Page 3 of Grace on the Rocks

“I mean…”Iguess?

“The amount of information conveyed in dog feces alone is?—”

“I’m sorry, are you comparing these works of art to actual shit?” she balked, and he blinked at her again, opening his mouth, and then closing it without spewing further fecal-related facts.

Grace smirked, pleased to have shut him down.

His eyes narrowed. “Atleast dogs communicate without the… hubris…”

“Hubris?”

“Ending another organism’s life to record our… precious thoughts for future generations?Aye, hubris indeed.”

The way he spat the wordprecioustold her everything she needed to know about him and his thoughts on pretty well anything. “Welldone, proving you’re actually less evolved than the averageNeanderthal.”

“Aye, well, they didn’t kill the caves to do it.Maybethey were more enlightened than us,” he muttered.

And god, if that didn’t hit home.Maybethey were.Maybeshe could find one to finish her manuscript for the planned hundred-thousand-copy print run that made her want to throw up every time she thought about it.

When she kept standing there staring at him, he shook his head and reached past her towards a display of metal fidget spinners, his right sleeve pushed up to the elbow allowing her a glimpse of some kind ofCelticknotwork tattoo and leaving a cloud of sandalwood in his wake that almost madeGraceheady.Notbecause he smelled good or anything, just because she was exhausted and overstimulated.

“Aren’t you a little old for toys?” she croaked, determined to match him barb for barb despite her weakness for forearm tats and men’s deodorant.

“A gift,” he snapped, and for a half a second, she thought he was referring to her talent for the brutal retort.Shewas a writer after all.

“Well,Icertainly wouldn’t want to stand in the way of a gift,” she replied, sliding one last look over the wall of literary honor, a wall she’d probably never see another book of hers added to.Shedragged her luggage awkwardly away towards the more fitting wall of calories instead.Clearlya sweet or salty treat was the only thing standing between her and an epic hangry meltdown, given the ridiculous way she’d just been wound up by a total stranger.

His eyes seemed to burn the back of her neck as she snatched a bag of potato chips off the rack and went to findWesley’sgossip magazine.Shechose one with a picture ofPrinceHarryon the cover and tossed it on the counter with her chips and a chocolate bar, just asMr.ForearmTattooqueued behind her.

When she handed over her credit card, the girl at the register bit her lip. “Machine’sdown,” she said in rush that tookGracea moment to process. “D’youhave any cash?”

Making a show of checking her wallet for paper money she knew she wouldn’t find,Graceclosed her eyes to fight back the tears and panic she’d been keeping at bay all morning.Thiswas fine.Everythingwas fine.Theentire trip was a mistake, of course, but it was too late now, and it would all be fine.Wescould live without her magazine andGracecould live without snacks.

Her stomach growled in protest.

Before she could gather the last shreds of her dignity, her new nemesis reached forward in another cloud of sandalwood, setting his fidget toy on the counter as if he already knew she didn’t have the money and wanted to remind her she was in the way.Firstshe’d taken up too much space, now she was taking up too much of his time, just like her life’s work was taking up too many trees and by extension too much oxygen.

A tear dropped onto the magazine and she hated herself for it.Wouldthey let her put it back now?

Then the tattooed forearm stretched around her once more, handing the cashier a twenty-pound note, his exposed skin atGrace’seye level, and honestly, pushing up his henley sleeves like that should be charged with criminal mischief, as should the tattoo itself, which she could now see was not only aCelticknot, but one that resolved into a sort of bumble bee.Andit was perfect, actually, because he was about as congenial as a hovering, stinging bee she wanted to swat away.

“Could you just wait a second,”Gracebegged miserably.

He tilted his head like he didn’t quite understand and it should not have made him look cute when he was being so?—

“My treat,” he said, nodding to her, the cashier, and the purchases all in one magnanimous dip, whileGraceshriveled to the size of a raisin and the cashier beamed at him and his stupid tattoo.

“Need a bag,” the girl asked, looking from him to her to him again.

He lifted his eyebrows atGracefor confirmation.

“No,” she whispered.Itwould cost an extra ten pence—histen pence—and the cashier nodded her approval as she counted out his change.

“Lunch of champions,” he commented asGracegathered her junk food.

“And weary travelers,” she said, turning to go. “Thankyou,” she added quickly, and meant it, regardless of whether he’d only done it to hurry things along.

She’d have to rush to her gate now, and the flight would be at least another hour.Whoknew how long it would be until she sat down to a proper meal?

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