Sour Grapes (The Blue Plate Series) (25 page)

Ryan pushes himself up on one elbow and gazes down at me, a crooked grin curling his lips. His eyes have that glassy, drowsy look that speaks to equal parts satisfaction and desire. “Hungry?” he asks, his voice hoarse and a little seductive.

“Starved,” I say, tangling my fingers into the damp hair at the nape of his neck. As if on cue, my stomach rumbles, and we both laugh. We skipped dinner, too busy discovering all the ways we could make each other gasp and moan.

“Stay here. I’ll be back,” he says, kissing along my jaw before slipping out of bed, tugging on a pair of boxer briefs, and exiting the room.

I study the shadows dancing across the walls while I wait for my heart rate to slow down. My head feels tingly and slightly fuzzy, a juxtaposition to my weak, heavy limbs. A gentle breeze tickles my face as it drifts through the large, cracked-open windows, carrying the scent of fresh-cut grass.

Ryan returns a few minutes later with the forgotten bottle of No Regrets and a tray bursting with a selection of charcuterie, cheeses, and accompaniments. I sit up, pulling the sheet beneath my arms, and wrap a slice of prosciutto around a chunk of Parmigiano-Reggiano and pop it into my mouth. I immediately follow it up with a piece of Brie drizzled with local honey atop a water cracker.

“How are you feeling about everything?” Rejoining me in bed, Ryan hands me my still-full glass of wine.

“Exhausted and achy,” I say, remembering all the dedicated, thorough attention he provided. My eyes travel over his chest, bare and broad and defined with muscle, across the shadowed ridges lining his stomach, and down to the thin trail of hair that disappears into the waistband of his briefs.

“I’ve been told I have that effect,” he says, his expression as playful as his tone. “But that’s not what I was referring to. A lot has happened in the last few days. Fill me in. Did you talk to your mom?”

Sighing, I nod and lean back into the pillows propped against the headboard. “It went about as well as I expected, but at least I asked her not to sell the Inn and told her how I felt.”

Even if it did blow up in my face, and even if, despite our recent admissions and declarations, I’m still nervous and uncertain how to approach Ryan with my idea. And what a reversal that is. Business deals and impersonal transactions have always been my forte, whereas personal entanglements have sent me running. Now I find myself delightfully entangled with this wonderful man with absolutely no idea of how to broach the subject of a joint business venture. Is it too much, too soon? Will he once again assume my feelings for him are tied exclusively to my feelings regarding the bed-and-breakfast? And if that happens, can I reassure him otherwise?

“You should know I intend on rescinding my offer,” he says, resting a palm on my hip, his touch warm and firm through the soft cotton. He draws his fingers in a tantalizing path over my hip, up, down, and back again, skirting a bit farther in the hollow dip with every pass. “In fact, I’ve been planning to ever since you left for Dallas.”

“There’s no point. If you don’t purchase the property, my mother will easily convince someone else. She’s insistent on ridding herself of the Inn. Unless . . .” I tuck a hair behind my ear and swallow two gulps of wine, needing a minute to gather my wits and garner as much courage as possible.
No regrets
,
I remind myself. “Unless you’d be interested in entering into a . . . joint venture . . . with me.”

His fingers stop their skate across my body, his eyes locked on my face. I rush forward with the details before he has a chance to say no. “I know you need the land surrounding the bed-and-breakfast for grapevines, and I support that. You were right that it makes good business sense for Camden Cellars to expand. And while the land is beautiful, Grammy J hasn’t done much with it over the years, so it’s not really of value to the Inn itself. As a result, I’m sure it’s only logical to tear down the B&B. It interferes with your plantable area and the structure is in terrible shape, but—”

“But it matters to you, and therefore, it matters to me,” Ryan says, rubbing my arm, encouraging me to continue.

I nod, grateful he understands without any justifications. “So, what if instead we renovated the bed-and-breakfast together? I think if we returned it to its original glory and allowed the vineyard to grow around it, we could rebrand the property as an exclusive destination for events, weddings, wine tastings, and weekend getaways. Much like what the larger commercial vineyards in Wilhelmsburg are already doing, but our venture would be more boutique. Quaint, but still charming.”

Ryan stares out the window, contemplating my proposal. The stars glow like pinpricks of light against the night sky. Looking back at me, he shifts his body closer to mine and says, “It’d be an investment, but the potential for dividends could be huge.”

