On Friday morning, I wake up feeling horny and angry and oddly bereft.
Last night, I dreamed that Beckett was the Beast, leading me in a waltz around a ballroom dripping with chandeliers. With every turn on the dance floor, I caught our reflection in the antiqued mirrored walls.
The Beast wore a suit and tails, and I wore an ice-blue gown that matched his eyes.
We danced and danced, twirling and spinning until I got dizzy, but he held me aloft so my feet never touched the ground.
When I kissed the Beast, he transformed into Beckett Heyward, and that’s when the dream took a turn for the worse.
He dragged me out of the ballroom, shoved me out the front door, and then he set fire to the castle.
I tried in vain to save the castle he was so intent on destroying, but he held me tightly. And even though I kicked and screamed and fought, he overpowered me, so my attempts were futile.
He wore a triumphant smile, and I shed tears as my beloved castle went up in flames.
He won, I lost, and in the end, all that remained of the castle was a pile of rubble and ash.
Beckett’s beautiful face was cruel and twisted, and there was a sardonic gleam in his eyes when he said, “That’ll teach you to tempt the Beast, princess.”
He dropped me to the ground, and I fell to my knees, crying for the Beast who had been so sweet and gentle and loving.
The Beast who had twirled me around the dance floor, putting a bright, happy smile on my face and hope in my heart.
Now, in the light of day, the dream is still so vivid in my mind that I can almost believe it happened.
I lift my camera and take a photo in the gilt-framed mirror.
Belle, after the ball, leaning against a midnight blue wall.
Beckett has already left for his meetings in the city so the kitchen is empty when I get downstairs.
Was the dream a premonition?
Is this how the whole thing will end?
Is he so focused on revenge that he would sooner burn everything to the ground and destroy it than build upon his father’s legacy?
While it was only a dream, it feels like a metaphor for our entire relationship.
You’re being ridiculous, Daisy. It was just a dream.
Laughing at myself, I shake it off and walk out the door to get on with my day.
“It’s crush season,” Callie singsongs when Hunter and I join her for lunch in the olive grove.
“I can’t wait,” I say, spreading whipped ricotta on a slice of baguette and drizzling honey over it. Luckily, the harvest is a few weeks earlier this year so I’ll get to experience most of it before I leave.
“Beckett said we’ll start harvesting the grapes in a few days,” Hunter says, flipping his baseball cap backward.
“It’s a huge relief that he’s so organized,” Callie says. “Robert was a last-minute guy so we’d always scramble to get everything ready in time. But Beckett has already ordered all the supplies and hired a temporary vineyard crew, so you’ll have all the help you need.”
Beckett’s organizational skills don’t surprise me a bit.
I laugh to myself thinking about the spreadsheets and lists in the leather binder he handed me on our first day. I’m more like Robert—always scrambling to get everything done at the last minute. I’m more impulsive and spontaneous than Beckett. But it’s nice to have someone who thinks ahead and handles all the nitty-gritty details.
“So, how are you feeling about your harvest internship?” I ask Hunter.
“Yeah, good.” He nods, a small smile tugging at his lips. “I think this might be my thing.”