and Ryan moves over me until I feel him
right there
. Reaching into the pocket of his jeans, he pulls out a foil packet, tears it open, and unrolls a condom down his hard length. Then he pushes into me, both of us groaning as we find our perfect rhythm. Slow, deep, and so intense, my toes curl and my nails scrape along his shoulder blades, slick with sweat. I catch one of his earlobes between my teeth, and a gasping hiss escapes him.

“Fuck, Margaret,” he says. The sound of my name on his lips, gritty and strained, sends desire rushing through me. It’s nearly enough to push me over the edge. Ryan drops his head to my neck. “You feel so good.”

Pressing an openmouthed kiss to his collarbone, I lick his skin, tasting the earthiness I’ve come to associate with him. I wrap my legs around his waist, digging my heels into him, desperate for harder, faster. He slides a hand under me, anchoring my body between him and the couch, pulling me even closer as he thrusts deeper into me.

I grow dizzy, murmuring unintelligible words. I feel a flush spread across my skin as the pressure builds. Everything inside me is a throbbing, pulsing nerve. Ryan must sense I’m close because he moves a hand between us, rubbing his thumb in small, purposeful circles where I’m swollen and aching. That’s all it takes for me to unravel completely. Color explodes behind my eyelids as my orgasm crashes over me so hard I arch off the couch with a sharp cry. I clutch his shoulders, his muscles strained as he reaches his own release, his whole body shuddering under my fingers, his breath hot in my ear.

As I lie there beneath Ryan, sweaty, breathless, and exhausted, floating in that postcoital bliss, I wonder how I ever doubted him.

Turns out, messy
is
the best form of fun.

12

T
he next morning I wake up alone and naked in Ryan’s bed with only a duvet covering me. At first I think he may be in the bathroom, but the house is silent, almost loud in its quiet. I touch his pillow. It’s cold, despite the warm breeze drifting in through the open window. He must have disappeared hours ago.

Groaning, I roll onto my back, staring at the sunlight that cuts across the ceiling. I glance at the clock and my heart skips a beat when I spot the note propped against the lamp.

At the winery with Bordeaux—there’s no rest for the wicked. A pot of coffee is ready for brewing in the kitchen, and breakfast awaits you in the warming oven. I parked your Audi out front. Your keys are under the floor mat. Stay as long as you want. If you feel the need to steal anything, the wine cellar is located directly off the pantry.

And, Marge? You’re no less alluring in your sleep.

—R

Smiling, I stretch out like a cat on the sheets, remembering his firm kiss and firmer touches, the sounds he murmured as our bodies moved together, the weight of him collapsing on top of me, sweaty and drained. Never in my life have I felt so sexy, so desired, so in control than I did watching him come undone.

No regrets.

Climbing out of the bed, my hair a tangle of knots from his fingers, I ignore my clothes piled neatly on the dresser and pull on one of his button-downs draped over a chair, the fabric feather-soft against my skin. Lifting the collar, I inhale his scent—soap and a hint of sweetness, like grapes ripened from the sun. No sign of cologne. Snippets of last night flood my vision. The ache between my legs returns, and I squeeze my thighs together to alleviate it.

I pad barefoot into the great room, which is immaculately decorated in a rustic style—wide-plank wood floors, exposed beam ceilings, and neutral earth tones mixed with simple patterns. I notice Ryan has straightened the couch cushions and coffee table.
Interesting.
It’s something I would’ve done, but not something I’d expected from him with his carefree, relaxed demeanor.

As promised, in the kitchen I discover the coffee machine with cream and sugar beside it and a mug already under the drip. A sticky note tells me to press the small button on the top. I do as instructed. Immediately the aroma of roasted hazelnuts swirls around me. I remove the plate from the warming oven, and my mouth waters at the sight of scrambled eggs, bacon, and a stack of fluffy pancakes with maple syrup.

It’s all so . . . domestic. I wonder if Ryan does this for all of his women, if a warm breakfast and a fresh cup of coffee are his way of saying, “Last night was fantastic, I’ll call you.” Somehow, I doubt it. There’s something warm and genuine, almost special and intimate, about the gesture that makes me question if Ryan has more in mind than a predictable, no-strings-attached summer fling. I realize if I’m not careful Ryan will pull me in, make me comfortable in his life and his town. That’s a risk I’m not sure I can afford. My life, my career, my future, is in Dallas, just as Ryan’s future is here in Wilhelmsburg.

