Page 143 of Bitter Rival

But like a fool, I took it all for granted. I took her for granted.

Now she’s in Madrid and Barcelona and Paris while I’m here.

Without her.

“I think you’re a good boss,” Hunter says. “You’re always coming up with ways to improve the process and everyone respects you because you’re fair and you give clear instructions so everyone knows what’s expected of them. I’ve had some terrible bosses over the years. But I think the difference is that you really care about this place.”

“I’m just trying to get the job done as efficiently as possible.”

“No. It’s more than that. You know those jobs where you keep checking the clock because you can’t wait to leave and do something enjoyable? I never check the time anymore. This doesn’t even feel like work because I’d want to do it even if I wasn’t getting paid.”

I can’t fully relate because, for most of my adult life, I’ve been the boss.

But later, as I walk back to the house with dirt on my boots and my muscles aching, I understand what Hunter meant about doing a job that doesn’t feel like work.

Ever since I decided to keep the vineyard, I haven’t given a single thought to my next technology venture.

I was so opposed to running this vineyard because it was what my father wanted but despite myself, I ended up loving it.

How’s that for irony?

I wander through the house with a gnawing sensation in my gut that tells me something is missing.

The house is too empty. Too quiet. Too still.

I’ve got the solitude I always craved in the past but even that is tainted with memories of Daisy.

She’s everywhere. Her scent still lingers on the T-shirt she left on the floor of my bedroom.

The other day, I was searching for the remote and found a hair tie and her tinted lip balm wedged between the sofa cushions.

When I was doing my laundry, I found two odd socks and a pair of lace panties in the dryer.

Her shampoo and conditioner and shower gel are still in the holder.

The book she was reading–Donna Tartt’s The Secret History–is facedown on the coffee table, still open to the page she was on.

I feel like I’m living with a ghost who haunts my dreams and every waking hour.

Later that evening, I drop into the leather chair in the study and stare at my name on the envelope in my hand.

Guess it’s time to hear what that bastard had to say for himself.

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

Beckett

Dear Beckett,

If you’re reading this, that means you’ve kept the vineyard. You were probably cursing me out for the dirty trick I played on you and Daisy. But if I know that girl as well as I think I did, I’m willing to bet she gave you the whole damn thing.

She was always special, and so were you.

I failed you, and that’s my greatest regret. By the time I showed up at your office, I knew it was already too late to make amends. I also knew you wouldn’t keep the vineyard without a little push in the right direction. You’re just as stubborn as your old man.

That’s where Daisy came in. She loved you when she was a little girl and only ever wanted the best for you. I had faith that she hadn’t changed that much, and it looks as if my hunch paid off.

As for Astrid, I feel like the biggest fool for ever falling for her.

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