Stages of Grace - By Carey Heywood Page 0,27

"Really? Are you going to go?"

I shrug. "I guess so. Maybe I should research her first to make sure she isn’t a psychopath."

"How long would you go for?"

"I have to talk to my office manager. I'm not even sure how much free time I have available."

~*~

A week later, I'm on a plane to Tampa, Florida. I managed to get a week off and am more nervous than I have ever been about anything my whole life. I am not much of a traveler. From dealing with security to my cramped flight and then a layover in Atlanta, I am exhausted by the time I land in Tampa. My grandmother is sending a friend to pick me up as she no longer drives. I make my way to baggage claim and feel a bit odd introducing myself to the guy holding a sign with my name on it. He’s cute, unnervingly cute. He can’t be much older than me. This is my grandmother's friend?

"Ah, hi," I say giving him a little wave. "I'm Grace."

"Hi" he reaches out his hand. "I'm Ryan."

Holy crap! Is that an accent?

"Err, welcome to Tampa."

"Thanks" I blush, trying to place his accent.

"Alright. Let’s see if we can locate your luggage," he says, directing me to the carousel for my flight.

Once I point out my bag, Ryan quickly retrieves it and pulls it for me, leading me out towards the parking lot. Stepping outside of the sliding doors, I have to pause for a moment to take in the temperature change. It had been sleeting when I left Cleveland. Here it was gorgeous and sunny. Ryan is a couple steps ahead of me, and seeing I am not behind him, turns to look back at me.

His face mirrors my wide grin."Beautiful, isn’t it?"

"It is." I agree.

"God awful humid in the summer. You’ve come for a stay at just the right time."

I nod excitedly and follow him, mentally trying to remember if I packed enough shorts. Ryan has a longer stride than I do, so I have to hurry to keep up with him as he weaves his way through the parking deck. I wonder how he knows my grandmother. He kind of looks like a surfer. Do they surf in Florida? I'm trying to figure out in my head if there are even waves on this side of the panhandle. Is there a difference since it is the Gulf of Mexico and not the Atlantic? I am so distracted that I come very close to walking right into Ryan, not noticing he has stopped. Ryan is opening the back of his Wrangler. He looks back at me, his brown hair falling into his green eyes, to reach for my carryon bag.

"Well, hullo there," Ryan grins. He clearly hadn't expected me to be as close as I am.

I flush, quickly handing him my bag before going up front and getting in.

"And we're off" Ryan jokes, starting the car.

The windows are down so I pull a clip from my purse to keep my hair out of my face. This is my first time in Florida. I spend most of our drive looking out the window. The only place I have ever seen a palm tree before this was on TV or in a book. It feels tropical. I am used to congestion, but the traffic here seems so different from back home. Every other car is a Cadillac or a Lincoln, some driven by little old ladies who can barely see over the steering wheel. As we drive, Ryan tells me how he knows my grandmother. He is her next door neighbor.

"Mind if I pop into the dairy?"

"The what?" It sounded like he said diary.

"Um, the store. I just need a loaf of bread."

"Sure. I'll just wait in the car."

Ryan pulls into a Circle K. I have never heard anyone call a gas station a dairy before. He walks out not long after with bread and a quart of milk. Then we are off again. He turns into a gated neighborhood and I admire the Spanish-style ranch houses we pass. After turning onto a cul-de-sac, Ryan parks in front of a pretty little house with a yellow mailbox. I am still not sure if I’m ready to meet the grandmother I never knew I had but figure I have made it this far. It would be silly to turn back now. I walk around to the back of Ryan's car to help him with my bags. Ryan passes me my