Grace on the Rocks (Tennessee Hebrides #1)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

A s someone who once took comfort in books, Grace had never realized staring at a whole wall of them could be so overwhelming. The spines were lined up taunting her like a class of skeptical eighth graders on the last day before spring break. She took a deep breath, trying to center herself in the first calm moment she’d had all day, and twisted the oval-shaped stone in her pocket. She ran her thumb over the ridges of variegated color, rubbing away the travel delays and looming deadline which had led her to this moment.

Books had always been Grace’s solace—bookstores, her ultimate comfort zone—until now. She stood there, frozen in front of the YA section, after stumbling upon her own debut novel stacked six deep on the shelf, Gracie Rios emblazoned on the front in glittery gold letters advertising the most ridiculous imposter to ever live, a one-hit wonder for the ages. Once upon a time, it had been her dream to happen across a display of her own titles in a random airport bookstore halfway around the world. She would whip out a fountain pen and stealth sign them with glee like she was somebody. Now , the sight of her debut sitting there taking up space in between the likes of Alice Oseman and Angie Thomas left Grace breaking out in a cold sweat.

Her phone buzzed for what felt like the tenth time in the past hour, and if her agent was trying this hard to connect, she probably shouldn’t ignore it any longer.

“Hey, Maryanne ,” Grace answered, her voice high and a little shaky. “ Sorry I missed your call…s—calls. I’m … at a writing retreat.”

It was only half a lie. By tonight she’d be tucked up in her bed-and-breakfast on the Isle of Barra , ready for the writing frenzy to begin.

“A retreat? Good , Gracie , that’s good. I was worried when you asked for another extension.”

“Worried—?” Grace forced a laugh.

“They said no, by the way. I believe the exact quote was, ‘ Your readers are not Peter Pan . They won’t be teens forever.’ So . We deliver the draft in four weeks, or we return your advance.”

Grace was going to throw up—actually throw up, right here in the middle of WHSmith like a travel-sick five-year-old.

“But hey, we don’t have to worry about that, right? Because you’ve got this?”

“Of course I do…”

“Of course you do. Honestly , I’m a little bit insulted. I’ve literally never been asked to have an author return an advance. I can’t believe they would even go there.”

“Just dotting their i’s and crossing their t’s I guess,” Grace whispered.

“Sure, sure. Hey , we’ve all got bills to pay. Even me. But it’s not going to be an issue, right? ’ Cause you’re a rockstar!”

“I am…”

“And when you’re a rockstar, I’m a rockstar.”

Her voice was heavy with meaning. If Grace dropped the ball on this again, Maryanne would be forced to drop Grace .

“I’m nearly finished,” Grace lied.

“That’s my rockstar,” Maryanne agreed. “ Four weeks,” she added one last reminder, before hanging up the call.

Grace stared at the rows and rows of books, their covers starting to swim at the edges of her vision. She wasn’t close to nearly finished . Soon everyone would know her debut was a fluke and she, a complete fraud. Even Charlotte at Between the Covers would rescind her invitation for Grace to speak to the YA Book Club . How could she not?

Behind her someone cleared their throat.

She could feel them hovering impatiently, wanting to yell at her for taking too long, just like her agent. Just like the security guard who shouted at her to move along when she had paused to pick up the shiny flat stone she now twisted compulsively in her pocket.

How long had she been standing here, blocking the already cramped aisle with her suitcase and laptop bag?

The hoverer cleared their throat once more, and Grace shot a glance over her shoulder. Tall . White . Auburn . His strong bearded jaw and stormy green eyes were probably always set in that angry scowl.

“You’re… in the way,” he said in a slow, deep growl, as if she was the sum of all his exasperation in the entire world but he was too polite to say move your overstuffed suitcase and your overstuffed American arse. When Grace didn’t answer, he added, “ Maybe you can’t decide ’cause you’ve outgrown this lot?” He nodded at the big sign that screamed Young Adult .

Was he calling her old? Shame and anger, two sides of the same coin, flamed up Grace’s cheeks. Not even the delicious burr of his accent could soften the sting with her thirtieth birthday barreling closer every day.

