Written in the Stars

by LuAnn McLane

  Oh, please let it be a sesame seed.

  Wide-­eyed, she looked at her teeth in the mirror and saw a black speck. “Dear God, is that a bug on my tooth?” Grace rubbed at it with her finger and then checked it out. Okay, just a tiny gnat, but still...ew.

  Grace desperately wanted to rinse her mouth with water. She groaned and then remembered that she had a couple of bottles in her carry-­on bag in the trunk. The water would be warm, but at this point she didn’t care. Besides, stretching her legs would feel amazing. And she needed to find a leaf or something to wipe the bird doo off her jeans.

  Just as Grace opened the car door, she heard a rumble of thunder. “Don’t even...” She tilted her face upward and peered at the sky, which had gone from cheerful blue to gunmetal gray. Maybe it was just getting dark, she hoped, but then a raindrop splashed on her forehead. Just one. “Please...God, no.” She held her breath and waited. Nothing.

  Sweet, false alarm.

  “Okay, time to figure out how to put the top up,” Grace said, thinking it couldn’t be that difficult. And then, without even another clap of thunder for fair warning, the heavens opened and it started pouring. Wind whipped her hair across her face and she became instantly soaked to the skin. With a shriek of alarm and a glance of regret at the convertible, she ran for the empty building, hoping for an open door and no rats, spiders, or creepy things. Luckily, the door opened and she hurried inside, dripping wet and thoroughly pissed off at Mother Nature. “Is there no end to this crappy day?” she wailed.

  “You’ve still got a few hours left,” said a deep voice laced with the South. Startled, Grace looked around and saw metal tanks, lots of them, and it smelled...weird. Dear God, what had she walked into? Some kind of drug-­making thing? “Got caught in the storm?” he asked, but failed to appear.

  Grace spun around, but still didn’t see anyone.

  “Just a little pop-­up thunderstorm. Trust me. It’ll soon pass over.”

  “If you’re God, you can stop with the practical jokes.”

  “Practical jokes?”

  “You know, the bug on my tooth, the bird doo on my leg, and now the unexpected rain.” She looked around but didn’t see the man behind the voice amid the tall tanks and coils. Something hissed and sputtered. To her right was a large vat with something thick and frothy floating in it.

  “I’m glad you found shelter. It’s coming down hard out there.”

  “Yes, it is.” But Grace didn’t know whether to be glad or not. Perhaps she should have listened to her mother. Because Grace had grown up in big cities, she’d been taught to be wary, but her curiosity usually trumped the need for safety. If she were a character in a haunted-­house horror movie, she would be the one going into the basement with a flashlight. Her mum would be the one ushering people to safety, and Sophia wouldn’t have ventured into the house in the first place.

  Grace looked around, thinking it was rather odd finding this whatever-­it-­was factory out here in the middle of nowhere. Although she was intrigued, her fight-­or-­flight instinct was starting to kick in, with flight winning. Swallowing hard, she took a step backward, thinking she might need to make a quick exit.

  “Well, I’m sure not God, so I have to ask, who are you and where did you come from in the pouring rain?”

  “I think that’s my line.” Grace always resorted to false bravado when she was scared or intimated. When something clanked, she edged another step toward the door.

  “Well, this brewery is mine, so I think it really is my line, if you don’t mind me sayin’ so.”

  “Beer?” Grace looked around and felt a measure of relief. “So this is a brewery.” She looked around again. “Wow...and you’re the beer guy.”

  “Brewmaster, thank you very much. And considered a god to some, so you weren’t too far off base,” he said with a hint of humor. “By the way, I’m up here.”

  Grace tilted her head back and saw the source of the voice up on a ladder doing something to a big tank that looked kind of like the world’s largest teakettle. He’d poked his head around the side so she could finally see the man with the Southern Comfort voice. “So, there you are.”

