Free Sour Grapes (The Blue Plate Series) by Rachel Goodman

equivalent of an Aston Martin rather than a rust bucket that coughs blue smoke when it backfires.”
    I laugh—the first genuine one in months—the sound shaking something loose in my chest. I bet Moose collects friends the way I collect Hermès Kelly bags. I instantly like him.
    “So what can I help you with?” Moose says, ripping a receipt off the printer and tossing it into the trash.
    Ryan rests an elbow on the counter, dirt rimming his cuticles and a reddish-purple hue still staining his fingertips. I wonder if they’re permanently colored that way, if they’re as skilled as I envision.
    “This is Marge—”
    “Margaret,” I say.
    “—Joy’s granddaughter. The Bluebonnet Inn needs its rear porch rebuilt. Half of the demo has been done for you already, courtesy of Marge.”
    “Margaret.”
    Ryan winks and gives me a grin that strikes like lightning. A lock of honey-blond hair has fallen over his forehead, and my fingers twitch to brush it back. I glance away, refusing to be sucked in.
    Moose retrieves a pen and a legal pad from a drawer beside the register. “What exactly are you looking for?”
    I’m in the middle of explaining the situation, Moose scribbling notes, when a burly woman interrupts me, hip-checking me to the side and dumping the contents in her arms onto the counter—a tackle box, a flashlight, three bags of chips, and a six-pack of beer. I open my mouth to lay into her, but Ryan runs a single finger down my arm and shoots me a pointed stare that says, Behave. I obey, since her body odor is so strong the air around her feels thick and textured like cheap polyester.
    Moose rings up the items and hands her a penny from the cup of spare change. “For luck,” he says. She pockets it and leaves without a word.
    “Charming,” I say.
    Moose shrugs. “Her husband skipped town with a waitress from Earl’s last month. She’s having a rough time.”
    “Your foot must taste like chocolate with how often you put it in your mouth,” Ryan says, fiddling with a bowl of crocheted Hacky Sacks beside the register. A trio for ten dollars.
    “Would you be quiet?” I snap, my stomach bottoming out as I remember when Nick ran off to Chicago to find Lillie, to confess to her whatever secrets he guarded so close. Like a supportive, dutiful friend, I let him go, keeping quiet, because I was tired of competing with her ghost. Where was she when Nick’s life fell apart? Where was she when he fought his way out of the dark, picked up a guitar, and pieced himself back together again? I let Nick go so he would finally move on, shed Lillie like a second skin, embrace what was right in front of him, and realize I was so much better suited for him. Nick came back to Dallas alone, as I expected. Still, it took years of prodding before he finally agreed to a relationship with me. I should’ve known then I was simply a placeholder.
    I push thoughts of Nick aside. “When can you start?” I ask Moose.
    “She’s on a deadline,” Ryan says. “Joy didn’t exactly grant her permission to rip up the porch.” He drops a Hacky Sack on the toe of his shoe, kicks it so it sails high into the air above his head, and catches it on the back of his neck. Show-off.
    “I did the rotten thing a favor,” I say, snatching the Hacky Sack away from him and returning it to the bowl. “In fact, the entire bed-and-breakfast looks rotten. It should be bulldozed and the land underneath used for something else.”
    Ryan frowns and scratches his jaw, the stubble creating a raspy sound. “I think Joy would disagree. People have been interested in the land for years, and she won’t sell.”
    “That’s unfortunate,” I say.
    Moose pulls a business card from his back pocket and slides it across the counter. “I’ll stop by the Inn tomorrow morning to give you an estimate. Then we can discuss the schedule. Work for you?”
    I nod and say, “My cell phone broke earlier. Is there somewhere I can buy a replacement?”
    “Nearest