Sour Grapes (The Blue Plate Series) by Rachel Goodman Read Free Book Online

anyway?
    “Maybe I exaggerated.” I grab the keys midswing and tug them off his finger. “The wine tasted like grape cough syrup.”
    Ryan captures my wrist, drawing me closer to him, and leans out the window. For a second I think he’s going to kiss me good night, and my heart stops. Clearly, I’m drunker than I thought, because why on earth would he do that and why would I want him to? We just met. Instead he raises a hand to my face and removes a leaf tangled in my hair before putting the SUV in reverse. “Joy’s a light sleeper and keeps a shotgun under her pillow. Don’t let her mistake you for a burglar,” he says with a chuckle. Only after his taillights have retreated down the hill does it register that I never told him where I’m staying.
    I’m too tired to focus on that right now. Today has dragged on worse than a soap opera, my clothes are sticking to me like cling wrap, and the alcohol flowing through my veins weighs down my limbs. With the promise of a bed, I gather my belongings and fumble up the steps. One second I’m reaching for the doorknob and the next I’m splayed out on my back, my stuff scattered everywhere. My ankle throbs and my body is contorted in an unnatural way, but I’m so stunned from the fall I can’t move. A few beats later, the porch light clicks on and the door swings open, banging against the siding.
    I squeeze my eyes shut, bracing myself for the distinctive sound of a gun being cocked. Only instead of a loud pop there’s a drawn-out sigh. I peek and see Grammy J standing in the doorway, the shotgun propped under her robed arm, fingers fiddling with some kind of object. She’s staring at me with her mouth set in a hard line. The rocking chairs on the porch creak in the wind like in a horror movie.
    “On your feet, child,” she says, nudging my hip with her toe. “Come sunrise you’ve got work to do.” Without a second glance, she tosses the object over her shoulder before stepping back inside. It lands on my stomach.
    It takes me a moment to comprehend that my mangled stiletto has snapped clean off the shoe.
    The wind howls, and I swear it’s the universe cackling at me.
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    I wake the next morning to the scent of fried eggs and the sound of feet creaking on the hardwood. It tricks me into believing I’m in Nick’s tiny bungalow, snuggled in his bed, while he fixes us breakfast. Soon he’ll call me into the kitchen and greet me with a kiss and a cup of coffee.
    Except in the months we dated that scene happened only once.
    The hard knock on the door plunges me into reality, and I remember I’m in Grammy J’s spare room. Everything hurts, made worse by the fact that the mattress has more springs than foam. It’s been years since I’ve been hungover. The door opens, and I drag a pillow over my face, smothering my moans. My head feels as if it’s stuck in a vice. The wine from last night sloshes around in my stomach, ready to ride up my throat.
    The queasiness builds as I hear drapes swoosh aside and Grammy J’s squeaky steps move closer to me. Clinging to the blankets, I pray she’ll change her mind, leave me alone, but my efforts are as helpful as using a bowling ball for a flotation device. She rips away the covers and cold air assaults me. I grunt, curling into myself as though it’ll protect me. From somewhere in the house, the sound of high-pitched laughter pierces my ears. Why are people in this town so damn happy?
    “Up, up, up,” Grammy J says, punctuating each word with a clap. She snatches the pillow off my face and flings it away. “Lazy hour’s over, child.”
    “Time is it?” I croak, my mouth dry as coffee grinds and just as bitter. I try to open my eyes, but they’re crusted together from the mascara I forgot to wash off. Rubbing away some of the gunk, I squint as sunlight streams in through the window, a spotlight on me. I miss the rain and the gloom and the thunder—they complemented my mood so much better.
    “Late. The rooster