  “Here I am. Not heaven, but close enough.” He gazed down at her, and Grace simply couldn’t look away. Longish dark hair framed a handsome face. But he was no pretty boy. Oh no, he had a strong jawline, Greek nose, and high cheekbones. His rugged good looks were heightened by a sexy five-­o’clock shadow. Oh, but it was his mouth that captured her attention. Looking at those full lips made her feel warm and tingly, like she’d just taken a shot of potent whiskey. Realizing she was staring, Grace lowered her gaze and looked around. “A brewery, huh? I could use a pint about now.”

  “Welcome to my world.”

  “Thank you. It appears quite interesting.” When Grace looked up again, he gave her the slightest of grins, almost as though he didn’t smile too often, and then descended the ladder so quickly she wondered how he didn’t fall. As he walked her way, Grace noticed how his wide shoulders tested the cotton of a standard black ­T-­shirt tucked into faded jeans riding low on his hips.

  She just bet he had an amazing butt.

  “You look lost.”

  “Perhaps because I am...” At five foot nine, Grace was rather tall, but she had to tip her head back to look at his face. She could see that he had light blue eyes framed by dark lashes. Wow...

  “Am what?”

  “Lost. Sort of, anyway.” Grace was about to ask him the location of the bistro, but a loud crack of thunder had her jumping, sending droplets of water into the air. “Oh! My top is down!”

  “Your top isn’t down. Trust me—­I would have noticed.” There it was...that ghost of a grin again.

  “No!” Although it made her realize that her wet pink shirt was clinging to her skin. She plucked at it. “I mean the top of my car...convertible. I hate to ask, but could you help me put it up?”

  “Sure.” With a quick nod he hurried out the door and ran right out into the wind and rain like it was nothing. Feeling a bit guilty, Grace watched from the doorway while the top slowly rose and then folded downward against the windshield. He swiftly latched it down and then hurried back to the building. “Here, I thought you might want your purse. It was under the dash but getting wet.”

  “Oh.” Grace took the Coach purse and hugged it to her chest. “Thank you so much. I’m sorry you got drenched.” But Grace wasn’t sorry she got to see the black shirt clinging to him like a second skin. He was muscular, but not in a beefy iron-­pumping way; it was more like his physique was a result of physical labor.

  “No big deal.” He shoved his fingers through his wet hair.

  “The car’s a rental, so I didn’t know how to put the top up.” Grace felt her cheeks grow a tad warm, but she lifted her chin. “I should have paid more attention during the demonstration.”

  “There must be instructions.”

  “Oh, I guess there’s a manual in the glove box. I was about to figure that out when the rain started coming down.” Grace shrugged and then winced. “I just hope the interior dries out.”

  “Well, it’s definitely soaking wet, but it’s going to be warm and sunny tomorrow, so you can put the top down later and it will dry out just fine.” He extended his hand. “By the way, I’m Mason Mayfield.”

  “Grace Gordon. Oh wait, Mayfield? You must be Mattie’s brother!” She shook his hand, relieved that she was finally on the right track. “I simply can’t wait for the baby to be born.”

  “I am Mattie’s brother. Nice to meet you, Grace. And I’m looking forward to being an uncle too. Although the thought of holding a tiny baby terrifies me. Welcome to Cricket Creek.”

  “Oh right, come to think of it, I did see pictures of you in the wedding album that Mattie showed me while she was in London when Garret taped Sing for Me.” She thought that Mattie’s brothers were both
super hot in a tux. “I’m Garret’s half sister. Sophia’s sister.”

  “Wow.” Mason tipped his head to the side. “I wouldn’t have guessed that you were Sophia’s sister.”

  “I know. We don’t look alike at all.” Grace gave him a sheepish grin. “Or act alike.”

  “Or sound alike.”

  “I spent way more time in London than Sophia, especially recently. The accent kind of comes and goes depending upon my mood—­according to my mother, any­way.”

  “I did meet your mother at Mattie and Garret’s wedding. Lovely lady. I’m surprised that you weren’t there.”

  Grace shook her head and groaned. “I got snowed in at the Denver airport and missed my flight. Trust me—­I tried to find a way to get there, like Steve Martin in Planes, Trains and Automobiles. I would have ridden in the back of a truck full of clucking chickens. But it was a total fail.”