“Right,” I say, taking another sip of wine. The warmth of the liquid flows down my throat, relaxing me further. “So what do you think?”

“I think you found yourself a partner. It’s brilliant. But I may have a stipulation or two,” he says with a wry grin.

“Oh, please do tell,” I say, relief flooding through me.

“Well . . .” He pulls the sheet away from me, exposing my breasts, and traces a finger across my collarbone. “I get to pick the staff uniforms at the Inn. I have this great French maid outfit in mind for a particularly fiery redhead. She’d also be required to speak the language.”

Quirking an eyebrow, I say, “Unless you want to hear the lyrics to ‘Lady Marmalade’ repeatedly, I suggest you amend that last part.”

He presses an open-mouthed kiss to the crook of my neck, eliciting a shiver. “
Au contraire
. The outfit won’t work without the accent,” he whispers, his tongue moving up the column of my throat to my ear.

“Quit playing dirty,” I say, halfheartedly pushing against his unyielding chest. The slow, sweet ache that causes me to become unhinged is spreading through me. Once again I wonder why I bother fighting him when he gets his way every time. “We need to finish discussing this. There’s still so much to sort out.”

“Shhh, Marge,” he says, grabbing the wine glass out of my hand and setting it on the nightstand. Then he rolls me onto my back and gently bites my shoulder. “I’m about to instruct you in the fine art of negotiation.”

21

One Year Later

S
treamers flutter and flap in the wind, greeting visitors and locals alike to the grand opening of the renamed Bluebonnet Inn at Camden Cellars. The October sun shows no inclination of giving way to fall, yet the attendance for the event is massive. Wildflowers adorn the lawn, their vibrant hues adding to the celebratory feel of the evening. Everywhere I look, people mingle, sip wine, and snack on hors d’oeuvres Bonnie helped me prepare.

Finally, the Inn personifies the warmth and welcome Grammy J herself inspired for so many years. Everything from the marble countertops in the kitchen to the herringbone tile floor in the bathrooms to the carefully selected color scheme has turned out better than I imagined, due in no small part to Ryan. Originally, I’d intended on a stark, pristine white for the siding of the bed-and-breakfast, but Ryan negotiated, rather expertly, for a creamy pale yellow with charcoal-gray shutters.

The renovation started right after the New Year and included adding two smaller guest cottages so we can properly host midsize weddings and other events. The entire process took nine months to complete. Nine months with no customers and no income and a house in various stages of disarray. But instead of spending the time worrying, Ryan and I focused our attention on rebranding and promotion, trusting that it would all work out. Our efforts seem to have paid off, because the Inn is fully booked until April, and the property will host its first marriage renewal ceremony next weekend.

And all around rows of young grapevines line the hillside, the heady scent of soil, sunbaked earth, and lush green leaves so heavy on the wind I can almost taste them—smells I now associate with Wilhelmsburg. The new plots won’t come into commercial production for three years, and already Ryan has promised to create a dry rosé blend using Grenache and Syrah grapes. Ginger Snap, he insists on calling it, with an icon of a redhead on the label. I wanted to suggest something snarky in return like a Riesling named Sweetie Pie with a picture of his face on the bottle, but Ryan has softened my edges.

A bass riff reverberates in the air as the members of the Randy Hollis Band take their spots on the stage set up adjacent to the vegetable garden—Grammy J, of course, threatened to dismember me if any cords, wires, or equipment trampled on her plants. Grabbing four large waters from a cooler, I toss one to each of the guys.

“Hydrate, guys,” I say. The temperature outside is still beyond brutal. “My insurance doesn’t cover death by heatstroke.”

Tim tips his cowboy hat in thanks, unscrewing the cap and sucking down several large gulps.

Matt tucks the plastic bottle under his arm while he finishes adjusting the microphone. “Yes, Mom. I mean, ma’am,” he says with a wink.

“Cut her a break,” Jason says, poking Matt in the shoulder with his drumsticks. “Margaret’s not quite yet domesticated, so let her practice.”

Karl only shakes his head, tuning the pegs on his Gibson Les Paul electric guitar for one final check before the show begins.

When I told the band about our plans to revive the Inn, they insisted on playing a mini concert at the celebration in support. Their tour ended six weeks ago, and since then they’ve been holed up in a studio in Dallas with Nick, writing and recording new material for their sophomore album,
Even the Streets
.

