Page 10 of Bitter Rival

She might have chosen a meeting spot in another town, but this is a wild goose chase, so I turn my car around and head back to the house.

By the time I walk through the door, it’s late, I’m hungry, and I’m pissed off that I’ve wasted so much of my valuable time searching for Daisy Fucking Larsson.

I stalk into the kitchen and find her at the stove. Barefoot. Wild hair tumbling around her shoulders. Hips moving to the beat of the music pouring from the speakers—The Velvet Underground’s “Sweet Jane.”

She’s set up the turntable that I distinctly remember was in the living room on the table in front of the window, and it looks as if she’s used every pot and pan and utensil to cook her dinner.

None of this really surprises me. Daisy has a penchant for disrupting the balance and creating chaos wherever she goes. That much came through loud and clear in her text messages.

When she looks over, I glare at her and fold my arms over my chest. “Where the fuck were you?”

She raises her brows at my tone. “I’m sorry,” she says, not sounding the least bit sorry. “I didn’t realize I had to ask permission to leave the house. I made us some dinner.”

She dips her finger in the sauce she’s stirring and wraps her pouty lips around her index finger, sucking on it. Her cheeks are hollowed, and her eyes are at half-mast in a way I can only imagine she’d look if she was kneeling before me with my dick in her mouth.

She releases her finger and lets out a moan.

I grind my teeth and try to erase the image of her on her knees with her lips wrapped around my cock and my hand fisting her hair.

“Proof that I haven’t poisoned the sauce, Your Highness.” She does a little curtsy, which is in no way designed to look subservient. “Don’t worry, I’ve made enough for the Dark Lord of the Manor too.”

“That won’t be necessary. I’m going out.”

Her face falls, and for a brief moment, she looks disappointed, but I don’t stick around long enough to decipher it.

I stride out the door and get back in my car, cursing her very existence as I rocket down the road, trying to put as much distance between us as possible.

Unfortunately, my dick didn’t get the memo that I hate Daisy Larsson.

Even after leaving Sutton Ridge in my rearview, I’m still hard.

CHAPTER FOUR

Daisy

The next morning, a layer of fog blankets the vineyard, and the air coming through my open windows is cool and damp.

I’m tempted to stay in my warm, cozy bed, but I force myself to get up and get dressed, shivering as I zip up my hoodie.

In a few hours, it will probably be warm and sunny, but I remember how the temperature drops at night, and the mornings are still chilly even in the summer.

I grab my camera, hang out the window and snap a few photos of the fog rolling in from the coast.

And then I take a photo of myself in the gilt-framed mirror in the hallway.

When I was twelve, I embarked on the 365-day photo challenge and have been documenting my life ever since.

Girl with bedhead leaning against a terracotta wall.

I know Beckett wants to restore this house, but I think it’s perfect as it is. I love the cracks in the walls, the soaring ceilings, the carved oak doors, and the faded grandeur of another century.

It reminds me of the dreamy Italian villa in Call Me by Your Name and I can easily imagine that we’re in Europe, not California.

I wander downstairs, expecting to find Beckett in the kitchen or behind his laptop in the study, but he’s not here.

I waited up last night, listening for him, and by the time I fell asleep, he still hadn’t come home.

Why should I even care if he didn’t come home last night? It’s not like he’s a pleasure to be around. He’s rude, arrogant, and condescending. I’m better off alone.

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