  “That’s too bad. The wedding was a good time. So, were you in Denver skiing?” The question was innocent enough, but the slight arch of his eyebrow got under her skin a little bit. Now that he knew who she was, Mason most likely thought she was a spoiled diva going on endless holidays and shopping sprees. She couldn’t blame him, really. After all, she was the daughter of a former fashion model once married to one of the most famous hard rockers of all time. But although Grace loved to travel, her journeys were usually business related in some way, inspiration for whatever new project she happened to be working on, if nothing else.

  “Business, actually,” Grace answered, rather crisply, but then she felt as she as if she was being a bit rude. After all, he’d just run out into a raging storm on her behalf. “I’m a horrible skier. The fact that my name is Grace is kind of funny, actually. I’m prone to accidents, mostly because I’m looking somewhere other than where I’m going. And I don’t always know where I’m going.”

  “Well, be careful in here. There are some things you don’t want to fall into.” He pointed to the big vat full of frothy stuff.

  “I will.” Grace hated that she and Sophia were usually thought to be rich, spoiled brats. Neither she nor Sophia rode on the coattails of anyone—­including their biological father, who worried more about making money than spending time with his daughters. She was about to tell Mason what she did for a living when lightning flashed through the windows, followed by a deafening boom of thunder. Grace yelped and then shivered.

  “Oh, hey, are you scared of storms?”

  “Not so much, but this seems to be a quite a doozy. I am a bit cold, though. I have dry clothes in my suitcase if you wouldn’t mind getting it for me, but I have to warn you that it weighs a ton.”

  “Hey, don’t worry. I don’t want to get your suitcase wet, and it’s getting muddy out front. I’ve got a better idea. I’ll be right back with something dry for you to put on.”

  “Thanks, but I don’t want you to go to any trouble.”

  Mason shook his head. “I’m not about to watch you shiver.” He flicked a glance toward the front window. “And the storm doesn’t seem like it’s going to let up anytime soon.”

  “Okay, then, something dry would be splendid.”

  “I’ll be right back.”

  Grace watched Mason walk away, finally getting to admire his jean-­clad butt. Yep, very nice. She took a deep breath, able to calm down a little bit.

  Grace looked around, intrigued by all of the machinery. While she did enjoy drinking good craft ale now and then, she’d never given much thought to the actual brewing process. From the looks of things in the huge room, brewing beer was much more complicated than she would have imagined.

  Rain pounded on what she vaguely remembered was a tin roof, and in spite of feeling a damp chill, she thought the sound was somehow soothing after her rather stressful drive from the airport. Normally she loved to drive. Having lived most of her adult life in London, she commuted by the Tube, walked the streets, or traveled by taxi. So driving through the countryside had always been one of her favorite pastimes on a lazy Sunday afternoon. Grace grinned, thinking, yes, she often got lost, ending up in a random village where she explored shops and dined at local restaurants, sometimes with her mother, who would come along for a ride that was always bound to turn into an adventure. But Grace hadn’t had a lazy or carefree day in a very long time. Of course, all of that had changed as of last week, and now she had more time on her hands than she knew what to do with...and it felt rather odd.

  Grace noticed that the metal machinery gleamed and the smooth concrete floor appeared spotless. Curious by nature, she glanced around, thinking that she’d never look at a pint of ale the same way. Lost in thought, Grace turned when she heard his boots clunking across the concrete floor.

  Mason walked toward her with long strides. He’d changed into a dry white T-­shirt that had the Mayfield Marina logo scripted in green across the front. His jeans were replaced by gray sweatpants, and he carried a big plastic bag. He handed it to her. “We sell a few racks of clothes over at the marina. Should be everything you need in there.”

  “Thanks. Wait—­you went all the way to the marina?”

  “It’s just a short jog down the road. I was already wet.” The slight grin returned.

  “Really? So where is Walking on Sunshine Bistro, then?”

  “Across from the marina, up on the hill a little ways.”

  “Wow.” Grace shook her head slowly. “So I’ve been this close the entire time?” She held her thumb and index finger an inch apart.

