Page 36 of Grace on the Rocks

Both of them nodded again, andGracehad the distinct impression that her host understood—possibly better than she did herself.Therealization made her chest feel a little too tight and a bit fluttery.Shecleared her throat and squinted past him at the roof. “So, where were we?”

“I think we were about to make dinner.”

“Dinner, huh?”Graceasked, looking up at the midday sun. “So, haggis and, what?Irn-Bru?”

His eyes flashed, but that was the only indication her needling annoyed him. “Hellyeah,Irn-Bru.Coupleof those and you won’t remember what writer’s block is.”Oneside of his mouth quirked up along with an eyebrow, a smug challenge.

Grace glowered at him. “Idon’t remember now.BecauseIdon’t have writer’s block.”

Lùcas’s eyes flicked back and forth between them.

“Then why aren’t you writing?” her gracious host fired back.

“Because you were pounding on the roof like you thought it was some kind of oversized bodhrán.”

He blinked and then tried to suppress a grin, as though he thought he’d won. “BodhránsareIrish,” he said with a patronizing shake of his head.

“All the more reason you shouldn’t be banging one,” she retorted, immediately regretting the use of the wordbangingthough he didn’t seem to notice.

Except then he said, “WhenIbang, it won’t be a bodhrán,” punching hisB’sfor emphasis.

Grace’s mouth fell open, but she couldn’t think of a single reply, like even her tongue had friggin’ writer’s block.

Great, now she was thinking about tonguesandbanging.

“ShouldIleave?”Lùcasasked.

“No,” they both snapped once again, glaring at each other, and just what wasGrace’sproblem?Sheused to beGo-With-the-FlowGrace.AlsoGrumpyGracie, sure, sometimes it simply couldn’t be helped, but she didn’t pick fights with strangers, least of all men.Shewanted everyone to coexist.Peace, love, and theLochNessMonster.

But he was very good at pushing her buttons.Maybeit was because his stupid auburn hair had just the right amount of wave without being curly.Orhis seemingly effortless exactly-the-right-length beard, which was probably quite a lot of effort, actually.Orthose distracting forearms.

Maybe it was because within two minutes, he seemed to understand her friend better than she did.Orhis not-so-subtle insinuation that her entire life’s work was ridiculous, a crime against trees.Ormaybe it was because after being so vocally rude in the airport he was still scowling and quietly irritated by seemingly everything about her, as she continued to bein his way.

But mostly it was the forearms.

“What does your tattoo mean?” she demanded.

Her question forced him to break their staring contest first.PointtoRios.

“What?” he asked, staring down at his own obnoxious forearm like he’d only just realized the ink was there. “Nothing,” he barked, pushing past her and into the kitchen.

Careful to keep his back to her, he scanned the contents of the refrigerator before opening and closing the pantry door.

“There’s only eggs and oats,” he grumbled. “Whatexactly didCaitexpect you to live on?”

“Frozen curry, apparently,”Lùcassaid, peering into the freezer.

“God, have those been in there sinceGrandad…?”

Grace caught a glassiness inMr.Bee’seye before he turned to stare back out at the ocean.

A lump formed in her own throat.Shesuspected she’d lost her abuela years before he lost his grandad, and while the ragged edges had been filed down by time, the grief still sometimes overwhelmed her.

His shoulders sagged like the roof was caving in and he was keeping it up by sheer force of will, instead of just adding a new power source to the top of it.

She cleared her throat. “Myfavorite saag comes from the microwave,” she said, joiningLùcasat the freezer, giving their host a minute.

“Americans,”Mr.Beescoffed quietly, and she stuck out her tongue behind his back, makingLùc’snose scrunch up in silent snicker.

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