Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
R ushing to the edge of the roof, probably faster than she ought to, Grace peered over the side, definitely faster than she ought to. It wasn’t exactly the Sunsphere , but it was still a roof, and it made her head swim worse than watching Diego from the highest box at the World Cup .
Mr. Bee Tattoo grabbed her arm just below the shoulder to keep her from falling, not that she was in real danger of it. He seemed almost surprised to discover she, too, had muscles there. His thumb ran down her bicep in an involuntary, almost exploratory sort of way, and she didn’t know whether to be turned on or take offense, so she did the next best thing—rolled her eyes at him—before leaning over the edge again while he kept holding on. She could get used to being held like that and— Oh my god, now was not the time.
Poor Wes lay in a heap, all tangled up with the ladder, and Grace’s heart damn near pounded out of her chest as she yanked her arm free. Had she dragged one of her best friends halfway around the world only to kill her off in a freak accident? Was there a hospital on this island? And would they honor her health insurance?
“Wes,” she called, swallowing her panic and searching frantic-ally for the best way down.
The reply was a muffled, “ Fuck’s sake.”
“She’s fine,” Grace breathed. Mr . Bee gave her shoulder a tiny squeeze and rubbed his neck sheepishly.
The boy, Lùcas , had already dropped to the ground and was pulling the ladder off Wesley . He tipped it back up against the roof next to Grace , and her host made an after-you gesture, squatting to hold it steady while Grace scrambled down to her friend.
“Are you okay?” she asked, offering a second hand alongside Lùcas to pull Wes to her feet. “ Where does it hurt?”
“My upper dignity and my lower pride,” she muttered.
Face flaming red against her pale blonde hair, Wes rubbed her hands down her torso, dusting off the sand.
“And I’ve gone and torn the priest’s sweater,” she moaned, noting a hole in the cozy, dark grey cable knit.
“The priest?” Lùcas asked.
“Total Father What -a- Waste … Did I say that out loud?”
Grace nodded, trying to keep her face solemn, although it wasn’t as if Wes could have blushed any darker.
“Well, it’s true, he’s very sweet. And also quite handsome,” she whispered. “ I ran into him, not quite so literally, at the newer old church. When he saw me shivering, he insisted, even though I’m the idiot who left my jacket behind. Sorry about your ladder.”
“No harm,” Lùcas assured her. “ Rios knocked it over first.”
Grace stuck her tongue out at him and he grinned.
“I suppose I should’ve been wearing my glasses,” Wes sighed.
“It’s really all right, long as you are,” their host assured her.
Wes nodded and reached in her pocket, withdrawing the frames she hated so much. They were completely smashed, one arm bent at an odd angle, the other lens cracked.
“Oh no,” Grace breathed, but Wes simply pursed her lips like it was the glasses’ fault for misbehaving.
“There’s a shop in Castlebay can order you new ones,” Lùcas suggested.
“Wanna bet?” Wesley sighed.
“Special prescription,” Grace explained.
“Oh well. I didn’t want to wear them anyway. But it will make mending this a lot harder,” she lamented, peering closely at the hole in her sleeve. “ I can’t give it back to Father Eòghann like this!”
“Father—?” Lùcas began, but his cousin elbowed him, and he shut his mouth.
“Do you want me to try?” Grace offered, counting on Wes to decline.
“No offense, but your knitting is abominable.”
Mr. Bee coughed, trying to cover one of those bursting sort of laughs that just pop out whether you mean them to or not, and Grace glared at him.
“Who could possibly take offense to that?” she muttered.
Wes pattered her arm sympathetically, as though she hadn’t been the one to say it. “ I’ll see you later. Maybe I’ll have located my pride by then.”
Once the door closed behind her, Lùcas asked, “ Eòghann’s no priest. Is he?”
His cousin shrugged. “ Dresses a little like one.”
“S’pose so,” Lùcas said, frowning. “ Guess she really did need those specs.”
“It’s called Stargardt disease,” Grace blurted out before she stopped to think whether Wesley might not want her private medical history shared with these veritable strangers, no matter how Scottish and charming they might be when they wanted to. “ Her vision loss was slow at first but, lately…” she explained to their curious stares. “ She says the glasses don’t really help much. Please don’t say anything to her,” she backpedaled. “ It’s not a secret, but… she doesn’t…”
“We’ll keep it to ourselves,” Mr . Bee agreed, looking sharply at Lùcas , who nodded.
“She doesn’t… like to be treated as if she needs help.”
