Sour Grapes (The Blue Plate Series) (6 page)

“Don’t flatter yourself,” I grumble, even though my thoughts are running rampant. Squeezing the rough wood, I imagine sliding my fingers over his broad shoulders, down his torso, lower and lower, eliciting a groan from deep in his throat when I reach where he craves it most.

I can’t help but notice the similarities between him and Nick—they both have a square jaw, unruly hair begging for fingers to rake through it, features carved from stone—but there’s an elegance in Nick’s ruggedness, a product of being born into privilege and money, that Ryan lacks.

“Don’t you think you should be a little nicer, Stumbling Shortcake, given that I just delivered a case of the cough syrup you like so much for the Inn’s evening social hour?”

I toss the board into the yard. “Margaret,” I grind out, instantly regretting it. The playful twinkle in his eyes, the smirk on his face tells me he’s baiting me. “Are you a spokesperson for the winery or a pathetic groupie?” I ask, pointing to the box at his feet. I don’t tell him that if a bottle of No Regrets—with its rich garnet color, sweet tannins, silky texture, and floral aromatics—were a famous rock star, I’d travel around the country for every show, and after the concert ended, sneak backstage for some private time. My mouth waters as I envision the flavors on my tongue—the taste of perfection.

“Both,” he says. His honey-blond hair glints like a gold coin in the sunlight, curling just behind his ears. “I work for the vineyard.”

“Of course you do.” I maneuver around the wreckage to an area of the porch still in need of demolition. “Why else would you force that crap on unsuspecting people?”

“Speaking of which, you forgot your empty bottle in my Blazer last night. I put it in the kitchen since I know you want to keep it as a memento.” His voice is rich and strong and so smooth, as though it’s been aged like fine bourbon.

Ignoring him, I tug on a board but it stays put. More wavy red strands of hair plaster themselves to my forehead each time I yank on it.

Ryan steps onto what remains of the porch and asks, “Want some help?”

“Nope,” I say through gritted teeth. Crouching down, I lay my palms flat on the underside of the wood and, with a grunt, push up using all my strength. My skin glistens with sweat and my arms shake so hard I’m sure they’re about to give out completely, but I refuse to surrender. The plank pops free with such momentum I lose my balance. My butt whacks something hard as my already hurt ankle twists unnaturally. Sharp pain zings up my leg, and white spots blur my vision. I stand and put weight on my foot, wincing.

Ryan offers me an outstretched hand. I swat it away as if it’s a fly. “I said I don’t need your help.” I climb out of the hole, albeit unsteadily.

“I see that,” he says. “But you’ve got me wondering how you’re going to rebuild this mess since there’s no replacement lumber anywhere, and you don’t strike me as the power-tool-wielding, do-it-yourself type.”

“Worry about yourself.” I limp over to the pile of supplies to grab a crowbar, intent on prying free a stubborn nail still wedged in the framing, but Ryan steps in my path. As I try to move around him, a fiery bolt shoots through my leg. I bite the inside of my cheek to prevent a cry from escaping.

The pain must be obvious in my expression, because Ryan says, “Marge, stop acting like a mule and let me look at your ankle. It’s starting to resemble a marshmallow.”

I consider disregarding him—I’m not weak or a quitter—but he’s right, and the pressure only seems to be worsening. I nod. Kneeling in front of me, Ryan gingerly removes my ballet flat. I grip his shoulders for support, the muscles firmer and more solid than I anticipated, as he inspects my ankle. His callused fingers feel rough against my skin, and I shiver despite my better judgment.

“Well, you’ve got a slight sprain, but nothing an ice pack and rest can’t fix. For now, I’ll wrap it to lessen some of the pressure,” he says, pulling a bandana from his back pocket and tying it around the puffiest part. “How’s that?”

“Marginally better,” I say, torn between relishing the fading throb and appreciating Ryan’s thorough attention. I don’t understand how such basic care can set me so on edge. The man is too handsome for his own good, that’s undeniable, but if this is mere attraction, it’s a variety I’ve never sampled before.

“Always so shy with praise,” he says with a grin, putting my shoe back on, though not before he trails a finger down my calf that causes my breath to lodge in my throat. “You really should be thanking me. I doubt Joy wants the rear entrance of the Inn torn up for the foreseeable future.”

At the mention of Grammy J’s name, my heart freezes. One look at the porch and she’ll bury me alive in the vegetable garden. All I had to do was hire someone to slap on a fresh coat of paint.
How did I get so carried away?
Then I remember the rusted devil nail, the conversation with my father, and the frustration flares up again.

There’s still time to fix this. I’ll get a contractor over here for a quote tomorrow, and by the end of the week, the bed-and-breakfast will have a shiny new porch.