I notice Amber, who’s in charge of the dessert table, drop a slice of rhubarb and strawberry pie on a member of Grammy J’s bunco group because she’s too preoccupied gawking at the band—Tim in particular—for the hundredth time in a few hours. She and the majority of the crowd. It’s too easy for me to forget that to everyone else the guys are considered out-of-reach country music stars rather than regular people who happen to be my friends and perform songs for a living.

And even if I hadn’t known the band before they were famous, only one man draws and keeps my attention these days. From across the yard, where he’s hauling cases of wine and restocking the bar, Bordeaux nipping at his heels, Ryan catches me watching him and grins that smug, wicked grin that causes electricity to thrum through me. His gaze rakes over my face, the length of my body, and his grin grows wider. I can’t wait to see that smile fall from his mouth when he finds out what I have in store for him later. While I’ve never conceded to his request that I wear a French maid uniform—polyester, tacky or otherwise, will never be a part of my wardrobe no matter how much I’ve learned to relax—French Chantilly lace lingerie in a black-and-white motif, however, is another story. One I expect to have an explosive ending after our party wraps.

“Margaret, come settle something for us,” Moose yells above the noise from the rear porch. He and Possum are meant to be acting as sommeliers for the festivities, but right now they’re lounging in rocking chairs chatting with my father, abandoning Gina behind the makeshift bar to pick up their slack and serve the awaiting guests.

As I cross the lawn over to them, dodging boisterous partygoers gesturing with their hands and weaving around cocktail tables scattered with glossy brochures detailing the Inn’s improvements, I’m greeted with cheers and praise for a job well done. A grin stretches across my face, my heart full of pride for all Ryan and I have accomplished.

I spot Nick and Lillie in the crowd, and they both wave. When I invited them to the grand reopening, I expected them to graciously decline—four hours is a long way to drive for a party for an ex—but much to my joy and surprise they accepted, even bringing a framed watercolor painting of the remodeled Inn with them as congratulations. Though I doubt the three of us will ever be truly close, it’s a relief to feel as if that part of my past is resolved.

I pass Tiffany balancing a silver tray of curried deviled eggs, crab cakes, and purple-hull pea cakes. “Stay sharp, buttercup,” she says, pinching my ass and cackling before scurrying off inside the bed-and-breakfast where Bonnie is busy working in the kitchen. The whole gang has been amazing—Bonnie especially—pitching in wherever needed, allowing Ryan and me to enjoy the night as hosts instead of scrambling around to ensure everything is running smoothly. But then, that’s what true friendship is all about—lifting up one another, changing each of us for the better.

“What do you misfits want?” I ask Moose and Possum, jogging up the porch steps to join them.

Moose takes a long pull from a sweating bottle of Shiner Ruby Redbird and says, “Suppose you were browsing through different men’s profiles on Match.com—”

“And why would I have an account on a site like that?” I ask, leaning a hip against my father’s rocking chair and resting a hand on his shoulder. He reaches up and squeezes my fingers. After he and my mother separated during the holidays last year, I thought he’d feel somewhat lost, if not a little sad, but he seems more relaxed and carefree—happier—than I’ve ever seen him. And when I told him I was officially moving to Wilhelmsburg, he didn’t even blink an eye, offering to help me sell my Uptown Dallas condo and dissolve my public relations firm.

“Hypothetically,” Possum interjects. His hair resembles traffic cone orange again and is still just as shaggy, though the Inn’s updated logo, a whimsical bunch of grapes, has been shaved into each side of his head. Payment for losing a bet to Ryan. As it turns out, Possum
can’t
name the entire catalog of wines Camden Cellars offers like he claimed.

“—and suppose you stumbled upon a profile that contained only poses of the same business headshot as photographs and listed watching live coverage of the senior PGA tour and reading law journals as interests,” Moose continues. “Would that strike your fancy?”

“Sure . . . if I liked those sorts of things,” I say, which I don’t. Like most other women, I imagine.

“I told you gentlemen my daughter would agree with me,” my father says, his voice loud and jovial. Dressed in a casual blue polo shirt and khaki pants, nursing a scotch on the rocks that’s now mostly melted ice in this heat, he looks like he belongs here. “My profile’s only been posted for two months. The ladies will come around.”

“Though it couldn’t hurt to add more variety,” I say, glancing at my father and smiling. The poor man, so clueless and so out of his element in today’s online dating world, but at least he’s trying. “Perhaps uploading some other pictures that aren’t so”—boring, staged, lacking all personality—“corporate would be a good idea.”

