Page 2 of Bitter Rival

I release the bag with as much grace as I can muster and take a step back. I have to crane my neck to look up at him. I’m five foot six, which isn’t short, but he’s at least six foot four.

“Hey, I’m Daisy, but I guess you already know that. Otherwise, you’ll have to explain why you’re trying to steal my lingerie.” I cross my arms over my chest and quirk a brow like I’m expecting an explanation for this dastardly deed.

Ice-blue eyes narrow on me as if I’m an insect he’d like to squash under the sole of his size fourteen shoe. “You’ve wasted enough of my time,” he says brusquely. “Let’s go.”

Well, okay then. Nice to meet you, too.

Not that this is the first time we’ve met, but the last time I saw him I was only eight years old.

This whole situation is already awkward enough, but he’s gone out of his way to make everything even more difficult and unpleasant. I was hoping when we met again in person, he would be more charming than he was in his texts and emails but clearly that’s not going to be the case.

Instead of rolling my bag like a normal person would, he’s carrying it by the handle like it weighs nothing and charging ahead like a Viking on a mission to pillage and plunder every town and village in his path.

When we burst through the exit doors, I have to half-jog just to keep up with him. Which I’m sure is by design. It’s a power play.

He beeps the locks of a shiny black BMW, and I stash my backpack in the footwell before sliding into the passenger seat.

The inside of his car smells like leather and whatever soap he uses—clean and masculine, a scent I would find comforting if not for the devil himself behind the wheel.

It’s a picture-perfect summer’s day in San Francisco with a relentlessly optimistic sun shining on the city and the bay as Beckett expertly navigates the midday traffic with one strong, capable hand on the wheel and the other on the gear shift.

He’s a smooth driver, not erratic like Finn, who jumps the lights and doesn’t understand the concept of staying in your own lane.

For the first time in a long time, I feel safe. It makes me wonder if maybe he cares about my safety enough to drive responsibly, although I suspect it’s purely for selfish reasons. A dent or scratch on his custom paint job would probably send him into a tailspin.

But just because we got off to a bad start doesn’t mean we can’t turn things around, so I take a stab at being civil. “Thanks for picking me up. I would have taken an Uber?—”

“Given your track record, I couldn’t take the risk that you’d show up on the designated day.” His voice is clipped, tone scathing just like the glance he throws my way.

I sigh as I take off my hoodie and roll it up to use as a pillow. I had to cancel one flight due to an emergency, but he’s making it sound as if I’ve been stringing him along for decades.

I’m glad he insisted on picking me up, though. A seventy-mile Uber trip would have cost me a small fortune and since I won’t be getting paid for any of this, I’ll have to watch my money.

“You look as if you’ve been sleeping under a bridge,” the bane of my existence drawls.

“Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it.”

He raises a skeptical brow. “I would have thought your mother’s special talent for seducing married men and shaking them down for money would have ensured you lived a cushy lifestyle.”

If only he knew how wrong he was. “I get my kicks by slumming it. One grows so tired of the lavish lifestyle.” I fake a yawn that turns into a real yawn and now I can’t stop yawning.

God. I’m so tired I feel seasick.

My eyes drift shut and I’m just about to nod off when he asks, “How did you get my father to leave you half of everything?”

I had no idea he would leave me half of his estate.

Not that Beckett and I actually own it yet. First, we have to meet the conditions of his father’s last will and testament—to live and work on the vineyard for three consecutive months. Together.

God help me. I don’t know how I’ll survive three days with someone this insufferable, let alone three months.

“I held a loaded gun to his head.” I blow the smoke off my finger gun and holster it in the waistband of my jeans. “Obviously.”

He lets out a weary sigh and pushes his hand through his dark hair. “Don’t expect to make a fortune off this vineyard.”

“You mean I won’t be able to buy that new yacht?” My hand goes to my heart. “Please tell me I can still buy the Birkin bag at least.”

He presses his lips into a flat line of disapproval like he’s the adult and I’m the unruly toddler who’s two seconds away from being sent to a time-out. I have a feeling I’ll be seeing that look a lot.

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