Page 1 of Bitter Rival

CHAPTER ONE

Daisy

I stumble off the plane, sleep-deprived and slightly nauseous. Thanks to Finn, I haven’t slept in three days. To make matters worse, the baby in the seat next to mine screamed for the entire six-hour flight, arms flailing, legs thrashing, until finally falling asleep the minute the plane touched down in San Francisco.

After a quick pitstop in the restroom, I zip up my hoodie to cover the coffee stain on my T-shirt and head to the baggage claim.

My phone buzzes and I keep an eye on the carousel while checking my missed messages.

Beckett

Did you manage to catch this flight? Or did you oversleep again?

Beckett

Where are you? I’ve been waiting for twenty minutes and while I’ve gleaned that punctuality and being a responsible adult is beyond your limited capabilities, my time is valuable.

I sigh and massage my temples, hoping it will ease the tension headache that’s building. Unsurprisingly, the headache only intensifies, and I can feel my left eye twitching. That’s what this guy does to me—gives me a big fat headache and makes my eye twitch.

I’m trying to give him the benefit of the doubt and not judge him too harshly. But he’s on a mission to suck all the joy out of life, so he doesn’t make it easy.

I’m at the bagged clay

Ugh. Stupid autocorrect.

I’m waiting for my bag

Beckett

I highly doubt that. I’m at the baggage claim and I don’t see anyone resembling Astrid.

The only resemblance I bear to my mother is our blonde hair, but this is no time to quibble over DNA.

I scan the people waiting and don’t recognize a single person from my flight. That can’t be a good sign.

I’m about to text him back when a new message pops up.

Beckett

Unless you’ve changed your flight AGAIN you should be at baggage claim NINE.

I groan and smack my forehead. I’m at baggage claim six. When I’m tired, letters and numbers get more scrambled than usual, but at this point, I doubt he’ll believe any of my excuses or even care to listen.

To say we got off on the wrong foot in our text exchanges over the past few months is like calling the Grand Canyon a shallow ditch on the side of the road.

With a sigh, I head to the correct baggage claim and quicken my pace when I see my bag taking another lap around the conveyor belt.

There are only a few people left from my flight, so I spot him immediately. He’s the guy with his arms crossed over his chest and his eyes narrowed. His gaze roams over my hoodie and baggy jeans and his lip curls like he’s smelled something bad.

In an ideal world, he would look like Quasimodo, all hunchbacked and disfigured with a grotesque exterior that hides a heart of gold.

In reality, Beckett Heyward is tall and muscley with dark hair and a sharp jawline. His white button-down is tailored to fit his broad shoulders and he’s wearing charcoal gray pants like he came straight from a meeting and left his suit jacket in the car.

He’s good looking in a GQ model, I played football for Stanford, kind of way, which is fine if you’re attracted to that type. I am certainly not. And I’d bet good money that his “beautiful” exterior hides a heart of stone.

I reach for my bag just as he does.

“I’ve got it.” I try to wrestle it out of his grip but he’s bigger and stronger and clearly trying to establish dominance, so he wins this tug of war by a landslide.

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