Page 76 of Bitter Rival

“Caiden, Grayson,” I say, making the introductions. “If he ends up buying that place and hires you for the job, give him friend rates just like you did for me,” I tell Caiden. “In other words, overcharge him for the labor.”

Caiden holds up his hands. “If you want quality workmanship, you’re not gonna get it at bargain basement prices.”

“That’s his motto,” Ledger says. “But I can confirm that he charges friends a higher rate. Pretty sure it was no coincidence he bought a shiny new truck right after he finished renovating my bar.”

“You’re so full of shit,” Caiden says with a laugh. “But I can tell you right now that renovating that inn won’t come cheap.”

“In that case, I don’t want the friends’ rate,” Grayson says. “I’m not sure I can afford it.”

That’s a joke. Grayson Abbott has deep pockets and an enormous trust fund courtesy of his grandfather. He’s generous to a fault, lavish with his gifts, and spends money like it’s water.

Grayson wouldn’t have to work a day in his life if he didn’t want to, but his threshold for boredom is so low that if he’s not always seeking new challenges, he grows despondent.

He stands and claps his hands together. “Let’s go check out my new hotel.”

By the time we return to the house that evening, Grayson has put in an offer to buy the 19th century mansion and the surrounding twenty acres; Astrid has made another generous donation to my mental health organization, and I’ve managed to forget all about my infatuation with Daisy.

That is, until I walk into the kitchen and see her at the stove, shaking her ass to the beat of the music while she stirs her witch’s brew.

Hunter is right beside her chopping vegetables, but he’s so busy ogling her that he’s going to lose a finger.

Callie is at the island preparing a charcuterie board big enough to feed a small village in Tuscany, and the guy she was with at the bar is opening a second bottle of wine like he owns the fucking place.

“We got here just in time,” Grayson says, plucking an olive from the charcuterie board and introducing himself.

Daisy spins from the stove and waves a wooden spoon in greeting. Red sauce splatters all over the floor and I am pleasantly surprised to find that maybe there’s still a sliver of animosity left in me.

“I’m making pasta arrabiatta. Your favorite,” Daisy says with a sweet smile that looks completely genuine. “Do you want to taste it? Make sure it’s okay?”

“How did you know it’s my favorite?”

She shrugs. “I asked Grayson. I wanted to do something special for you. To thank you for taking care of me when I hurt my wrist. I just…it really meant a lot to me.”

“It was nothing,” I say gruffly.

“Do you want to taste the wine?” Callie asks, handing me a glass of red. “Personally, I think Heyward Estate zinfandel is better than this primitivo, but I brought a few bottles back from my trip to Italy so I figured we should enjoy it.”

“Thanks.” I swirl and taste. “And you’re right. Ours is better.”

Daisy’s smile widens and it’s only then that I realize what I’ve said.

Ours is better.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Daisy

Spraining my wrist brought out Beckett’s caring side.

It wasn’t even a bad sprain, but the way he’s been treating me, you would think I’d completely lost the use of my right arm.

Callie hasn’t stopped talking about how adorable he was deliberating over which tampons to buy. Not that he did much deliberating. He bought so many tampons that I donated ten unopened boxes to a women’s shelter.

I’ve spent the past three weeks trying to be as helpful as possible despite my limitations—not my wrist, my boss. Beckett told me in no uncertain terms that I’d do more harm than good working on the vineyard.

So, when we experienced an August heatwave, I passed out electrolyte drinks and water to the vineyard crew.

I deliberated over paint charts for days and chose all the wall colors for the house, completely overriding Beckett’s decisions. And he let me.

---