Sour Grapes (The Blue Plate Series) (17 page)

I fit the key into the lock, but before I can unfasten the latch, his hands are on my hips, spinning me around.

“You can’t run away that easily,” Ryan says, his tone a low, controlled rumble, harmonizing with the chorus of rolling thunder.

With the exception of my harried dash to Wilhelmsburg, he’s right—I have no experience in running. I’ve always toed the line and done what was expected of me. But now it feels as if I’m at a crossroads, and for the life of me I can’t seem to figure out if staying here or heading back to Dallas is running. If I return to Dallas, step back into my old life and my familiar job, am I betraying the woman I’m becoming here? And if I stay in Wilhelmsburg, am I just avoiding everything I left behind?

“Even if I have spent the last month chasing you,” he finishes.

“Anything worthwhile requires effort.” I throw out the adage, half joking, half giving him an out. A small, nagging voice in the back of my mind—one that sounds suspiciously like my mother’s—tells me that I’m
not
worth it, that to him I’m merely sport.

Instead, he says, “I’d be disappointed if you didn’t make me work for it. But you’re finally caught.”

I gaze at him, at the gold-brown flecks in his eyes. “Why go after me?” I cringe as the words tumble out before I have the chance to stop them. Still I want to know the answer.

It’s a question I never dared ask Nick, but maybe I should have. Maybe if I had, I would’ve realized much sooner that Nick didn’t want me, and in turn I might have realized I didn’t really want him either. Not in the way that matters, anyway. It’s a little humbling, especially standing in front of the man who is teaching me to want more and believes I deserve better.

He’s quiet a moment, studying me. Finally Ryan says, “Because when I look at you it feels like I’m experiencing a sunset for the first time.”

A sudden intake of air expands my lungs, and my heart pounds wildly against my ribs. It’s only now that I realize how much I needed
to hear those words, no matter how cliché. That he feels as strongly as I do about this
thing
that’s happening between us, even if I’m terrified to label it just yet. The moment I do, the moment I acknowledge that this could be anything other than a summer fling, more dangerous questions arise.

“And the best thing about sunsets, Marge?” he says. “They come every day, and I plan to be there to enjoy every one of them. If you’ll let me.”

Once again Ryan’s thrown out a thinly veiled reference to a future he seems to see so vividly. And just like that day at the waterfall, he doesn’t sound any less serious. I was too unsure of myself to ask him for details then, to ask him to explain what he really wants in direct words. Now I find the courage to face my questions—and his response.

“I asked you before what you wanted for your future. Have things changed?”

“Not changed,” he says. “Just . . . expanded.”

“How so?”

“You’re going to make me say it, aren’t you?” he asks with an almost shy grin.

“Yeah, I am.”

Rubbing the back of his neck, Ryan inhales a deep breath and says, “When I’m with you it’s challenging in a fun way and yet so damn easy. So damn
right
. And I don’t know if that makes sense, but I know I want more of it. I look at you and see it all. So clear it’s almost scary, so real I’m afraid to stare too closely at it.” He trails a hand around my waist, flattening it against the small of my back, and pulls me closer. His other hand settles in the crook of my neck. “I see us sharing a bottle of wine while watching a meteor shower on a blanket in the vineyard. I see us arguing over the right answer for seventeen-across in the
New York Times
crossword and me distracting you from the fact that you’re right with more interesting pursuits. I see us, Margaret.”

But for how long? When will what he thinks is charming become annoying? When will I go from snarky to flat-out bitchy? When will pursuing me turn tedious rather than fun and challenging?

“You make it sound so uncomplicated, Ryan.”

“That’s because it is,” he says, never taking his eyes off me. “You just have to stay.”

You just have to stay.
Such a straightforward, simple phrase, yet loaded with meaning.

I consider everything he’s confessed. Wilhelmsburg was supposed to be an escape, an idyllic place for me to take a moment to breathe. I only ever intended to hit pause, not reset my entire existence, and that’s what it’d require to remain in Wilhelmsburg permanently. A complete admission that my life in Dallas, the one I worked so hard to build, isn’t what I want after all.