Both of them nodded again, and Grace had the distinct impression that her host understood—possibly better than she did herself. The realization made her chest feel a little too tight and a bit fluttery. She cleared her throat and squinted past him at the roof. “ So , where were we?”
“I think we were about to make dinner.”
“Dinner, huh?” Grace asked, looking up at the midday sun. “ So , haggis and, what? Irn - Bru ?”
His eyes flashed, but that was the only indication her needling annoyed him. “ Hell yeah, Irn - Bru . Couple of those and you won’t remember what writer’s block is.” One side of his mouth quirked up along with an eyebrow, a smug challenge.
Grace glowered at him. “ I don’t remember now. Because I don’t have writer’s block.”
Lùcas’s eyes flicked back and forth between them.
“Then why aren’t you writing?” her gracious host fired back.
“Because you were pounding on the roof like you thought it was some kind of oversized bodhrán.”
He blinked and then tried to suppress a grin, as though he thought he’d won. “ Bodhráns are Irish ,” he said with a patronizing shake of his head.
“All the more reason you shouldn’t be banging one,” she retorted, immediately regretting the use of the word banging though he didn’t seem to notice.
Except then he said, “ When I bang, it won’t be a bodhrán,” punching his B ’s for emphasis.
Grace’s mouth fell open, but she couldn’t think of a single reply, like even her tongue had friggin’ writer’s block.
Great, now she was thinking about tongues and banging.
“Should I leave?” Lùcas asked.
“No,” they both snapped once again, glaring at each other, and just what was Grace’s problem? She used to be Go - With -the- Flow Grace . Also Grumpy Gracie , sure, sometimes it simply couldn’t be helped, but she didn’t pick fights with strangers, least of all men. She wanted everyone to coexist. Peace , love, and the Loch Ness Monster .
But he was very good at pushing her buttons. Maybe it was because his stupid auburn hair had just the right amount of wave without being curly. Or his seemingly effortless exactly-the-right-length beard, which was probably quite a lot of effort, actually. Or those distracting forearms.
Maybe it was because within two minutes, he seemed to understand her friend better than she did. Or his not-so-subtle insinuation that her entire life’s work was ridiculous, a crime against trees. Or maybe it was because after being so vocally rude in the airport he was still scowling and quietly irritated by seemingly everything about her, as she continued to be in his way .
But mostly it was the forearms.
“What does your tattoo mean?” she demanded.
Her question forced him to break their staring contest first. Point to Rios .
“What?” he asked, staring down at his own obnoxious forearm like he’d only just realized the ink was there. “ Nothing ,” he barked, pushing past her and into the kitchen.
Careful to keep his back to her, he scanned the contents of the refrigerator before opening and closing the pantry door.
“There’s only eggs and oats,” he grumbled. “ What exactly did Cait expect you to live on?”
“Frozen curry, apparently,” Lùcas said, peering into the freezer.
“God, have those been in there since Grandad …?”
Grace caught a glassiness in Mr . Bee’s eye before he turned to stare back out at the ocean.
A lump formed in her own throat. She suspected she’d lost her abuela years before he lost his grandad, and while the ragged edges had been filed down by time, the grief still sometimes overwhelmed her.
His shoulders sagged like the roof was caving in and he was keeping it up by sheer force of will, instead of just adding a new power source to the top of it.
She cleared her throat. “ My favorite saag comes from the microwave,” she said, joining Lùcas at the freezer, giving their host a minute.
“Americans,” Mr . Bee scoffed quietly, and she stuck out her tongue behind his back, making Lùc’s nose scrunch up in silent snicker.
“Are you going to the ceilidh next week?” the boy asked, wandering over to a flyer Cait had left behind with a wistful expression on his face.
“I really need to write,” Grace answered automatically. Though a ceilidh sounded sort of fun, but then again, not if he was going to be there, surrounded by a posse of thin, glossy admirers. Grace could only imagine that one well-timed glower from him would have ladies’ panties falling at their feet like he was some kind of Scottish Mr . Darcy . No , thank you.
“We’re going,” Wesley contradicted her, stepping into the kitchen in a wave of fresh lilac and recovered pride.
“But—”
“We’re going,” Wes cut off her protest. “ I already told Mal .”
“Who?”
“My mother…” their host said, turning to face them, grimace freshly cemented in place.
“She said hello, by the way,” Wes told him. To his cousin she added, “ We’ll be there, and I expect you to save me a dance.”
Lùcas beamed at her, and Grace felt her deadline slipping away.