I eat standing at the counter, enjoying the view of the rolling countryside and vineyards. So serene. What would it be like to wake up to this every day? To have that one perfect moment each morning to appreciate a beautiful view? And how much better would my day be because of it?

I wash and dry the dishes but hesitate to leave them on the counter, so I scour the cabinets and drawers until I find where each item belongs. Everything inside the cottage is clean and tidy—the opposite of what I encountered the first time I rode in Ryan’s Blazer. Perhaps he keeps his work chaos isolated to vehicles and the winery. That, or he’s a study in contradiction.

There are no shoes kicked in a corner or dog toys scattered about, no junk mail cluttering surfaces or loose coins thrown in bowls. I shiver, thinking of my condo back in Uptown Dallas. Everything there is sorted and categorized, stored and shelved. Everything has a purpose and a place. But unlike Ryan’s house, which feels lived in and comfortable despite its lack of clutter, mine has always felt a little bit cold. I convinced myself I prefer it that way, but now I’m not so sure.

And unless it’s hidden behind art or a mirror, he doesn’t own a television. Just rows and rows of books lined up on built-in shelves that encompass an entire wall in the great room. Running my fingers along the spines, I scan the titles and authors for anything I recognize. My eyes trail over resource volumes about vinification and the history of winemaking, out-of-date travel guides, the entire collection of Roald Dahl children’s stories, and a set of Marvel graphic novels. He’s like a ten-year-old trapped in a man’s body, endearing in a way that’s surprising.

It makes me curious about his other quirks, his passions, his secrets, but I resist the urge to snoop, wanting to discover them from him.

And what his intentions are in pursuing someone like me.

I arrive at the Inn as Moose and his crew are demolishing the remainder of the porch. The air is filled with a cacophony of sound—saws whirring, hammers banging, pieces of wood crashing to the ground—and smells as if a mold-infested dust storm has passed through. I picture a migraine-afflicted Grammy J pacing inside the bed-and-breakfast, waiting for me to walk through the door so she can strangle me.

I unload the items I bought at the greenhouse into the newly organized shed. It takes three trips, and by the time I’m done, my hair is a mat of red curls against the back of my neck and my day-old clothes cling to my skin worse than a wet plastic bag. The temperature today feels like a searing, throbbing sunburn. Yet it’s still more bearable than summer in Dallas with its soaring skyscrapers that trap in heat and pollution like a microwave container.

Moose waves when he sees me approach. Pushing the protective mask down onto his chin, he maneuvers around what remains of the foundation. Covered head to toe in paint flecks, dirt, and bits of rust, his face red and sweaty around safety goggles, he steps forward and embraces me in a hug tight enough to crack my spine.

“How was your sleepover?” he asks in a voice loud enough to be heard over the noise. He grins widely, a dimple dotting one cheek. “Worth doing again?”

Bristling, I pull away, hurt and betrayal spreading through me. I never imagined Ryan was the kiss-and-tell type, nor did I expect Moose to mock me about it. Is nothing private anymore?

“I’m glad my personal business is now fodder for town gossip,” I say.

His smile fades. “I only knew you were over at Cricket’s because he called me this morning to help him get your car. He didn’t say anything else about you,” he says quickly, as if trying to dismantle a bomb before it blows. “I meant it as a gentle ribbing between friends, but it obviously didn’t come across that way. I’m sorry.”

The apology catches me off guard, and guilt twists in my stomach for misjudging him—and more important, Ryan. I’m so used to Samma, Faye, and Piper’s spiteful teasing that I didn’t recognize Moose’s attempt at a lighthearted joke. Not to mention he already considers me a friend even though we’ve spoken only a handful of times.

“It looks like you’re making progress,” I say, nodding at the porch.

Moose visibly relaxes, his shoulders slouching, the sigh of relief small but apparent. “Joy’s not happy with the mess and current decibel level. She’s only allowing us to work midmorning to early evening—after the guests have left for the day and before they get back from the wineries.”

“So I take it I should sneak in through a window and hide in my room until the renovation is finished?”

“It’s certainly advisable.”

We chat awhile longer about the rebuild and other inconsequential things—the new line of fishing rods Moose plans to stock at Hodgepodge, the PR work I’m doing for Grammy J, this year’s county fair complete with pari-mutuel horse racing and a carnival—before the conversation turns to how I got Ryan thrown in lockup. I tell Moose the story, and as it progresses, his laughs grow louder and bigger, his entire body shaking.