And while what Ryan says is a very desired thing, it’s also very dangerous. Real, unconditional love, as I’ve come to understand and Ryan has professed, is not something to be achieved and not something to be bought with hard work and determination. It’s also not a guarantee of happiness. Staying here would mean placing my faith—and my heart—in Ryan’s hands and trusting him not to break it. I’ve never given someone that kind of power.

“And if I’m not ready?” I ask quietly, wishing I were as certain as him, wishing I were as fearless.

“Then I’ll just keep looking forward to those sunsets.” Which is exactly what I needed him to say, though the undercurrent of sadness and disappointment in his voice is unmistakable.

Thunder cracks, loud enough to steal my breath, and lightning illuminates the clouds. We stare at each other in silence. Then Ryan kisses me. An urgent, rough kiss that tastes like rain and feels as destructive as the storm around us. As if he’s afraid that if he doesn’t hold on to me, I may blow away.

He fumbles for the doorknob, unlocking it, but I abruptly pull away when he starts to step inside. “If we track mud through the house, Grammy J will use our bodies as fertilizer in the vegetable garden,” I say. Thankfully she’s in Austin for the day, shopping with a friend from her bunco group, so at least we have some privacy.

Chuckling, Ryan kicks off his waterlogged boots and socks, and I do the same with my shoes. He strips off his destroyed T-shirt and tosses it over his shoulder. Recapturing my mouth, he picks me up, wrapping my legs around his waist in a move we’ve perfected, and carries me upstairs.

Without interrupting the kiss, we stumble into my room. Lightning brightens the sky and casts shadows across the bedspread and floral wallpaper. The wind blows dead, damp leaves and rain against the windows, the water beading and streaking across the glass.

“Where is the damn lamp?” I murmur against his lips, searching for it on the writing desk, only to come up empty-handed.

“Why are you whispering? No one’s around,” Ryan says as he leads us into the en suite bathroom. Shutting the door and flipping on the light, he sets me down and turns on the shower. I lean against the faux marble counter, my whole body shivering in anticipation.

I reach for the hem of my shirt, but Ryan stops me, taking charge. He slowly pulls the wet fabric over my head, dropping it onto the floor. My shorts and underwear follow soon after, as does my bra, until I’m standing naked in front of him. Steam fills the room, but it doesn’t quell my trembling.

His gaze rakes over me, so thorough and intense it’s as if his eyes are fingers. “Stunning,” he says, and that one simple word shatters whatever fight I have left. I want him, right now, in the worst possible way.

As if reading my thoughts, he sheds the remainder of his clothes in record speed, and tugs me into the shower with him. We step under the spray, washing away the mud and the rain. Brown-tinged water gathers at our feet and swirls into the drain. The hot shower hitting my cold skin causes goose bumps to break out all over me.

Ryan grabs the bar of soap I brought with me from Dallas and creates a creamy lather. Its subtle fragrance of pink grapefruit, lemongrass, and sandalwood surrounds us.

“Now I know why you smell like citrus,” he says as his sudsy hands travel over my arms, my hips, my rib cage. “And why I haven’t been able to get your scent out of my mind.” When his fingers ghost over my breasts, his thumbs barely brushing my already taut nipples, a breathy gasp escapes my lips and I arch into him.

How does he do that? Turn me into a quivering mess with only the smallest amount of contact?

Kissing my mouth, my jaw, my neck, Ryan moves to stand behind me, the solid planes of his chest pressed against my back. Pulling my wet hair over one shoulder, he nips the sensitive spot below my ear with his teeth, the stubble on his chin marking me with tiny scratches, as his palms slide around my waist, across my stomach, inching lower, spreading the frothy bubbles in slow circles over my skin. The sensuality of his caress brings out the bold, seductive side of me, and I writhe against his erection straining against my lower back. Ryan lets out a throaty groan, his breath hissing through clenched teeth. His grip on me tightens as he draws me even closer to him.

Hooking an arm around the back of his neck, I twist my fingers into his hair and turn my head so our mouths meet, his tongue tangling with mine. His callused hand glides down my body to where I’m desperate and aching for his touch, and I whimper, which quickly morphs into a moan when his thumb traces over the most sensitive and swollen part of me. Ryan slides his other hand up along my curves to cup my breast, the right size for his palm, massaging the tender skin and pinching my nipple, before addressing the other side with equal attention.

