Page 47 of Bitter Rival

Like I didn’t wake up all hot and sweaty with my sheets twisted around my ankles and slide my hand inside my panties only to find that I was already wet.

“A day without me is like a day without sunshine,” I reply cheerfully. “I don’t want you to have a Vitamin D deficiency.”

“Your concern is touching.” He’s shoveling Greek yogurt and granola into his mouth while scrolling on his phone. When he’s not on his laptop, he’s glued to that damn phone.

I add a dash of milk to my coffee and sit across from him with my peanut butter and honey toast and an orange.

I stare at his large hand wrapped around his phone. Vein porn at its finest.

At the navy cotton T-shirt molded to his broad shoulders and chest.

At the flex of his triceps when he shoves his hand through his hair.

When I woke up this morning, I could almost feel the weight of him on top of me, that’s how vivid my dream was.

He looks up from his phone with a sigh of annoyance. “Did you need something?”

“Just can’t stop staring at your pretty face.”

You kissed me in my dream like your life depended on it. Like I was the oxygen you needed to breathe.

He presses his full lips into a flat line and even with the scowl on his face, he’s still pretty. Damn him. Why did I have that dream about him of all people?

He’s not even my type. He’s too big. Too muscular. Too…Beckett.

“I see you’re growing a beard. You’re shooting for that sexy lumberjack look, aren’t you?”

In my dream you were chopping wood down by the stream. Sweaty. Shirtless. A complete beast when you threw me down on the ground. So demanding and unrepentant. And I loved it.

He rubs his hand over the stubble as if he’s forgotten he hasn’t shaved. It sounds rough like sandpaper. I’m imagining how it would feel if his face was between my legs, his scruff rubbing against my skin and my thighs clenched.

It must be Stockholm syndrome. Obsession by forced proximity. A temporary case of insanity.

His eyes narrow. “Why do you keep staring at me?”

I take a sip of my coffee and set down my mug. “I was just trying to get up the nerve to ask my new boss to take me for a spin on his big green tractor.”

He snorts. He knows I’m lying. But it’s better to lie than tell him the truth.

You shared your greatest tragedy with me and only a few nights later I had an erotic dream about you.

I am a deeply troubled individual.

“No one gets to ride the tractor but me.”

“Wow. You’re really letting all this power go to your head, aren’t you?” I say as we walk out the door.

The sun is rising as we walk up the row of grenache grapes that are starting to change from green to red and purple. Pete told me it’s called veraison. When the grapes begin to soften and change color on the vine.

“You have a little more swagger in your step than usual. And what’s that strange thing on your face? Is that—” I rear back, my hand going to my heart, “—a smile?”

“It’s all this power. Makes me giddy.”

I snort a laugh.

The smile wasn’t really a smile. It was just a slight upturn to the corner of his mouth, which is technically a smirk. And I highly doubt that anything would make him giddy.

“I’ve found the perfect job for you,” he says when we reach the shed housing the tractor and forklift and vineyard equipment, and he rips open a box of mesh netting. “How are your sewing skills, Cinderella?”

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