Page 21 of Grace on the Rocks

“I don’t really drink much.”

“Afraid of the demon rum?”

“No,Ijust… don’t know whatIlike besides white wine.”

He tilted his head to study her after that pronouncement, as though he could see right through her to the words she didn’t say, and it felt like flames were licking her arms and face until he turned away to open cabinet after cabinet, finding only dishes and a mismatched set of mugs and teacups.

He swore somethingGaelicunder his breath. “Justa tick,” he rumbled, storming off to his bedroom and returning moments later with a bottle in hand. “Whiskyall right?”

Grace shrugged. “Host’schoice.”

He snorted and took down a pair of juice glasses, pouring two fingers of amber liquid in each.

“Slàinte mhath,Rios,” he said, lifting his glass and handing one to her, the name running through her like hot lava, so she took a large sip of the whisky to quench it, which merely made her insides match her outsides as it burned right down to her atoms.

He watched her swallow and waited for some kind of response.

“What do you think?” he finally asked with an anxious sort of scowl.

Honestly,Gracedidn’twantto like it, and he seemed to expect her to hate it, so why not give him that?

When she could breathe again, she said, “It’sa joke, right?”

“What?”

“No one actually likes whisky.It’sjust a club to prove your manliness, like stout and black coffee? ‘I’ma braw, manly man who eats fire and drinksBand-Aids!’Itmakes you feel like some kind of dragon warrior, right?”

“No,” he said, still glaring at her, as though he was trying to decide whether to be offended. “Ilove it,” he added, and for some reason she got the impression this time she was the bee and he’d felt her sting.

“Why?”

He looked away from her then, studied the glass of amber liquid in his hand. “Goodwhisky is extremely complex.Itdemands your attention.”

“Are you sure you don’t just tell yourself that because you’re overly fond of feeling numb?”

“It heightens your senses, it doesn’t numb them.”

She snorted.

“Unless you overindulge,” he admitted.

Grace turned towards the back door which opened out of the claustrophobic little cottage onto an ample covered porch with a view of the beach and the ocean beyond. “Willwe get to see theNorthernLightshere?” she wondered.

“Not likely, unless you extend your trip three or four months,” he answered from close behind her, setting all the tiny hairs on her neck at attention.

He said it almost like it was an option, an offer, andGraceforced a laugh. “WhenIfind somewhere with a vacancy, maybeI’llask about long-term rental,” she said.

Stepping past her, he led the way out on to the porch.Itwas still raining, just like he’d said it was going to.

“Whendoesthe sun set?” she asked, realizing her error.

He leaned against the porch rail facing her, his back to the gorgeous view. “Thistime of year?Doesn’treally.Youget a few hours of twilight around midnight.Cait’sinstalled blackout curtains in the bedrooms though, no worries.”

“That’ll be handy,”Gracesaid, taking another sip of the warming whisky to counterbalance the cool evening air, leaning her forearms on the porch railing beside him. “Maybethe extra sunlight will make me extra productive.”

“Only twenty-four hours in a day.Whycome here to write?”Hesounded annoyed, or baffled maybe.

“I entered a contest with no expectation of actually winning.Itwas supposed to be a carrot to lure me to the end of the draft.Didn’twork.”

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