Sour Grapes by Rachel Goodman
Series: Blue Plate #2
Publication date: June 5th, 2020
Synopsis (according to Goodreads):
Uncork this delectable Texas Hill Country romance from the critically acclaimed author of From Scratch, the "smart, sexy, and funny" debut that "piles on the Southern charm" (Publishers Weekly).
Margaret Stokes is bitter. And not in the robust fine wine or tangy dark chocolate kind of way. She just got dumped, is fed up with her job as a glorified party-planner for the rich, and can't possibly listen to one more veiled insult from her impossible-to-please mother. So she retreats to the comfort of her grandmother's ramshackle bed and breakfast in Texas wine country, where the wide open vineyards are filled with surprises, from the shockingly delicious Tempranillo to the aggravating yet oh-so-tempting man who makes it.
Ryan Camden's easy approach to life encourage Margaret to loosen up and have a little fun, despite her better judgment. She resists the urge to micromanage every detail, embracing the welcome distractions of her surroundings and letting their relationship unfold at a natural rhythm. But when a health scare forces Grammy J to give up the B&B, Margaret begins to wonder if Ryan really is the man he promises--and whether the problems she tried so hard to escape ever really went away.
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Excerpt
Someone slides in next to me--Mr. Roaming Eyes from the other end of the bar. Fantastic. He wears an easy smile and a smudged T-shirt with holes in the sleeves. He places something resembling red wine in front of me. "It's called No Regrets, a Malbec and Petit Verdot blend." The cracks in his hands are stained reddish purple, and there's dirt underneath his fingernails. His skin has the kind of tan possible only from a lifetime of outdoor work.
Wrinkling my nose, I push the glass toward him. "No thanks. I don't enjoy the taste of longhorn manure."
His face drops, all humor gone. "I see you've still got that silver spoon stuck up your ass," he says with an edge that instantly recalls my mother, who proudly displays her condescension like an heirloom chine set.
"Excuse me?" I say as I take in his strong, stubbled jaw and defined cheekbones, broad shoulders, and honey blond hair that looks as if he's been running a hand through it. "Do I know you?"
"Hardly." He assesses me, as though searching for something. "Maybe if you tried the wine before insulting it, you'd discover how much you like it." His accent has the clipped rhythm of central Texas--a mixture of a slow, musical drawl and a flat, nasally twang.
I flip my hair over my shoulder. "Doubtful."
"So you're close-minded and a snob."
"Standards aren't the same as snobbery. You'd know this if you had any. Perhaps you should refine your palate," I say, crossing my legs, my pencil skirt riding up. His gaze locks on my exposed skin.
Typical.
Over his shoulder I see Possum and his friends observing our exchange like we're zoo animals. One of the guys--the bulky one with short, dark hair, a cherub face, and a cartoon moose tattoo on his forearm--notices I've caught him gawking and waves. Cute. I don't reciprocate.
"My palate's just fine. Go ahead. Take one sip and tell me it's not good." Mr Roaming Eyes sets the wine in front of me again. His eyes dance with mischief, even as his expression remains neutral.
"Prove me wrong. Hell, prove Wine Spectator wrong," he says, referring to the magazine that's the authority on the wine industry.
Irritation sparks in my chest, the challenge in his words coaxing it to the surface. What a pain in the ass. "Fine." I take a drink without flourish. Immediately flavors of black cherry, chocolate, and espresso flood my mouth, followed by a smooth tobacco finish. Hints of violet linger on my tongue. Shit, that's delicious.
The smug grin on his face makes me want to slap it off, then tug him toward me and kiss those full lips. Wait, what? Pulling my shoulders back, I clear my throat and say with an air of boredom, "It's passable, which isn't saying much, since I expected grape-flavored vinegar."
He laughs, and it stirs something inside me. He smells like spice and fresh-turned soil and a sweetness I recognize but can't pinpoint.
"Fair enough," he says, then signals to the bartender. "Hey, Possum, bring over the bottle and some more water." He rakes a hand through his hair and turns to face me, his arm brushing mine. Up close, I realize how striking his features are--the slope of his nose, his full lips, his hazel eyes flecked with green and gold staring intently at me. My skin prickle as something electric grows between us, dangerous and uninvited. Then Possum refills my water, sloshing an ice cube on my wrist, and the thread breaks. Shaking my head, I draw away from him.