  “Yeah, you weren’t too terribly lost, if that makes you feel any better.”

  When Mason handed Grace the bag, she felt a little tingle at the touch of his fingers. “No! I feel worse. I’ve been right here all along. How silly is that?”

  “You must have missed the right turn. Did you drive by some cabins by a lake?”

  “Um, yeah.” Grace nodded. “Like, three times. Don’t tell me. Is that where Mattie and Garret live?”

  “No, they live in a cabin overlooking the river. It’s actually within walking distance from here too.”

  Grace groaned.

  “Hey, don’t feel so bad. GPS and cell phone reception can be sketchy out here, especially when the weather gets crazy.”

  “Crazy? I thought you said this was a pop-­up thunderstorm.”

  “Late-­summer weather around here is hard to predict sometimes.” Mason shrugged his wide shoulders. “I was wrong,” he said, and as if on cue, lightning flashed, followed by another deep boom of thunder. “A tornado watch was just issued a few minutes ago. Cold fronts moving through can cause havoc with the weather.

  “What?” Grace swallowed hard, wondering if the tin roof would handle a tornado or peel back like the lid of a sardine can. “Should we go for cover or something?”

  “I have an alert system on my phone. If we get an alarm or siren, we’ll head into a closet or the bathroom. We don’t have a basement.”

  “Oh boy. And to think this day started out so normal. Well, normal for me, anyway.”

  “It’s only a tornado watch, not a warning. It’ll be fine.”

  “It’s been my experience that when people say it will be fine is when all hell breaks loose.”

  “Is that so?” Mason actually full-­on smiled, softening his features. Grace wondered if he knew that his smile was a lethal weapon rendering the female population defenseless. “Well, if all hell breaks loose, I’ll keep you safe.” The smile faded and she could tell that he meant business.

  “Good to know,” Grace said in a breezy tone, but she believed him. Although Grace had been taught by her mother to be independent, something about having Mason protect her made her feel warm in spite of the damp clothing.

  “I’ll keep an eye on the weather.”

  “Keep both eyes on the weather.”

  Mason chuckled. “Okay, I will. I think you’ll find every­thing you need
in the bag. The bathroom is over there on the left.” Mason pointed over his shoulder. “As a reward I’ll get you a bottle of ale while we wait out the storm.”

  “A storm that could spawn a tornado. I guess if I’m going to go flying into the sky, I might as well have a beer in my hand.”

  “I’ll drink to that. So what do you prefer? Something mild? A brown ale? An IPA blonde?”

  Grace had to hide her grin. She could tell by his expression that he thought she was a wine or martini kind of girl, and he was right, but about a year ago she’d gone to a beer-­tasting festival with some girlfriends and she’d been surprised at how many she’d enjoyed. “Actually, Mason, I’m a fan of something dark and more intense.”

  “You don’t say.” He shoved his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his boots. Since when did she find work boots sexy? Since right now.

  “Do you like chocolate?”

  “More than breathing.”

  “Well, then, I’ve got you covered. I’ll bring you a light medium-­body porter that delivers lots of chocolate flavor.”

  “Sounds amazing.”

  “It took me a few tries to come up with something I was satisfied with,” Mason said, and then turned away. “The chocolate part was tricky,” he said over his shoulder. “Hope you like it.”

  “I’m sure I will...” Grace’s voice trailed off softly as she watched his progress. Something warm and delicious washed over her, and she was startled to realize that the foreign feeling was desire. Her mother had been right. She’d been working so hard for the past two years that romance hadn’t entered her mind all that much, but it had just resurfaced with a vengeance. Grace was surprised her clothes didn’t steam dry right there on her body.

  Grace was intrigued by her instant reaction to Mason Mayfield. She usually took a while to warm up to a guy, starting with mild attraction that led to conversation and then maybe a date. As she walked toward the bathroom, she mulled over why she was so drawn to Mason. Perhaps she was used to city-­living metrosexual men, who, by contrast, made country-­boy Mason seem so virile.