Read Online Sour Grapes (The Blue Plate Series) by Rachel Goodman - Free Book Online
Authors: Rachel Goodman
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mother—my frustrations—flake off me like the rust and old paint clinging to my clothes and skin. The splintered, weather-beaten wood scratches the soft flesh of my hands that’s now covered in blisters.
As I stand in the hole I created, my ballet flats sink into the moist earth. The pressure on my ankle makes it feel like a water balloon about to burst. The porch framing is warped and stinks of rot, like teeth that have never touched toothpaste. I’m fighting with a plank that doesn’t want to budge when a long, slow whistle captures my attention. I squint against the glare of the afternoon sun. Ryan leans against the railing at the base of the stairs, holding a box with CAMDEN CELLARS printed across the side.
“I’ll never understand the latest fashion you city girls wear. What is that? Garden gnome chic?” he says, referring to the disaster I’m presenting to the world.
“Oh, it’s the Wart,” I say as sweat drips down my nose. I try to swipe it away, but my arm is so weak I end up smacking myself in the mouth.
He cocks his head to the side, a curious expression on his face. “Just Ryan, actually.”
Setting the box down, he rummages through the porch debris. I watch how his lean lines and corded muscles move beneath his T-shirt and ripple in his tanned biceps and forearms. I avert my gaze before he catches me ogling him.I form a fist, and with a hard upward hit, manage to dislodge the stubborn plank.
“Well, Ryan, you’re still a wart,” I say.
He rights himself, my cell in hand. When he places it on the railing, his shirt rides up to reveal a flat, toned stomach. This time, he busts me staring.
“Would you prefer if I just stripped down?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.
“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
As I stand in the hole I created, my ballet flats sink into the moist earth. The pressure on my ankle makes it feel like a water balloon about to burst. The porch framing is warped and stinks of rot, like teeth that have never touched toothpaste. I’m fighting with a plank that doesn’t want to budge when a long, slow whistle captures my attention. I squint against the glare of the afternoon sun. Ryan leans against the railing at the base of the stairs, holding a box with CAMDEN CELLARS printed across the side.
“I’ll never understand the latest fashion you city girls wear. What is that? Garden gnome chic?” he says, referring to the disaster I’m presenting to the world.
“Oh, it’s the Wart,” I say as sweat drips down my nose. I try to swipe it away, but my arm is so weak I end up smacking myself in the mouth.
He cocks his head to the side, a curious expression on his face. “Just Ryan, actually.”
Setting the box down, he rummages through the porch debris. I watch how his lean lines and corded muscles move beneath his T-shirt and ripple in his tanned biceps and forearms. I avert my gaze before he catches me ogling him.I form a fist, and with a hard upward hit, manage to dislodge the stubborn plank.
“Well, Ryan, you’re still a wart,” I say.
He rights himself, my cell in hand. When he places it on the railing, his shirt rides up to reveal a flat, toned stomach. This time, he busts me staring.
“Would you prefer if I just stripped down?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.
“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
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