“Are you the reading police? Books in this section happen to be quite layered,” she sniffed, turning to face him and crossing her arms in defiance.

“Wasteful, innit?” he mumbled, rolling his eyes at the wall of words.

“I’m sorry?” Maybe she hadn’t heard him correctly. Books ? Were wasteful? “ What kind of Neanderthal would actually say that out loud?”

His scowl deepened, like two birds retreating into the cliffs of his auburn brow, letting her know she, too, had voiced her inside thoughts.

The day had finally broken her—he had finally broken her.

From the moment she’d gotten out of bed, however long ago that was, after countless delays and missed connections, she and Wesley had both been dead on their feet when they arrived before a gate agent who informed the girls they wouldn’t be allowed to check two small suitcases apiece on the chartered flight to their island getaway.

“Och, it’s a tiny wee plane,” the agent had said in a thick Glaswegian accent Grace could barely understand. “ Picture the smallest plane you ever saw in your life, and then go smaller,” she’d added, moving her hands closer and closer together to demonstrate.

Grace had nearly burst into tears.

“I knew booking the last two seats out of Glasgow was too good to be true,” she had groused to Wes as they made their way out of the terminal and hastily repacked one bag each with only the essentials. “ I’m sorry I conned you into this trip.”

“Umm, this is my first vacation in three years. I’ll go naked if that’s what it takes,” Wes had replied before they stored the extra two bags for an exorbitant rate that Grace would surely regret when her credit card bill arrived, and then raced back to security where she spilled the entire contents of her laptop bag all over the floor in her helter-skelter frenzy.

“Deep breath,” Wes suggested.

“I just need to pop into that bookstore real quick,” Grace had begged. “ Grab some snacks.” Maybe cry for a sec.

“Ooh, get me a trashy magazine, would you?” Wes had asked before hurrying back to their gate alone.

Honestly, was it any wonder that after holding it in all day when she would have preferred to scream, Grace had finally said the quiet part out loud?

Now the guy was staring at her like he couldn’t quite believe she’d done it.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean…” She finished her sentence with a shrug because what even were words? She had meant it. She just hadn’t meant him to hear it.

“I only meant…” he tried.

“What?”

“It’s… decadence, innit? Are all those really going to be taken home and read? And then what? It’s terrible for the environment,” he said. Then he snapped his mouth closed, pressing his lips together in a self-censoring sort of way.

“You’re in an airport, bro,” she snapped, cringing at how much she sounded like one of her students. “ You think books are worse for the environment than the jet fuel about to carry your—” She was going to say pretentious ass , but she stopped when he raised one eyebrow, daring her to speak any louder. It was distracting, that raised eyebrow. Made her forget what she’d been about to call him. “ I suppose you’ve carbon-offset your trip?” she asked instead.

His frown deepened. “ You’re right. I ought to have taken the ferry.”

Grace was surprised by the admission. She , too, should have taken a ferry, but the flight delays meant she missed the last one, and now here they were. She allowed herself a tiny nod of vindication anyway.

“You are also in an airport,” he said, stroking his ginger beard. “ Guess that makes us even.”

“I wouldn’t say so,” Grace argued, although from his accent he was obviously Scottish , so she had likely used far more jet fuel than he had today. “ I personally would have preferred to ride a humpback whale, but I understand they have an aversion to passengers.”

His mouth flattened again, like he didn’t want to appreciate the joke but was fighting to make his face comply.

Grace shook her head to snap out of it.

“How many trees do you reckon were razed to write down all those words?” he asked, nodding at the bookshelves, his artfully mussy hair just a bit too short to move with the motion. He asked the question nonchalantly, like he was making casual conversation rather than being a complete ass. Would he say all this if he knew she was a writer?

“Is it these books specifically you have a problem with?” Grace spluttered. “ You think just because something’s beloved by teen girls it’s somehow less valuable, is that it?”

“No…” he said, looking a bit perplexed.

“The books they adore are just as important as your”—she sized him up, his effortlessly casual waffle-knit henley, in a hunter green that he had to know made his eyes pop, tablet under his arm, sleeves pushed up just so: a too-cool-for-school tech bro if ever she’d seen one and he probably never read for pleasure a day in his life—“ Six Sigma bullshit,” she settled on.

