Page 81 of Grace on the Rocks

“Just spit it out,Ryan,” his father murmured in that disappointed way he had wheneverBryancouldn’t speak.

“Still as much of a tangle-tongue as he ever was,” fuckingMitchellMurraywhisper-shouted for all to hear, making a face and grabbing his throat like he was choking.

Bryan could be wrong, but he was pretty sure this was actual hell, payback for all his many sins, and he would much prefer to simply blink right out of existence instead.

As a kid, he’d had a few exit strategies from this exact scenario, none of which were appropriate for a man of thirty-five.Onewas to let his fists fly, literally fighting to be heard.Anotherwas to burst into tears, never a difficult feat when they burned so close to the surface of his frustration.Thethird option was to throw up on the closest tormenter’s shoes.Anotherfew minutes, and he could probably pull that one off.

He never should have dared try to come back to this place.

“What’s the matter with you people?” a familiarAmericanvoice demanded, all brash and ballsy and brave, and his chest loosened enough to allow in a tiny whoosh of air. “Youshould be ashamed of yourselves.”

Suddenly she was beside him,GraceRiosRivera, giving his friends and family a dressing down that made them take a collective step back, and he sort of loved her and hated her for it at the same time.

“First of all, his name isBryan,” she said, the very words he’d wanted to scream for nigh on thirty years. “Bryan,” she said again, emphasizing the diabolicalB.“Hecan say it, and so can you.”

He dragged his gaze up from the floor to peek atCait, whose own face was turning a dark shade of crimson.

“And secondly, if it’s any of your business whatBryandoes withBryan’sproperty, then you should be thanking him.”

Christ, he loved the sound of his name in her lightAmericandrawl, craved hearing it in a desperate sort of way.

“Thanking him?”MitchellMurrayscoffed.

“I knowIdidn’t stutter,” she said, deadly serious. “Yes, thanking him.Bryan’supdates are making that drafty old cave cozy and inviting.They’remaking it modern and sustainable.They’llcut his energy costs, and if you still want to rent it out to guests, they’ll be lining up to stay there because it’s going to be gorgeous.Maybeif you ask him nicely, he’ll show you how to do the same thing in your own homes.”

“That’s what we’re afraid of!”Ellisshouted. “Thathouse is a hundred years old.Sois mine, nearly, and it’s fine the way it is.Idon’t need him to prove to me that his new ways are better.”

“Good thing he’s not doing it for you then,”Gracewent on, and for some reasonBryanfound himself rapt, as though it wasn’t his story she was telling, but someone else’s entirely, someone who should be admired for a job well done. “Bryanhas big plans,” she told them, and there was that name again—his name—slipping so easily off her tongue. “Areyou people so self-absorbed you don’t know where he’s been?Whathe’s made of himself?”

“Something about whisky,” his father muttered.

“He’s a master distiller!”

“Not quite yet,” he demurred softly.

“He’s a whisky genius with anArdbegexpression all his own,” she went on. “Andhe brought his brilliance and training back home to you, god knows why, to build a sustainable distillery right here.He’llbring jobs—good jobs—and publicity, and tourism, and revenue.

“He could have done it anywhere, but he chose to bring it here to you people like a freaking gift.Andall you seem to give him in return is grief.Ifhe’s made any mistake at all, it was hoping you short-sighted, narrow-minded, ungratefuljerkswould give him the chance to succeed.

“And ifIever hear you use that expression again,” she said to fuckingMitchellMurray, who’d called him tangle-tongue, “Iswear to god,Iwill cut yours out and shove it up your ass until you choke,” she said, andMitchellturned white as a ghost before going bright red.

She finally stopped talking to take a breath, andBryannoticedTeàrlachnodding encouragement—at himself or atGrace, he wasn’t certain, but it made his heart swell.

With shame-faced murmurs, the crowd dispersed until there was no one left but his father and sisters, and his cousins flanking him like sentries on either side, as the fiddle music came roaring back into his ears.Hemight have to pull up stakes and leave forever after that humiliation, but it had been something to witness.

“I’m sorry,Ry—Bry,”Caitrionasaid, catching herself. “Ihad no idea you hated it.”

His father just looked at him long and hard, assessing, passing judgment, andBryanassumed he fell short of the mark whenCamerontook a beer from the table and moved off into the mingling crowd without a word.

ChapterTwenty-One

Dancing withTeàrlachwas the most funGracehad had in years.Hisenthusiasm was contagious, and he was an excellent teacher.Andin a way, his chair had made it possible for her to feel okay not being perfect.Theycouldn’t do every step exactly like the people around them, so it didn’t matter that she hadn’t mastered any of the steps at all.Itwas just joyous, messy fun, like dancing ought to be.Fora moment, she’d forgotten about the stress of her second book and the merry-go-round of emotions she was having overBryan.She’dbeen able to relax and give herself over to the movement and music, to the thrill of being surrounded by laughter andScottishaccents and people loving life.

And then the music had changed, and the air along with it, and angry voices infiltrated her happy bubble.

When a tickle ran down her spine, she’d looked up, searching the room forBryan, only to find him surrounded by an angry crowd of family and neighbors, his cheeks stained scarlet, his eyes downcast.

She must have faltered, becauseTeàrlachturned his gaze to follow hers.

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