Page 101 of Bitter Rival

So we sold to the highest bidder—a holding company we turned down last year when they tried to buy us out but refused to negotiate or meet our terms.

Our attempts to protect our employees backfired, and we came out looking like the villains.

I flick on my turn signal and merge onto the exit ramp.

All the good things in my life are weighed down by the not-so-good. You gain one thing but lose another.

But it shouldn’t be this hard to come up with an answer to appease my grandmother. She’s not asking for much. Just one good thing. She’s been doing this since I was a teenager.

Tell me something good, Beck.

So I tell her, “Not a lot of traffic today. I got in and out of the city in record time.” Unfortunately, I got roped into a “celebratory” dinner, so I ended up leaving the city much later than I’d anticipated.

She laughs. “You’re hopeless. Who cares about the traffic? If you get stuck in traffic, you can use that time to listen to an audiobook or some good music. I’m asking about you. I want to know how you are.”

“I’m good.” And it doesn’t feel like a complete lie. “I’ve been working on the vineyard and helping out in the winery. We’re getting ready for the harvest in a few days.”

“Now we’re talking. That’s what I want to hear. You used to be so happy on that vineyard. I knew you would come around.”

No point in mentioning that Harold forced my hand. Let her think it was me.

No point in mentioning that I’m going to sell the vineyard to my father’s enemy.

And there is absolutely no point in mentioning that I’m breaking every speed limit to get back home to Daisy.

Unfortunately, I spoke too soon.

As soon as I cut the call, the traffic slows to a crawl and then grinds to a halt.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

Daisy

Later that night I’m still stewing over my dream and the conversation with Pete. I’m almost positive they’re linked.

I’ve never had a sixth sense, but that dream felt like a premonition. And even though Beckett claimed that Zelda was a fraud, how do you explain the cards I drew?

When eleven o’clock rolls around and Beckett still isn’t home, I climb into the hot tub with a bottle of rosé, and with each minute that passes and still no sign of Beckett, I am convinced he’s hooking up with a beautiful girl who looks nothing like me.

I take a swig of rosé straight from the bottle and look up at the stars—tiny white pinpricks on an inky canvas. I can’t even find the brightest one to make a wish on. That’s how shitty this day has gone.

I’m not sure what makes me angrier. That he might be hooking up with someone else. Or that he deceived me.

Bonus points. At least I have the hot tub to myself tonight. I can spread out and take up as much room as I want.

Even as I silently seethe and call him every name in the book, I am inexplicably jealous of the woman he’s hooking up with.

A woman I’ve conjured up in my imagination.

I can envision the entire scenario in my head—a dreamscape starring Beckett Heyward and a Brazilian model. She’s tall and willowy with long dark hair and a body honed by HIIT classes six times a week.

They’ll probably share post-coital wheatgrass smoothies while admiring each other’s superior genetics.

Asshole.

I chug more wine, getting angrier and drunker by the minute as my thoughts flip back and forth from the porn scene to Beckett keeping me in the dark about Michael Castellano’s true identity.

This is exactly the kind of stunt my mother would pull. She would keep me in the dark until she was ready to implement her plans and schemes and then she’d feed me some half-truths. Just enough to ensure she had my full support so I wouldn’t blow things for her.

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