“How about you mind your own business?” I say, snatching my cell off the porch railing. The screen has shattered—I guess too many rotten boards landed on it. I press the center button, but the display remains black. “Come on,” I mutter. I hit the phone against my leg, then press the button again, but nothing happens. “Turn on, dammit.”

“Joy didn’t give you permission to rip up the porch, did she?” Ryan says, crossing his arms over his chest. “I have a buddy who’s a carpenter. Want me to introduce you?”

“What I want is for you—” I stop when I hear squeaky footsteps approaching from somewhere inside the house. Grammy J. My eyes grow large as saucers.

He laughs, a low rumble that reminds me of thunder on a hot summer day. “You better pray she isn’t carrying the shotgun.”

Shit.

I’m dead.

I glance around frantically and spot Ryan’s Blazer parked beneath a pecan tree.
Grammy J can’t shoot me if I’m not here.

“Why are you moving like a slug?” I hiss to Ryan, grabbing his hand and hobbling down the stairs, careful to avoid the broken boards and nails scattered everywhere. The pain in my ankle has returned, but I don’t stop my pathetic attempt at running toward his SUV as I drag him behind me. Flinging open the passenger door, I hop inside and honk the horn. Ryan saunters over to the driver’s side without a care in the world. I lean across the center console and pull his handle. “Hurry up. Get in.”

“You really need to work on your bedside manner,” he says, climbing inside. He starts the engine just as Grammy J appears in the doorway.

“Go, go, go,” I say, tapping his leg, watching as Grammy J surveys the porch with both hands on her hips, a murderous expression on her face.

Ryan shifts the car into gear, throws an arm behind my headrest, and looks over his shoulder as he reverses down the hill. Tree branches scrape against my window. When we’re safely out of sight, he pulls off to the side, puts on the brake, and stares at me expectantly.

“What? Town is that way,” I say, gesturing in the general direction. “Drive already.”

He lifts an eyebrow. “Any time now.”

I frown, not understanding, then it clicks. I sigh. “Ryan, would you please introduce me to your carpenter friend?” The question tastes like acid on my tongue.

“See, asking for help wasn’t so hard.” He gives me an I-always-get-my-way smile, and it touches me in a way I’m not sure how to process. Then he moves his arm from behind my head and veers back onto the dirt road. “You even said please,” he says, the grin still glued to his face.

I bite the inside of my cheek, letting him have the last word. This time.

6

R
yan parks the Blazer in front of a large building that looks patched together like Frankenstein’s monster. The structure itself is limestone, consistent with the German architecture of the area, but the shutters and gambrel roof belong on a Dutch Colonial, and the intricate, superfluous exterior trim appears stolen from a Victorian gingerbread. A sign with
H.P.
painted in sloppy letters hangs above the door.

“What does H.P. stand for?” I say, unbuckling my seat belt.

“Hodgepodge,” Ryan says.

“Why? Because this place can’t decide what it wants to be?”

“Something like that. Let’s go.” He shuts off the engine and gets out. A beat later, he’s opening my door and holding out a palm, which I begrudgingly take, if only so I don’t further irritate my ankle. My arms stick to the leather seat as I climb out, a flurry of dust and dog hair following me as if I’m Pig-Pen. I’m desperate to wash away the layers of grime, to relax in a bath with a glass of Pinot Grigio and cucumber slices on my eyes. If I can manage to peel the sweat-soaked denim off my body without also taking off a layer of skin, that is. Chafing—it’s nobody’s friend.

I hobble behind Ryan, working hard not to stare at his ass in jeans that shouldn’t fit as well as they do and failing miserably. A breeze blows hot on my face, offering no reprieve from the heat and humidity.

A bell rings as I enter the store, the inside just as much of a mishmash as the outside—the shelves stocked with everything from groceries and toiletries to fishing gear and car parts, home improvement supplies to gardening equipment.

Ryan walks to the guy operating an ancient cash register. I recognize him as Ryan’s friend with the moose tattoo from The Tangled Vine. They bump fists, and Ryan places a hand at the small of my back, pushing me forward. “This is Moose, co-owner of Hodgepodge and carpenter extraordinaire.”

I snort.
Of course
that’s his name. Ryan stares at me, steady, hard, but Moose smiles, a dimple appearing in one cheek.

“It’s better than Marvin,” Moose says, his voice warm and light despite his size. “Don’t tell my granddad I said that. He thinks the family name is the equivalent of an Aston Martin rather than a rust bucket that coughs blue smoke when it backfires.”

I laugh—the first genuine one in months—the sound shaking something loose in my chest. I bet Moose collects friends the way I collect Hermès Kelly bags. I instantly like him.

“So what can I help you with?” Moose says, ripping a receipt off the printer and tossing it into the trash.

Ryan rests an elbow on the counter, dirt rimming his cuticles and a reddish-purple hue still staining his fingertips. I wonder if they’re permanently colored that way, if they’re as skilled as I envision.

“This is Marge—”

“Margaret,” I say.