“More,” I somehow manage between pants. Ryan pushes a finger inside me, and I cry out. Every nerve in my body is firing in rapid succession. He adds another finger, his thumb still rubbing purposeful circles, and my hips buck involuntarily.

I reach behind me, running a soapy hand down his slick, wet torso, and wrap a fist around his hard length, squeezing and stroking, matching his perfect rhythm. There’s a growl deep in his chest, followed by a string of curse words as he thrusts into my palm. “I like your hands on me.”

Our movements grow frantic, our hands working quicker but with intention. We rock against each other as our moans and groans and other guttural noises echo off the tile. Water cascades over us, drowning out the world around us. A sweet, sweet pressure builds between my thighs, impatient for release. The kind of sensation that erases everything but the pleasure and warmth flowing through my veins and Ryan’s strong, unyielding body encasing mine.

He murmurs my name, a beg and a promise, and it’s all the encouragement I need. I slap a palm against the wall, my entire body shaking from the climax rushing over me, fireworks blooming behind my eyelids. Ryan keeps his touch steady and firm, allowing me to ride through my orgasm. Then his mouth is on mine again while I continue stroking him. Ryan covers my hand with his, showing me exactly how he likes it. I feel him pulsing—he’s close. I sweep my thumb over his tip, and he finally lets go, coming with a quiet groan.

We’re both still gasping for breath when two swift knocks startle us.

The door creaks open, followed by the squeak of Grammy J’s galoshes shuffling into the bathroom. “Child, there are rain puddles all the way up the stairs,” she says, her tone laced with exasperation. “What have I told you about mopping—”

She cuts herself off. I picture her scowling as she eyes the heap of dirty, wet clothes on the floor, registering that I’m not alone.
What is she doing here?
Ryan must be imagining the same thing, because he presses his mouth against my spine, and I feel his grin stretching across my still tingling skin. His fingers dance over my stomach, teasing. Glancing at him over my shoulder, I bat his hand away and shoot him a glare that indicates he must have a death wish.

“Anyway, you have visitors downstairs,” Grammy J continues. “They’re waiting for you in the sitting area, and they don’t seem like the waitin’ type.”

Visitors?
My thoughts race to my parents, and my throat constricts at the mere possibility. But no. My mother would never return to the Inn on her own accord.

“Okay,” I say. “I’ll be right out.”

Grammy J
mmm-hmms
and I think I’m in the clear, that she’s not going to embarrass me, but then she says, “I hope one of you is wearing a raincoat. It looks hot, wet, and slippery in there.”

Ryan barks out a laugh. I jab him in the ribs but still crack a smile as I say, “Thanks for the weather forecast. We’ll take it under advisement.”

I nearly trip when I walk into the sitting area to discover Piper, Samma, and Faye perched on the edge of a sofa as though they think dust mites may crawl out of the upholstery and attack them at any moment, each with a glass of red wine in hand. A bottle of No Holds Barred is half empty on the coffee table.

Why are they doing here?

Dread sinks like a stone in my stomach—they’re the last people I want to deal with right now. I feel my armor latch on to me once again, refortified and stronger than before.

As if announcing my entrance, one of the French doors slams shut from a swift gust of wind blowing through a partially open window, and the girls jolt in their seats. The thunder and lightning seem to have stopped, but rain still pours down in sheets, the world outside like a smudged charcoal drawing.

Taking a deep breath, I square my shoulders and say, “Well this is a shock.”
And not the good kind.
“Welcome to the Bluebonnet Inn. Or as you all so nicely assumed, the rehab center where I’ve been ‘dealing with my issues.’ ”

Samma misses my jab, standing to greet me with a demure kiss on both cheeks. “Sweetie, it’s great to see you looking so . . . rustic,” she says, scrutinizing my bare face and wet hair twisted into a messy bun. Compared to her expertly styled extensions and airbrushed makeup, I resemble one of those tragic “before” women on a makeover reality program. She swirls the glass of wine, then swallows a sip without remark or fanfare.

“Yes, Margaret, is there a reason you’re dressed like a train conductor?” Piper asks, her gaze raking over my basic white top and denim short overalls faded and distressed from years of wear. Like much of my wardrobe these days, the clothes belong to Grammy J. I left Ryan to finish showering while I threw on the quickest semipresentable outfit I could scrounge together.