Read Online Sour Grapes (The Blue Plate Series) by Rachel Goodman - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Rachel Goodman
Ads: Link
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
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
Similar Books