“—Joy’s granddaughter. The Bluebonnet Inn needs its rear porch rebuilt. Half of the demo has been done for you already, courtesy of Marge.”

“Margaret.”

Ryan winks and gives me a grin that strikes like lightning. A lock of honey-blond hair has fallen over his forehead, and my fingers twitch to brush it back. I glance away, refusing to be sucked in.

Moose retrieves a pen and a legal pad from a drawer beside the register. “What exactly are you looking for?”

I’m in the middle of explaining the situation, Moose scribbling notes, when a burly woman interrupts me, hip-checking me to the side and dumping the contents in her arms onto the counter—a tackle box, a flashlight, three bags of chips, and a six-pack of beer. I open my mouth to lay into her, but Ryan runs a single finger down my arm and shoots me a pointed stare that says,
Behave.
I obey, since her body odor is so strong the air around her feels thick and textured like cheap polyester.

Moose rings up the items and hands her a penny from the cup of spare change. “For luck,” he says. She pockets it and leaves without a word.

“Charming,” I say.

Moose shrugs. “Her husband skipped town with a waitress from Earl’s last month. She’s having a rough time.”

“Your foot must taste like chocolate with how often you put it in your mouth,” Ryan says, fiddling with a bowl of crocheted Hacky Sacks beside the register. A trio for ten dollars.

“Would you be quiet?” I snap, my stomach bottoming out as I remember when Nick ran off to Chicago to find Lillie, to confess to her whatever secrets he guarded so close. Like a supportive, dutiful friend, I let him go, keeping quiet, because I was tired of competing with her ghost. Where was she when Nick’s life fell apart? Where was she when he fought his way out of the dark, picked up a guitar, and pieced himself back together again? I let Nick go so he would finally move on, shed Lillie like a second skin, embrace what was right in front of him, and realize I was so much better suited for him. Nick came back to Dallas alone, as I expected. Still, it took years of prodding before he finally agreed to a relationship with me. I should’ve known then I was simply a placeholder.

I push thoughts of Nick aside. “When can you start?” I ask Moose.

“She’s on a deadline,” Ryan says. “Joy didn’t exactly grant her permission to rip up the porch.” He drops a Hacky Sack on the toe of his shoe, kicks it so it sails high into the air above his head, and catches it on the back of his neck. Show-off.

“I did the rotten thing a favor,” I say, snatching the Hacky Sack away from him and returning it to the bowl. “In fact, the entire bed-and-breakfast looks rotten. It should be bulldozed and the land underneath used for something else.”

Ryan frowns and scratches his jaw, the stubble creating a raspy sound. “I think Joy would disagree. People have been interested in the land for years, and she won’t sell.”

“That’s unfortunate,” I say.

Moose pulls a business card from his back pocket and slides it across the counter. “I’ll stop by the Inn tomorrow morning to give you an estimate. Then we can discuss the schedule. Work for you?”

I nod and say, “My cell phone broke earlier. Is there somewhere I can buy a replacement?”

“Nearest electronics store is two towns over. We’ve got a computer with Internet access next to the coffeepot,” Moose says, jerking his chin toward the back wall. “You can find something online and rush deliver it here.”

Thanking him, I turn to leave, but he calls out, “We’ve got aspirin, ice packs, and compression bandages in aisle five.” I look at him, confused. “I saw you limping earlier, and I don’t think that bandana will cut it long term. Plus, that’s quite a golf ball you’ve got there,” Moose says, pointing to the knot on my forehead from where I bumped it on Ryan’s car.

“A casualty from too much good wine,” Ryan says, then meets my gaze, his amusement like a feather-soft stroke I shouldn’t enjoy. “Bonus for you, I included some of it in the delivery I made to the B and B earlier so you can have some when you get back. Assuming Joy doesn’t kill you first.”

Shaking my head, I mutter, “It’s as if you
want
me to hit you,” and stalk off.

I gather the supplies for a homemade first-aid kit and sit on the floor, ignoring the grumbles from the man standing by the allergy medicine. He’s not the only one who’d condemn my behavior—my mother would have a conniption if she saw my current state. Twisting open the aspirin bottle, I swallow a few pills, not even bothering with water. Then I untie the bandana, wrap the bandage around my ankle, the compression alleviating the pressure instantly, and carefully slip my foot into my ballet flat.

The computer reminds me of the old, clunky machine I used in elementary school to play Oregon Trail. I click on the Internet icon and the dial-up connection screen appears. Beeps and crackles fill the air.
Who still has dial-up?
An eternity later, I’m finally able to order a new phone. I return to the register and put the items on the counter.

“Any troubles?” Moose asks, picking up an ice pack and ringing it in.

I tell him no as Ryan inspects the ripped package of the compression bandage and the open box of aspirin. “You’re the type of person who snacks while grocery shopping and then scans the empty wrappers at checkout, aren’t you?” he asks me.