He blinked and jerked his head back in surprise. Good .

“These readers write gorgeous letters to their favorite authors about how all those words changed their lives. Stories are what separate humans from animals! The ability to record our thoughts and history, to communicate.”

“Any animal can communicate…” he snorted but trailed off.

“I mean…” I guess?

“The amount of information conveyed in dog feces alone is?—”

“I’m sorry, are you comparing these works of art to actual shit?” she balked, and he blinked at her again, opening his mouth, and then closing it without spewing further fecal-related facts.

Grace smirked, pleased to have shut him down.

His eyes narrowed. “ At least dogs communicate without the… hubris…”

“Hubris?”

“Ending another organism’s life to record our… precious thoughts for future generations? Aye , hubris indeed.”

The way he spat the word precious told her everything she needed to know about him and his thoughts on pretty well anything. “ Well done, proving you’re actually less evolved than the average Neanderthal .”

“Aye, well, they didn’t kill the caves to do it. Maybe they were more enlightened than us,” he muttered.

And god, if that didn’t hit home. Maybe they were. Maybe she could find one to finish her manuscript for the planned hundred-thousand-copy print run that made her want to throw up every time she thought about it.

When she kept standing there staring at him, he shook his head and reached past her towards a display of metal fidget spinners, his right sleeve pushed up to the elbow allowing her a glimpse of some kind of Celtic knotwork tattoo and leaving a cloud of sandalwood in his wake that almost made Grace heady. Not because he smelled good or anything, just because she was exhausted and overstimulated.

“Aren’t you a little old for toys?” she croaked, determined to match him barb for barb despite her weakness for forearm tats and men’s deodorant.

“A gift,” he snapped, and for a half a second, she thought he was referring to her talent for the brutal retort. She was a writer after all.

“Well, I certainly wouldn’t want to stand in the way of a gift,” she replied, sliding one last look over the wall of literary honor, a wall she’d probably never see another book of hers added to. She dragged her luggage awkwardly away towards the more fitting wall of calories instead. Clearly a sweet or salty treat was the only thing standing between her and an epic hangry meltdown, given the ridiculous way she’d just been wound up by a total stranger.

His eyes seemed to burn the back of her neck as she snatched a bag of potato chips off the rack and went to find Wesley’s gossip magazine. She chose one with a picture of Prince Harry on the cover and tossed it on the counter with her chips and a chocolate bar, just as Mr . Forearm Tattoo queued behind her.

When she handed over her credit card, the girl at the register bit her lip. “ Machine’s down,” she said in rush that took Grace a moment to process. “ D’you have any cash?”

Making a show of checking her wallet for paper money she knew she wouldn’t find, Grace closed her eyes to fight back the tears and panic she’d been keeping at bay all morning. This was fine. Everything was fine. The entire trip was a mistake, of course, but it was too late now, and it would all be fine. Wes could live without her magazine and Grace could live without snacks.

Her stomach growled in protest.

Before she could gather the last shreds of her dignity, her new nemesis reached forward in another cloud of sandalwood, setting his fidget toy on the counter as if he already knew she didn’t have the money and wanted to remind her she was in the way. First she’d taken up too much space, now she was taking up too much of his time, just like her life’s work was taking up too many trees and by extension too much oxygen.

A tear dropped onto the magazine and she hated herself for it. Would they let her put it back now?

Then the tattooed forearm stretched around her once more, handing the cashier a twenty-pound note, his exposed skin at Grace’s eye level, and honestly, pushing up his henley sleeves like that should be charged with criminal mischief, as should the tattoo itself, which she could now see was not only a Celtic knot, but one that resolved into a sort of bumble bee. And it was perfect, actually, because he was about as congenial as a hovering, stinging bee she wanted to swat away.

“Could you just wait a second,” Grace begged miserably.

He tilted his head like he didn’t quite understand and it should not have made him look cute when he was being so?—

“My treat,” he said, nodding to her, the cashier, and the purchases all in one magnanimous dip, while Grace shriveled to the size of a raisin and the cashier beamed at him and his stupid tattoo.