When I reach the part about tricking Ryan and trapping him in the cave, Moose hiccups. “I can’t believe Cricket fell for that stunt or that you pulled it off,” he says. “He’s never going to live this down—I won’t let him!” Lifting his safety goggles, he wipes a hand under his eyes. “Oh that’s great, but it’s time I sledgehammered more rotted boards.” Moose squeezes my arm, then positions the protective mask over his mouth and returns to the demolition.

From the backseat of my car, I grab the brochures and other materials I collected from the shops and restaurants around town and tiptoe through the front entrance. The entire bed-and-breakfast groans as I step inside, despite my efforts at being stealthy. The shared living spaces are empty. For a second I think I’m alone, but that crumbles when Grammy J’s stern voice echoes from upstairs.

“Child, you can be certain the linens aren’t goin’ to change themselves,” she yells, her accent more pronounced with the increase in volume.

Cringing, I deposit the promotional items on the console in the sitting area and climb the stairs. The old wood moans under my feet. As I walk down the hallway in search of Grammy J, I hear muttered curses emanating from the master suite. I peek in to find her struggling to put a fitted sheet on the king-sized bed. She manages to attach a corner around the mattress only to have the opposite one spring free.

When she notices me, Grammy J straightens up. Her chest rises and falls, as though the simple act of breathing consumes all of her energy. I wonder how much of her day is spent carrying out tedious chores like this.

“You’re responsible for the right-hand side,” she says, all business, pointing to the bed. “After we’re done with this one, there are three more that need our attention.”

With a “yes, ma’am,” I fix the corner that popped off and grab the other end of the sheet, pulling it toward the headboard and securing it around the mattress. The scent of fresh laundry hits my nose, and it instantly evokes an image of Nick and me in the grocery store, arguing over which fragrance of fabric softener he should buy for bed linens I would rarely sleep on. My chest tightens. I shake my head, dislodging the memory.

“I assume since you’re only now getting back to the Inn that you had fun on your date with Ryan?” Grammy J asks, aligning the flat sheet over the fitted one, ensuring equal overhang.

My cheeks flush with embarrassment. “It was really nice. Dinner was delicious,” I say, tucking in my respective side.

I don’t know why I sound so sheepish—I’m an adult, not a teenager with a curfew—but I feel as though I should’ve called to tell her I’d be staying at Ryan’s. Growing up, my mother never bothered to concern herself with my social calendar, always presuming I was in the appropriate place with the appropriate people, but the annoyed edge in Grammy J’s tone indicates that maybe she waited up for me. The idea that she cares about my whereabouts, my safety, is so alien that it never crossed my mind to contact her.

She
mmm-hmms
, but a faint smile creeps onto her face.

“So, I established some good contacts in town yesterday and have great things planned for the Inn that I’m excited to discuss with you,” I say in a not-so-subtle ploy to change the subject.

Grammy J tosses me a pillowcase. “And exactly how much are these ‘things’ going to cost me?”

“Nothing. Everyone I’ve spoken to has been eager to collaborate. All I had to do was ask.”

We finish making the bed in silence, arranging the down comforter and throw pillows. I trail behind Grammy J into the next room—this one with a queen mattress and a rollaway shoved against a wall—and watch as she fluffs the newly washed linens clumped into a ball on the storage bench.

The sunlight filtering through the sheer curtains softens her already striking features, and once again I’m overcome with the feeling that I’m staring at an older version of my mother. Grammy J’s strawberry blonde hair is wrapped in a bandana à la the retro pinup style of Rosie the Riveter. Dressed in holey jeans cuffed at the ankle and a baggy plaid shirt that once belonged to Poppa Bart, she’s the epitome of on-trend fashion.

I remember how on the night of my grandfather’s funeral, my mother and Grammy J packed all of his belongings into boxes to send to charity. I wonder why Grammy J saved this particular shirt as a memento.

“Poppa Bart’s clothes suit you,” I say.

“Child, everything about that man suited me,” she says with a chuckle, but sadness dulls her bright green eyes. It breaks my heart to think about how much she must miss him and their life together.

We repeat the same procedure as before, and in short order the remaining beds look like they could be featured in a home decor catalog, albeit an outdated one. A woman on a mission, Grammy J moves into the hallway and retrieves the bucket of cleaning supplies from the closet.

I follow her into one of the en suite bathrooms and cringe at the sight of dried toothpaste on the faucet and strands of dark hair stuck to the faux marble counter. People are careless and disgusting when it’s not their own property.

Handing me rubber gloves, Grammy J asks, “Did you speak with your mother yet?”