Read Online Sour Grapes (The Blue Plate Series) by Rachel Goodman - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Rachel Goodman
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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
“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
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