Page 97 of Grace on the Rocks

She craved more late-night soccer and more kissing.She’dalso hurt him today, deeply.Shecouldn’t just walk away now.

Wes sighed and shook her head, but she was smiling. “Stayas long as you need to.Ifhe comes to his senses and throws you out, give me a call.”

A car door slammed, andWesleyzipped her suitcase closed.

“FatherEòghann’sgoing to drive me.Don’twant to keep him waiting.”

“Wes, he’s not?—”

“Oh gosh, no.I’vebooked a room at theBeachRoadInn.Doublebeds, in case you change your mind.Let’sget dinner tomorrow.Westill have to make birthday plans.”

ThenWeshefted her bag to the floor beforeGracecould argue, leaving her to deal with the mess they’d made alone.

* * *

For the restof the day,Gracestayed locked in her room asBryanandLùcasmade all kinds of racket.Itsounded like the house was being torn down around her, but she didn’t dare emerge to find out.Shecouldn’t face him after the fighting and the kissing and her absolute inability to admit he was right.Hewas always right, predicting the weather as easily as he predicted her instinct to say something she’d regret just to win a fight.Andthen he’d kissed her to shut her up, saving her from doing so a second time in one day.

Well, he could keep his manipulative kisses.Theywere tainted now.She’dalmost rather be a bitch and live with the consequences than have him kiss her and not mean it.

The more she dwelled on it, the more she still wanted to let the hurtful words fly, but she didn’t need more to regret, so she stayed put and let her fingers do the shouting, writing angry words instead of saying them.Hercharacters’ worst selves were on display, yelling all the hurtful things they had wanted to sling at each other and all the painful truths they’d needed to share since the moment they first met in chapter one.

She wrote and wrote and wrote, still fighting withBryanin her head and on the page until, exhausted, she crept out to watch her brother’s game against their crosstown rivals.

The living room wall was finished except for sanding and painting, and the windows were gorgeous, opening out to the stormy sea.Thecushioned seat was just as perfect and cozy as she’d imagined, with a brand-new electrical outlet for charging wayward electronics, and the space beneath the bench housed a long, low bookcase.Itwas exactly the kind of room she would write for herself.Andthere, on the couch, in his low-slung sweatpants and bare feet,Bryanwatched her instead of the pre-game he’d already turned on.

She froze, staring at him.Suddenly, with the walls up, the room felt too closed in despite its new windows, and her chest constricted.

“I can leave if you prefer,” he rumbled.Anolive branch she couldn’t possibly ignore.

“No.I’dlike the company.”

“There’s beef stew if you’re hungry.Youneed a warm, hearty meal on a day like today.”

Her stomach rumbled before her mouth could lie, and he smirked a little, hearing it all the way across the room.

“I thought you were vegetarian,” she asked before she could shush herself.

He shrugged, but then seemed to change his mind. “Splitit and added the beef to half towards the end.”

God, he was perplexing.Whywould he do that for her?He’deven left it warming on the stove, knowing—or perhaps hoping?—she’d eventually emerge forDiego’sgame.

She filled a bowl and joined him in the living room, collapsing onto the opposite corner of the couch and tucking her feet under her.Whenshe took her first bite, she made an indecent noise, and then blushed hard.Heseemed like he was going to pretend not to notice, but then he said, “It’sEòghann’srecipe.I’lltell him you approve.”

Whether he meant it to or not, mentioningEòghanndrew a shutter of awkwardness down between them, and they both pretended to be fully absorbed by the game.

Diego looked exhausted.Washe getting enough rest?Hestarted every match, because when he wasn’t on the field, the team couldn’t seem to find their momentum.

Bryan cleared his throat.

Grace kept her eyes glued to the game.

He cleared it again, not like he was trying to get her attention.Morelike he was uncomfortable. “Youasked, the other night, ifI’mashamed of the s-stammer,” he finally said.

Now she tore her eyes from theTVand met the full heat of his penetrating gaze. “Youshouldn’t be.Thatwas allIwas trying to say.”

He looked away then, back to the game, whereDiegosent a chip pass to a striker who blasted it off the crossbar.

“WhenIwas about three, we were at the p— at the local pool.Eòghannwas eight.Hewas running, as kids do.Trippedand fell in, hit his head…”

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