“Need a bag,” the girl asked, looking from him to her to him again.

He lifted his eyebrows at Grace for confirmation.

“No,” she whispered. It would cost an extra ten pence— his ten pence—and the cashier nodded her approval as she counted out his change.

“Lunch of champions,” he commented as Grace gathered her junk food.

“And weary travelers,” she said, turning to go. “ Thank you,” she added quickly, and meant it, regardless of whether he’d only done it to hurry things along.

She’d have to rush to her gate now, and the flight would be at least another hour. Who knew how long it would be until she sat down to a proper meal?

His only luggage seemed to be a duffel bag and that tablet, unless he had a gorgeous girlfriend waiting at his gate to fly off somewhere lush and exotic, filled with elegant people who didn’t have deadlines. They were probably going someplace with sunshine and beaches like Barcelona or Mallorca . What did beautiful people do at the beach if not read?

Heat flooded her cheeks as she thought of one activity, because of course her brain couldn’t just behave. Not that she wanted to engage in beach-side activities with Mr . How Many Trees —or anyone else for that matter.

“Nine hundred and thirty-five trees, by the way,” she muttered, and he frowned at her again.

She’d been right about the perpetual scowl.

“For a print run of one hundred thousand books, if my math is right, it takes about nine hundred and thirty-five trees, assuming no recycled material in the paper.”

She knew, because she had tried to use it as an excuse to reduce her print run. She couldn’t bear the thought of all those books being remaindered when her readers realized she was a fraud. Instead , her publisher had pointed her to One Tree Planted and suggested she donate the money to plant nine hundred and thirty-five trees out of her generous advance, and then please turn in the damn manuscript .

After tossing this fact at him like a peace token, she turned heel and scurried away, relieved she’d never have to see his stupid chiseled jaw or his equally stupid forearm tattoo ever again.

* * *

“Jeez, you were gone forever,” Wes said when Grace finally reached their gate. “ I thought maybe you’d been detained by a hoard of Scottish wolfhounds or something.”

“Is that a thing?”

“Come on, we’re boarding,” Wes urged, relieving Grace of her purchases so she could fish out her boarding pass. “ Thanks for the magazine. What do I owe you?”

“On the house.”

Wes snorted. “ Put it on my tab at least. And let the birthday extravaganza begin!”

Grace rolled her eyes. “ It’s not a birthday party.”

“Oh I know,” Wes said with absolute seriousness Grace didn’t believe for a second. “ You don’t celebrate birthdays.” Then she handed Grace back her lunch, picked up her own luggage, and hurried towards the gate attendant.

“Final boarding call for flight 455 with service to Barra . Passengers Rios and Teal , your plane is ready to depart,” the attendant said into a speaker while staring them down, knowing full well they were passengers Rios and Teal .

If Grace was already a shriveled raisin of shame, now she was on the verge of scattering into dust, but Wes laughed and began babbling her profuse apologies. “ Sorry , sorry, sorry. This is our fifth flight in twenty-four hours. We don’t know what day it is, let alone what time.”

“No worries at all,” the gate attendant said, all smiles and warmth for lovable Wesley . “ Have a nice flight.” To Grace she added icily, “ You’re only allowed one bag.”

Grace looked down at her solitary suitcase in confusion.

“I see three bags,” the gate agent said.

“My laptop can’t go under the plane…” Grace said, but oh no… They were counting her purse too, of course, and there was no way it could fit inside her laptop bag.

“Oh, thanks for holding my purse, Gray !” Wes exclaimed, grabbing Grace’s shoulder bag and shoving her own small clutch inside before turning sunnily back to the gate agent who pursed her lips once more at Grace’s laptop, but scanned her boarding pass.

“Thank you,” Grace mumbled to a stone-cold glare before schlepping down the jetway behind her friend.

The gate agent hadn’t been exaggerating. The airplane was tiny, as though in another life it had been used for spraying crops. They had to go outside onto the actual tarmac and surrender their suitcases to a handler who loaded them into the storage bay before their eyes.

“I know they said it was small, but I didn’t expect it to be this small,” Grace whispered, ignoring the immature grin that spread across her friend’s face and reaching for the worry stone in her pocket once more.

