Page 153 of Bitter Rival

After rearranging the mountain of oranges in the bowl on the island and changing the water in the vase full of flowers that I keep buying on the off-chance that Daisy will show up, I head to the winery with a thermos of coffee.

“How’s it going, boss?” Callie asks, looking me up and down as I hang my coat on a hook in the office. It’s the size of a broom closet. “Since when do you wear plaid flannel shirts?”

I run my hand down the shirt as if I need a reminder then over the scruff on my jaw that is starting to feel more like a beard.

Jesus. What’s gotten into me?

You should grow a beard and start wearing flannel shirts, you sexy beast.

Just the other day I chopped enough firewood to supply all of Sutton Ridge for the entire winter.

Now I’m sporting flannel shirts and beards. It’s a world gone mad.

“You miss her, don’t you?” Callie asks, leaning her hip against the doorframe.

“Miss who?” I ask, pulling up the new marketing campaign on my computer screen. “Where’s Tara?”

“Right here,” Tara calls, giving Callie a bright smile as she sweeps into my office, tablet in hand, her corkscrew curls bouncing.

She’s a twenty-something with boundless energy and a social media addiction which makes her perfect for the marketing role.

After we discuss the digital marketing campaign she asks, “What do you think of the new labels? I sent you the mockups.”

I pull them up on my screen and lean back in my swivel chair, looking them over.

The graphic designer worked from Daisy’s photos so the new labels have a dreamy, vintage feel to them, but the font is modern, and we’ve renamed most of the wines.

I scroll through, reading the labels: A syrah named Bitter Rival. An old vine zinfandel dubbed Dirty Bastard. A rosé—Daisy Dreams. Another rosé—Blonde Temptress. A pinot noir—Truly Yours. A cabernet sauvignon—Hopelessly Devoted. And a grenache blend called Mad Love.

“Are you trying to win her back? Daisy?” Tara asks.

This vineyard is a fucking gossip mill. “No. I’m not trying to win her back.”

“Oh. I thought… you mean this isn’t all for her? It’s just that… it’s so romantic.” She sighs, her hand going to her heart. “I wish a guy would go to all this trouble for me.”

Daisy won’t even see any of this because she never goes on social media. She probably forgets to take her phone with her half the time, that’s how much she hates technology.

And I fail to see anything romantic about pining for someone who might never choose me.

At this point, everything I do is for Daisy and she’s not even here to witness it.

I’m so fucking tempted to pick up the phone and call her.

Or better yet, fly to New York and show up on her doorstep every day bearing gifts—cinnamon rolls, exotic bouquets, the keys to her own art gallery… my fucking heart served up on a silver platter—until I wear her down and she relents.

Then I’ll drag her back to Sutton Ridge where she belongs so I won’t have to endure another moment without her.

But I can’t do that. I don’t want to be another Finn or an Astrid in Daisy’s life.

And I don’t want to be the guy I was before she crashed into my life and showed me what it was to be the bigger person. A person who gives freely without any demands or expectations or personal gain.

I need to learn from my own mistakes, and my father’s, and for the first time in my life, I have to put someone else first.

Otherwise, I’ll go through life as a selfish bastard who takes what he wants with no regard for others.

Not that I’ve changed that much. I’m still me. I still hold a grudge. I still maintain that Astrid had it coming. I still refuse to bury the hatchet with Michael Castellano. Fuck him.

And there are still only a handful of people I give a damn about. Daisy, of course, is at the very top of that list. No one even comes a close second.

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