Page 50 of Bitter Rival

It’s the opposite of technology. And maybe that’s why Beckett chose that profession. Technology doesn’t force you to tap into your emotions or explore the depths of your soul like art does.

But I highly doubt that Robert was playing matchmaker. That wasn’t his style. He would have gotten a bigger kick out of watching us spar.

“But anyway,” Callie says, “what I was going to say is that we should go out tonight. I know a cool bar with good music and there’s usually hot guys hanging out. It would be totally fun and completely stress-free.”

Maybe a night out would be fun. “Okay.”

“Yes! We’re going to have a great time,” Callie assures me. “I brought a change of clothes and makeup just in case. Is it okay if I get ready at your place and then we can go together? I’ll drive.”

“Wow. I feel like we’re taking our friendship to the next level.”

“It’s just an excuse to see the inside of that house. Plus, I barely know anything about you.”

“So you’re planning to go through my things while I’m in the shower?”

“Of course. How else will I find out your dirty secrets?” she jokes.

Hale’s Roadhouse is out on a two-lane highway—a scenic winding road—and looks like a log cabin nestled in a grove of towering redwoods. At least a dozen Harleys are parked out front and a yellow sign above the door reads: Bikers Welcome.

“I had no idea you had a thing for bikers,” I tell Callie as we walk to the entrance.

“You see? We’re learning so much about each other.”

“We should have worn our leather chaps and Harley Davidson T-shirts.”

“If I owned them, you can bet your ass I’d be wearing them. The owner is super-hot. He looks like a Viking in motorcycle boots. He’s also emotionally unavailable. So of course I’m attracted to him. But it’s just one of those fantasies I’d never act on. Like a celebrity crush.”

“Yeah. You’re better off just watching him from afar. Guys like that will just toss you aside and?—”

“Leave you at a seedy roadside motel.”

“Exactly.” Earlier, we bonded over burgers at a diner and I told her some of my bad dating stories, not all of them, but just the highlight reel.

Callie told me about the one who got away when she was young and dumb and messed around with his friend.

She was feeling insecure and scared that she loved Ian too much, so she didn’t want to give him the power to break her heart.

“In the end, I beat him to the punch,” she said. “And it didn’t hurt any less. I broke my own heart and his.”

Isn’t that always the way? If I had a penny for all the stupid things I did as a teenager I’d have enough money to send my therapist on an all-expense paid trip to the Maldives.

Inside, the bar is dimly lit, with Harley Davidson memorabilia and vintage license plates decorating the rustic wood walls.

The crack of pool balls can be heard over the blues music piping from the speakers, and a distressed-wood bar spans one wall with the pool tables and darts in the back.

My kind of place. Rustic. Timeworn. Cool without trying too hard.

I’m all ready to sidle up to the bar and order some shots to seal our new friendship pact when Callie grabs my arm. “Ian is here.”

“He’s here? Where?” My gaze darts around the bar, but in my quest to find Ian—a guy I’ve never laid eyes on before—my eyes land on…Beckett Heyward?

Seriously? Of all the bars in Sutton Ridge, we just had to choose the same one?

He doesn’t even look like he belongs in this bar. Although I must admit he looks particularly swarthy tonight in a black button-down and dark denim.

And sure enough, would you look at that? Those icy-blue eyes are narrowed on me. Always narrowed in accusation like I’ve done something wrong simply by breathing the same rarefied air as him.

I give him a big exaggerated wink and he returns it with his customary scowl.

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