Mr. Roaming eyes gestures to the bottle. "For you, in case you're interested in any more vinegar."
His voice is as relaxed as a ratty sweatshirt, but it's obvious he's taunting me by the cocky smile still on his face. He flicks the water glass and says, "This is to wash it down."
I open my mouth to retort, but he winks and walks away before I can fire the parting shot.
Wrinkling my nose, I push the glass toward him. "No thanks. I don't enjoy the taste of longhorn manure."
His face drops, all humor gone. "I see you've still got that silver spoon stuck up your ass," he says with an edge that instantly recalls my mother, who proudly displays her condescension like an heirloom chine set.
"Excuse me?" I say as I take in his strong, stubbled jaw and defined cheekbones, broad shoulders, and honey blond hair that looks as if he's been running a hand through it. "Do I know you?"
"Hardly." He assesses me, as though searching for something. "Maybe if you tried the wine before insulting it, you'd discover how much you like it." His accent has the clipped rhythm of central Texas--a mixture of a slow, musical drawl and a flat, nasally twang.
I flip my hair over my shoulder. "Doubtful."
"So you're close-minded and a snob."
"Standards aren't the same as snobbery. You'd know this if you had any. Perhaps you should refine your palate," I say, crossing my legs, my pencil skirt riding up. His gaze locks on my exposed skin.
Typical.
Over his shoulder I see Possum and his friends observing our exchange like we're zoo animals. One of the guys--the bulky one with short, dark hair, a cherub face, and a cartoon moose tattoo on his forearm--notices I've caught him gawking and waves. Cute. I don't reciprocate.
"My palate's just fine. Go ahead. Take one sip and tell me it's not good." Mr Roaming Eyes sets the wine in front of me again. His eyes dance with mischief, even as his expression remains neutral.
"Prove me wrong. Hell, prove Wine Spectator wrong," he says, referring to the magazine that's the authority on the wine industry.
Irritation sparks in my chest, the challenge in his words coaxing it to the surface. What a pain in the ass. "Fine." I take a drink without flourish. Immediately flavors of black cherry, chocolate, and espresso flood my mouth, followed by a smooth tobacco finish. Hints of violet linger on my tongue. Shit, that's delicious.
The smug grin on his face makes me want to slap it off, then tug him toward me and kiss those full lips. Wait, what? Pulling my shoulders back, I clear my throat and say with an air of boredom, "It's passable, which isn't saying much, since I expected grape-flavored vinegar."
He laughs, and it stirs something inside me. He smells like spice and fresh-turned soil and a sweetness I recognize but can't pinpoint.
"Fair enough," he says, then signals to the bartender. "Hey, Possum, bring over the bottle and some more water." He rakes a hand through his hair and turns to face me, his arm brushing mine. Up close, I realize how striking his features are--the slope of his nose, his full lips, his hazel eyes flecked with green and gold staring intently at me. My skin prickle as something electric grows between us, dangerous and uninvited. Then Possum refills my water, sloshing an ice cube on my wrist, and the thread breaks. Shaking my head, I draw away from him.
Mr. Roaming eyes gestures to the bottle. "For you, in case you're interested in any more vinegar."
His voice is as relaxed as a ratty sweatshirt, but it's obvious he's taunting me by the cocky smile still on his face. He flicks the water glass and says, "This is to wash it down."
I open my mouth to retort, but he winks and walks away before I can fire the parting shot.
About the Author:
Rachel Goodman is the critically acclaimed author of the Blue Plate and How to Score series. She was raised in Colorado on Roald Dahl books and her mother's award-worthy cooking. Now an engineering professor at her alma mater, Southern Methodist University in Dallas, Texas, she has not lost her passion for culinary discovery or a well-told story. A member of RWA, she continues to hone her craft through the Writer's Path at SMU while seeking to create the perfect macaroni and cheese recipe. Follow her on Twitter, Instagram, and Facebook, or visit her website.
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