Page 41 of Grace on the Rocks

Her wonderful friend’s cheeks turned pink asWesspluttered a false denial. “Idon’t know what you’re talking about.He’sa priest,Gray.Apriest.”

“You’re notCatholic.”

Putting her hand to her chest as though incensed,Wessaid, “Excuseme,Irespect the cloth!”

“Yeah, but he?—”

Wes put up her finger, demanding silence. “Ican’t help it that he smells amazing.Eatsomething before you get a migraine.”Thenshe grabbed her denim jacket off the bed and headed out.

After devouring the delicious soup,Gracewrote until she couldn’t see straight.Boththe good and bad thing about this northerly island was how the sun never quite seemed to set.Itwas easy to lose all sense of time.Beforeshe knew it,Mr.Beewould probably be hammering away again.

What had possessed her to offer to help?Hewas stuffy and arrogant, and she didn’t know the first thing about renovating a cardboard box, let alone a historical stone cottage.

But he hadn’t thrown her andWesleyout of his place when he’d had every right to.Andhe’d beenDiego’sfriend, back when her big brother was a lonely rookie four thousand miles from his family and too busy being the big football hero to admit a shred of homesickness.

Worst of all, despite how much the guy irritated her, being near him seemed to spark her utterly dormant creativity in a way long walks and classical music and yoga had failed to do.Pokinghim just to get a reaction was an extra little treat.Sheliked watching him struggle to remain unbothered until finally he clapped back with a snappy retort—it was fun, right up until she pushed him too far and his retort landed in her own backyard.Itwas silly to get mad, but at this point, angry writing was better than no writing at all.Sparringwith him somehow made her faster, sharper, all the things both said and unsaid spewing out onto the page.

At this rate, if she just kept rubbing him the wrong way, she might finish the whole damn book early.

Not that there was arightway to rub him.Beeswere delicate and sting-y after all.Headin the game,Gracie!

* * *

When she finally stopped forthe night,Gracerealized two things:First, she was beyond ravenous, like so hungry if she didn’t eat something right this second she might pass out, and secondly,Weshad already returned from the evening’s festivities and gone to bed, all whileGracewas in the zone.Sheclosed her laptop softly and tiptoed out to the kitchen in search of more soup.

What she found was a freshly stocked refrigerator, with shelves of bread and cheese, fresh fruit and hummus, as well as a pantry bursting with earthy-crunchy snacks and staples.Sheturned back to stare into the refrigerator’s glow, wondering for a moment whether she’d been writing merely for hours or actually for days, when a gruff whisper said, “Irecommend the cheese straws.”

Grace hoped it was somehow dark enough he didn’t see her jump, but light enough he caught the dirty glare she cast over her shoulder.

“For a midnight nibble,” he clarified. “Handsdown the winner, good any time of the day, and especially for fueling late-night activities.”

Unable to stop herself,Gracesmirked at the wordactivities.

He looked away. “Work-related activities.”

“Doesn’t sound very appetizing,” she said, letting him off the hook and leaning down to search the lower fridge shelves for the mysterious cheese straws.

“Neither does haggis,” he reasoned, rousing himself from his living room chair and coming up behind her in a way that made her spine tingle.

“Exactly,” she agreed, a little breathless.

He turned to the pantry, and she couldn’t help noticing the outline of his toned behind hugged by soft joggers.Whenhe turned back around, she shifted her gaze up in time to see the box he was handing over.

“Have you ever tried haggis?” he asked.

“Definitely not.”

“Exactly,” he agreed with a smug smile.

Grace snatched the box of what looked like long, thin cookies, with a strong resemblance to bread sticks from the pizza chain of her childhood.Shefocused on tearing the box open, instead of looking at his dumb beard or his smug lips or his stupid arms as he crossed them over his chest.

“I suppose you eat haggis every meal?”

“I don’t have a death wish,Rios.I’mvegetarian.”Heset down a tablet on the island and flipped the folio cover closed.

“What are you reading?” she asked, to change the subject as she bit into the savory, annoyingly delicious cheese straw.Goodlord, where had these been her whole life?Shetook another before finishing the first.

“Ssspreadsheets,” he whispered, drawing out theS’slike he was making fun of his own boring ass.

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