Page 112 of Bitter Rival

“Hi. I’m Daisy,” I said when I finally gathered the nerve to reveal myself.

“I know. You live here now, right?” I nodded. “I’m Beck.”

“What are you doing?”

“Picking blackberries. My mom loves them. Last week I picked some for her and they cheered her up.”

“Oh.” I peered into the bucket. “Are they magic blackberries?”

He smiled. “Yeah. They’re magic blackberries, princess. You wanna try one?” He held one out to me on his palm like a gift. “It might give you magic powers.”

I licked my lips. I wanted that plump, juicy blackberry more than anything but I clasped my hands behind my back and shook my head. “They’re for your mom.”

“It’s okay. She won’t mind sharing.” He handed me the blackberry and I squeezed it so tightly in my fist that the juice dribbled down my arm.

“I can tell you a story about the magic blackberries and the fairies who pick them and the wicked queen who keeps the fairies locked in a golden cage,” I said, my mind running wild with possibilities as I spun a tale in my head.

Even at a young age, I knew that every gift commanded a price. In my world, nothing was given freely. “I’m a good storyteller. Maybe your mom will like this story too.”

He grinned. “This sounds like a story I don’t wanna miss. I’ll tell you what. Eat some blackberries and you can tell me the story while you help me pick the rest.”

How funny that he’s always called me princess, even when I was just a little girl.

And even back then, he was trying to brighten his mom’s day.

“Are you plotting ways to murder me in my sleep?” Beckett asks, refilling his water glass from the pitcher and guzzling half of it.

“I don’t have that kind of patience. I’m just waiting for the arsenic to enter your blood system.” I eye the glass of water in his hand. “Drink up.”

He laughs. “Where do you go? When you drift off like that?”

“Wouldn’t you just love to know?” I’ve always been a daydreamer. Sometimes I just zone out and forget where I am.

And sometimes I trip down memory lane, revisiting little vignettes from my past that I thought were long forgotten.

“They’re playing our song,” I say when “Harvest Moon” comes on. “If you ask me to dance, I’ll say yes. I’m a sure bet.”

He closes one eye and tilts his head. “Are you?”

“For the next two weeks, I’m all yours.”

“And you want to dance.”

“I really want to dance.”

He exhales loudly and gets to his feet, offering me his hand. “The things I do for you.”

He pulls me into his arms, and we dance on the terrace as the last of the sun dips into the horizon on a warm September night during the harvest season.

For someone who doesn’t date or do relationships, Beckett has all the right moves.

That wave of longing I felt on the car ride to Petaluma last month washes over me again but this time it’s stronger. It hits me with the force of a tsunami.

I stumble and he catches me, pulling me closer so my body is flush against his and my breasts are pressing against his hard chest.

“I never knew you could be so romantic,” I say, peeking up at him. In the near darkness his cheekbones look razor-sharp and his blue eyes gleam. “Too bad you’re so opposed to the idea of a committed relationship. With a little bit of work, you could be the ideal boyfriend.” I give him a coy smile.

“Don’t get any ideas,” he warns. “I’m completely lacking in the romance department. A wholly unsuitable partner for you.”

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