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

electronics store is two towns over. We’ve got a computer with Internet access next to the coffeepot,” Moose says, jerking his chin toward the back wall. “You can find something online and rush deliver it here.”
    Thanking him, I turn to leave, but he calls out, “We’ve got aspirin, ice packs, and compression bandages in aisle five.” I look at him, confused. “I saw you limping earlier, and I don’t think that bandana will cut it long term. Plus, that’s quite a golf ball you’ve got there,” Moose says, pointing to the knot on my forehead from where I bumped it on Ryan’s car.
    “A casualty from too much good wine,” Ryan says, then meets my gaze, his amusement like a feather-soft stroke I shouldn’t enjoy. “Bonus for you, I included some of it in the delivery I made to the B and B earlier so you can have some when you get back. Assuming Joy doesn’t kill you first.”
    Shaking my head, I mutter, “It’s as if you want me to hit you,” and stalk off.
    I gather the supplies for a homemade first-aid kit and sit on the floor, ignoring the grumbles from the man standing by the allergy medicine. He’s not the only one who’d condemn my behavior—my mother would have a conniption if she saw my current state. Twisting open the aspirin bottle, I swallow a few pills, not even bothering with water. Then I untie the bandana, wrap the bandage around my ankle, the compression alleviating the pressure instantly, and carefully slip my foot into my ballet flat.
    The computer reminds me of the old, clunky machine I used in elementary school to play Oregon Trail. I click on the Internet icon and the dial-up connection screen appears. Beeps and crackles fill the air. Who still has dial-up? An eternity later, I’m finally able to order a new phone. I return to the register and put the items on the counter.
    “Any troubles?” Moose asks, picking up an ice pack and ringing it in.
    I tell him no as Ryan inspects the ripped package of the compression bandage and the open box of aspirin. “You’re the type of person who snacks while grocery shopping and then scans the empty wrappers at checkout, aren’t you?” he asks me.
    Sometimes. “None of your business.” I search my pockets for money only to realize I don’t have any on me. “Shit.”
    Ryan fishes some cash out of his wallet and gives it to Moose. “You can pay me back tomorrow night when you come to Camden Cellars.”
    “That’s presumptuous,” I say.
    “There’s going to be a small get-together for staff and friends. A celebration of sorts. Since you’re new to town I thought you’d be interested.” His voice is casual, but there’s an underlying edge to it. As if offering me a pity invitation somehow helps him, for what I don’t know, but I won’t be used again.
    “Not happening,” I say.
    Ryan leans against the counter. A muscle ticks in his jaw. I wonder if I pegged him wrong. Maybe he’s not the sort of guy who wants a challenge. Maybe he’s like my mother in that he prefers people who dish out approval for three square meals a day.
    “Still refuse to lower yourself?” he asks.
    “I just prefer to refrain from situations where keg stands, beer pong, and body shots are the evening’s entertainment,” I say. My eyes flick to the dip and hollow of his well-defined collarbone. He catches me gawking and arches an eyebrow. He could call me out, but we both know it’s unnecessary.
    “You don’t like someone licking tequila out of your belly button?” he asks.
    “No.”
    “Maybe you just haven’t been licked properly,” he says, his voice dripping with innuendo. Ryan flashes a wicked grin that sends a rush of heat through me.
    Oh, that smooth bastard.
    Before I can respond, Moose cuts in, handing me a paper bag with my items and Ryan his change. “You should come, Margaret. We’ll all be there.” By “we all,” I assume he means their friends, none of whom I have any desire to meet. “The winery throws a great party,