It had been a lucky find. Normally she wouldn’t pick things up off the airport floor, but when her laptop bag had flown open as she collected it from the security conveyer, showering pens and sticky notes in every direction, the rainbow colors of the stone had been too beautiful not to scoop up along with the rest of her things, and a little soap and water in the ladies’ room hadn’t hurt it.

“It’s like flying private. Like we’re traveling with the President or something,” Wes whispered.

“I think the President has a much bigger plane. With a boardroom. And a bed.” Mmm , a bed… Grace was desperate to take a hot bath and then stretch out under fresh clean sheets at the B & B and forget this entire day had ever happened. “ Think there’s a bathtub?”

“If I were President , I’d rather have a bathtub than a boardroom. That would be amazing.”

“Welcome aboard Barra One ,” the flight attendant, a black woman in her late twenties wearing a smart jacket and tie, teased, and Grace’s face burned.

She hadn’t meant it as an insult when she said the plane was small, merely a fact. By all accounts Air Force One was massive, but here, no more than twenty seats stared back at them, all but two already filled with irritated-looking passengers.

“Sit anywhere you like,” the attendant quipped.

Wes buckled in and buried her nose in the gossip magazine, flipping quickly through the pages to see what was in store while Grace wrestled her laptop bag under the seat in front of her.

“Hey, Diego’s in here. That why you picked this one?”

“What? No ,” Grace answered. She would never get used to her big brother being semi-famous. “ What’s it say?”

“Sandy Rios , blah blah blah… Rumors of a transfer—female Galaxy fans swoon in despair.”

“He’ll never leave LA . Princess Mathilda wouldn’t allow it.”

“Rumors of trouble in paradise—female Galaxy fans swoon in delight.”

Grace snorted. “ Don’t get my hopes up.”

“Does he have a black eye?” Wes asked, touching her nose to the paper for a closer look.

“Where?” Grace took the magazine and studied the glossy photo of her brother at a press conference sporting a pretty obvious shiner. He’d tried to cover it with makeup but done a poor job of it.

She skimmed the article. “ It says, ‘ When asked if he’d come to blows with his teammates over rumors of a potential departure from LA , Rios laughed, gesturing to the light bruising above his right eye, and explained that he’d caught a flying elbow while practicing a set piece.’ I swear to god that man needs to be bubble-wrapped.”

“I don’t think they want the Michelin Man in the central midfield.” Wes laughed, taking the magazine back and flipping to the beginning.

“That’s the last two,” the attendant called to the cockpit.

“Hold for one more,” the pilot shouted back, and Grace looked around wondering if planes this size allowed standing room like an overcrowded bus.

“Apologies for the wait,” a growly burr murmured, and Grace’s head snapped back to the front to see Mr . Bee Tattoo himself clapping the flight attendant on the shoulder and murmuring, “ I’m with Buchanan ,” before locking eyes with Grace , rolling them ever so slightly, and then disappearing into the cockpit.

“Holy smokes, our copilot is hot,” Wes whispered.

Grace’s stomach fluttered in agreement. “ You think?”

Wesley shrugged, squinting back down at her magazine. As usual she wasn’t wearing her new glasses because she hated everything about them —her words.

“He sounded hot,” Wes replied, and personally, Grace hated everything about the fact that she agreed.

“He wasn’t wearing a pilot uniform,” Grace murmured. In fact, he’d been wearing fairly indecent jeans with his hunter green henley.

“He’s not. I am,” the woman she’d mistaken for a flight attendant said, picking up a microphone handset. “ Distinguished guests and rabble rousers, thank you for flying with us today. We’ll have you on the Barra beach in just over an hour, where the local time is two p.m., and the local temperature is a brisk fourteen degrees. This aircraft is equipped with two over-wing exits, no lavatories, and no flight attendant, so please sit back, relax, and enjoy staying in your seats with seatbelts fastened.”

After her announcement, the copilot also disappeared into the cockpit so at least Grace could burn with embarrassment in private. Wes opened her magazine again, holding it as close to her face as possible, while Grace sunk down lower in her seat and gripped the worry stone so tight she hoped it wouldn’t snap during the bumpy ascent.