Page 78 of Bitter Rival

I know all this because I am so hyper-aware of the man I live with that I notice all the seemingly inconsequential things that make him who he is.

Even though he is still a giant pain in the ass, and I alternate between wanting to kiss him or stab him in the neck, I’m starting to care about Beckett.

I care about him more than I’m willing to admit.

But I don’t want to get too attached, so I need to tread lightly.

This will all be over in five weeks, and we’ll go our separate ways. He’ll go back to his life, and I’ll go back to mine. In time, the memories will fade, and it will almost feel like this was all a dream.

So, it’s for the best if we keep our distance.

That’s what I keep telling myself, anyway.

After choosing my outfit, I lay my clothes out on the bed and throw open the windows to let my hair air dry while I do my makeup.

It takes longer than usual, but when I’m done, I’m happy with the result.

I used desert pink on my eyelids and cheeks with a dusting of gold powder on my cheekbones. For the finishing touch, I wove strands of gold thread through the braids crowning my head, and left the rest of my hair down.

Dressed and ready to go, I grab my backpack and jog down the stairs.

I find Beckett in the kitchen drinking one of his wheatgrass juices. He has them shipped to the house by the caseload. I tried one last week and immediately spit it into the sink. That’s how vile it tasted.

He looks up from his phone and does a double-take. “The fuck are you wearing?”

“My festival wear. I had to improvise. I couldn’t fit my entire wardrobe into one suitcase, so it’s not as good as my Burning Man outfit. I wore fake fur, dreaded hair, and a body chain.”

“Sorry I missed that,” he comments dryly.

“You joke, but it was quite memorable.”

I tell him how I pitched a tent and slept in a hammock. Made a pilgrimage to the Temple at sunrise for quiet contemplation and on the final night I watched it burn.

I spent six days traipsing through the desert, capturing some truly incredible photos for a travel magazine, and when I got back home to Brooklyn, I took my first proper shower in a week and then I slept for two days straight.

He visibly shudders like he can’t imagine anything worse. All those people. All that body odor.

I would pay good money to watch him riding the New York City subway. I’d bet he’d have a full-blown panic attack.

I whip off the cotton scarf tied around my waist like a sarong and wrap it loosely around my neck. “See? Multipurpose. I bought this scarf at a market stall in Barcelona for fifteen bucks and it was the best investment ever. You can use it as a beach towel, a sarong, a scarf, a turban?—"

Beckett cuts me off. He’s not interested in the versatility of my desert-pink cotton scarf. “Can those even be called shorts?”

“They’re booty shorts. So yes, technically, they can be called shorts. Do you like them?” I give him my back, which is completely bare in a floral applique halter top, and shake my booty as I grab a couple of bottles of water from the fridge.

After I do a quick inventory of my backpack—a hoodie in case it gets chilly later, sunscreen, camera, lenses, and equipment—I stash the water bottles inside and zip it up.

“What about those baggy jeans of yours,” Beckett says. “Wouldn’t they look better with that top?”

I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing. “Are you giving me fashion advice now?”

His wardrobe is strictly designer, and even his T-shirts probably cost a hundred bucks each. But I don’t think this has anything to do with fashion.

“I’m happy with my outfit. A girl should be able to wear whatever she wants.” There’s a challenge in my tone, like I’m daring him to contradict me.

“I agree. It was just a suggestion,” he mutters.

I sling my backpack over my shoulder and head for the door, but I can’t wipe the smile off my face.

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