Page 16 of Bitter Rival

“Somehow, I can’t picture you being submissive.” Somehow, I can’t picture him watching Fifty Shades of Grey. He taps his finger on the contract. “You should never sign anything before reading it.”

“Just give me the CliffsNotes version. If it’s just about the cost of the repairs and the dates we agreed on, I already promised to uphold my end of the bargain so I’m fine with all of that.”

“You should still read this before signing,” he insists. “Did you even read the first one?”

I shrug. “I skimmed it.” He gives me an incredulous look. You would think I’d just confessed to drowning a litter of puppies the way he’s acting. “What’s the big deal? Are you asking me to sign away my firstborn child so you can row him across the River Styx and have him lord over the underworld with you?”

He snorts. “As if I’d allow any child of yours to lord over anything.”

I’m outraged on my unborn child’s behalf. “So you’re saying my precious child is not worthy?”

“Do you actually have a child?”

“I’ll have to check my suitcase, but as far as I know, I don’t have any spare kids lying around. But if you think that would add to this whole experience, I’m sure I could find one.”

“Dealing with you is a lot like having a child already,” he mutters and then proceeds to summarize each paragraph of the contract, insisting that I listen when I fake snore. Like it’s important that I pay attention and never sign anything without reading the fine print first.

There’s nothing in this contract that’s any more objectionable than spending time with him, and since we’re both signing it, I knew there wouldn’t be.

Pete and Neil arrive. We sign the document, and it’s not even close to being the big deal he was making it out to be, but even so he still asks three times, “Are you sure you’re okay with everything in the contract?”

I guess he was expecting me to put up a fight or suggest amendments, but it all seemed fair to me so why argue over something I’ve already agreed to do?

After signing the contract, Beckett is slightly less contemptuous over the next few days.

While he still hasn’t lifted a finger to help on the vineyard, we’ve started eating dinner together, although I suspect that’s more out of necessity than anything.

“Do you even know how to cook?” I ask when, once again, the dinner preparations fall on my shoulders.

“Why would I have to cook when I have you?” he scoffs.

“Next time I’m only making enough for myself.”

For some reason, this makes him laugh. I don’t mind cooking extra for him, but it does seem like I’m doing all the work around here.

I spear a piece of broccoli and guide it to my mouth. “You seem like the kind of guy who only eats at Michelin starred restaurants.”

“I get my kicks out of slumming it.” He swirls the red wine in his glass then brings it up to his nose before tasting it. “One gets so tired of the lavish lifestyle.”

He’s quoting me.

I smile to myself.

Maybe this won’t be so bad after all.

On Friday morning, Beckett catches me on my way out the door. He’s wearing a T-shirt and running shorts because instead of working on the vineyard, he runs for miles and miles every morning and lifts weights.

“I’m throwing a party next Saturday,” he says, dragging my gaze from his muscular thighs to his face as he rubs his hand over the scruff on his jaw.

He must be growing on me. Even though he’s still a dick, I can see how he might appeal to some women.

“Count on a hundred people, give or take,” he continues. “I’ll need you to hire a caterer and some live entertainment. Something tasteful. I’ll leave the guest list and the invitations on the kitchen counter. You can get them done tonight and send them out tomorrow. And make sure to tell all the employees they’re invited.” He waves his hand in the air. “I’ll take care of the rest.”

“The rest? You’ve literally given me every job already.” I plant my hands on my hips. “You can’t plan a party for a hundred people on such short notice. Regardless, I’m not doing it so take your pie in the sky dreams elsewhere. Bad enough I’m your personal chef, I’m not going to be your personal assistant too. I’m almost certain that wasn’t in our contract.”

“I guess that will teach you to read the fine print next time.”

I’m tempted to plant my fist in his smug, pretty face. “You’re an asshole. And I’ve dated a lot of assholes, so I know what I’m talking about.”

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