Sometimes.
“None of your business.” I search my pockets for money only to realize I don’t have any on me. “Shit.”

Ryan fishes some cash out of his wallet and gives it to Moose. “You can pay me back tomorrow night when you come to Camden Cellars.”

“That’s presumptuous,” I say.

“There’s going to be a small get-together for staff and friends. A celebration of sorts. Since you’re new to town I thought you’d be interested.” His voice is casual, but there’s an underlying edge to it. As if offering me a pity invitation somehow helps him, for what I don’t know, but I won’t be used again.

“Not happening,” I say.

Ryan leans against the counter. A muscle ticks in his jaw. I wonder if I pegged him wrong. Maybe he’s not the sort of guy who wants a challenge. Maybe he’s like my mother in that he prefers people who dish out approval for three square meals a day.

“Still refuse to lower yourself?” he asks.

“I just prefer to refrain from situations where keg stands, beer pong, and body shots are the evening’s entertainment,” I say. My eyes flick to the dip and hollow of his well-defined collarbone. He catches me gawking and arches an eyebrow. He could call me out, but we both know it’s unnecessary.

“You don’t like someone licking tequila out of your belly button?” he asks.

“No.”

“Maybe you just haven’t been licked properly,” he says, his voice dripping with innuendo. Ryan flashes a wicked grin that sends a rush of heat through me.

Oh, that smooth bastard.

Before I can respond, Moose cuts in, handing me a paper bag with my items and Ryan his change. “You should come, Margaret. We’ll all be there.” By “we all,” I assume he means their friends, none of whom I have any desire to meet. “The winery throws a great party, especially when Cricket breaks out the private reserve Cabernet from the cellar.”

My heart stutters at the name Cricket. “What did you say?”

Moose slaps Ryan on the shoulder and says, “This guy keeps the good stuff under lock and key except for special occasions. You don’t want to miss it.”

Moose continues talking, but I don’t hear him. My skin tingles, sensing Ryan’s gaze on me. I look at him. The intensity in his expression steals my breath as I recall the familiarity of his laugh, the certainty that we’ve met before. I study Ryan’s face, trying to find the resemblance between him and the boy I remember from that crazy, stupid night long ago, but my brain can’t make the connection.

Then Ryan smiles, his hazel eyes alight with mischief, and says, “If you come to the party, I promise the cops won’t make an appearance this time. Scout’s honor.”

And it’s like I’m sixteen again, reliving the night Cricket—Ryan—got me arrested.

I’d stumbled upon the party by accident. I’d been walking aimlessly, picking wildflowers along the dirt road that led to the bed-and-breakfast, the sun sinking below the horizon, when I’d heard faint music from somewhere on the other side of the hill. Following the sound and the scent of smoke so heavy in the air it scratched my throat, I found a clearing crammed with what I’d guessed was the entire student body of Wilhelmsburg High School—maybe a hundred people in total—all getting drunk off moonshine and cheap beer.

Mud-caked trucks were backed into a wide circle around a bonfire. Couples lounged in the beds, smoking cigarettes, talking, making out, their bare feet swinging off the tailgates. One of the radios was blaring a twangy country song that thumped under the pulse of conversation.

“Shit. Who called the feds?”

The voice came from behind me, and I jumped. I’d been watching the crowd from the field surrounding the clearing, and I thought I’d done a good job of blending into the darkness. I spun around, the tall native grasses brushing against my legs. A boy a couple of years older, maybe a senior, stood a few paces away, head cocked to one side, a Solo cup in his hand. A small smile played on his mouth. Like most of the other boys, he wore faded jeans and a T-shirt.

“Excuse me?” I said, pulling my black cardigan tighter around me. Funerals, according to my mother, were the only occasion deemed acceptable for me to don such a color.

His gaze scanned over me in a way that caused my stomach to flip. “Black dress. Modest shoes. Expression in a scowl. You must be FBI.”

I narrowed my eyes and clenched my jaw, ignoring the whine of mosquitoes in my ear and the itchy, swollen welts spotting my skin.

“No?” he said. “How about a spy? You
are
lurking in the shadows.”

I continued to glare at him. He glanced away for a moment, cheeks sucked in, as if he were fighting a laugh. A breeze blew a lock of honey-blond hair in his eyes, but he made no effort to smooth it back. When he looked at me again, he was full-on grinning.

Near the bonfire, a girl squealed and giggled as one of the boys picked her up, threw her over his shoulder, and vanished into the field. At least at the parties in Dallas we had pool houses stocked with top-shelf liquor and plenty of bedrooms to sneak off to for sex, while parents “supervised” in the main house, hosting a gathering of their own and becoming as overserved as the teenagers. But I wasn’t dumb enough to get caught half naked with a boy in a compromising position—my father would ship me off to a convent.