We don’t discuss my mother much. What’s there to talk about anyway? The last time I had contact with her was when Ryan and I signed the paperwork to finalize the deal for the Inn. I thought her absence might sting—she’s still my mother—but I’ve found removing that kind of toxicity from my life has been therapeutic, healing.

“Our point exactly,” Possum says, clinking beer bottles with Moose. He looks at my father. “Roger, my man, you need to loosen up a bit. It’s a dating site, not a professional services advertisement. Women want an adventure.”

The screen door opens—the hinges so quiet they whisper—and Grammy J walks out onto the porch carrying fresh-washed silverware and plates for the food station. “I seriously doubt the two of you could fill a thimble with your combined knowledge of women,” she says, dumping the lot into Moose’s and Possum’s laps. I laugh. “Now, get on with makin’ yourselves useful. And, Possum, shame on you for leaving Gina behind the bar to fend for herself against opportunistic drinkers. You know what shenanigans occur when free wine is involved.” She shoos them away, then sits next to my father. “Roger, let me tell you a thing or two about what a mature woman wants.”

Grammy J relaxes into conversation, blithely ignoring Moose and Possum’s grumbling and my father’s terrified expression. She’s wearing a skirt and makeup for the occasion, and the sight of her nearly knocks me off balance. I’d been so worried for months following her surgery. So much had changed so quickly I was concerned the events would age her. But she looks younger and healthier than I ever remember seeing her, her hip even stronger than the doctor predicted. It helps that she can sit in her favorite rocking chair and boss me around the Inn rather than doing the tasks herself.

The opening chords of “Shadow and Dust” fill the air, the first track off the band’s debut album,
Resolution.
“You folks ready to get this party started?” Matt asks into the microphone, strumming his guitar. He’s answered by cheers and applause. “We’re the Randy Hollis Band, and we want to wish our friends Margaret and Ryan congratulations and much success on their new venture. We couldn’t be happier for you both.” Whistling and hollering erupt around me. “Now let’s play some music.”

Jogging over to where I’m standing, Ryan wraps an arm around my waist and says to Grammy J and my father, “Mind if I borrow Marge a moment?”

“Go have fun you two. Enjoy your night.” Grammy J squeezes my wrist, smiling, while my father only nods at Ryan, though I can tell from the way his mouth puckers around a sip of scotch that he finds Ryan’s nickname for me distasteful. Still, my father swallows his drink and any comments he may have.

Ryan leads me over to the dance floor in front of the stage, twirling me into a spin. A kaleidoscope of color whirls in my vision before I’m flush against his chest, breathless and a bit off center—just the way he likes me.

As the world settles, firm and real, I say, “We pulled it off.”

“That we did,” he says, his day-old stubble brushing my temple, his palm pressed flat against my back. “Hard to believe, isn’t it, that a guy with dirt on his clothes and purple stains under his fingernails and a girl with a silver spoon stuck up her—”

I pinch his shoulder, cutting him off before he gets himself in trouble. “Always so cheeky.”

“As I recall, you have a particular affection for my cheeks.” Peering down at me, he wiggles his eyebrows and grins.

I roll my eyes, but there’s no denying it. I have a particular affection for everything about this man.

“It’s safe to admit it, you know,” he says.

I tilt my head back to look at him more clearly. “You know I love you.”
Do I not say it enough?

“And I love you,” Ryan says, his voice serious. Only the fine lines at the corner of his eyes give away his game. “But there’s another admission I want to hear from you.”

“It’s never going to happen.”

“Never is an awfully long time, Marge.” He trails his fingers down my spine, evoking a fresh wave of desire. “Come on, confess. I won’t tell anyone else. Promise.”

I kiss the side of his jaw and put my lips against his ear. “Your wine is”—extraordinary, delicious, one of a kind—“passable.”

Ryan laughs, twirling me around again. “I’ll have you singing a different tune about my vintages soon enough.”

“Not even if you had three lifetimes.”

He pulls me close, nuzzling his face into my hair and breathing deep. “I guess I need to make this one with you count then.”

I sigh, still so unaccustomed to promises of the future. For so long everything in my life felt precariously balanced, as if a simple blink could topple the house of cards I’d built my happiness on. But now, as I dance with Ryan in the warm October air, the sound of music and laughter and conversation around me, I know I’m on the right path, traveling with the man who will keep me grounded, yet fearless.