Page 77 of Bitter Rival

I’ve been working in the tasting room all week, serving flights of wine and cheese boards to flocks of tourists. A solution Beckett came up with after I spent two weeks trying to convince him I was ready to return to work. It was a good compromise, so I didn’t argue. I want my wrist to be fully healed when the harvest starts.

And for want of a better word, Beckett and I are…friendly. Strictly platonic. Housemates who don’t gaze into each other’s eyes or whisper sweet nothings.

When we eat dinner together, I try not to stare at the definition in his forearms. The way the veins bulge when the muscles in his arms flex.

When we watch movies together, he sits on the opposite end of the couch so no part of his body touches mine. But when I make a joke, his lip twitches and sometimes, he laughs. Out loud.

I get the biggest kick out of making him laugh. He’s too serious—a workaholic and a perfectionist—so I’ve made it my mission to loosen him up, lighten his load.

But I’ve mostly resigned myself to the fact that Beckett and I will never be anything more than frenemies who shared a house for three months once upon a time.

I’m not sure why that doesn’t feel like enough for me.

I’m not sure why I would even want a man who claimed that kissing me was a mistake.

But the more time we spend together and the more I get to know him, the more I do. Want him, that is.

On this Sunday afternoon, I emerge from the bathroom on a cloud of steam and run into Beckett in the hallway.

He’s just come back from a run. His skin is flushed and coated in sweat.

I’m freshly showered, a towel turban on my head and another wrapped around my body. My skin is glowing from my DIY brown sugar scrub exfoliant.

His gaze briefly dips to my cleavage before focusing on the neck up. So proper, you could almost be fooled into thinking he’s a gentleman.

He steps to the right to let me pass while I simultaneously step to the left to let him pass.

Now we’re at an impasse, standing right in front of each other again.

I laugh and grab the towel that’s starting to unravel on my head. But when I raise my arms to fix the towel on my head, the towel wrapped around my body slips, exposing my right nipple and possibly my left.

Then the towel unravels completely. I snap it up before it falls to the floor, but I’m too slow, so now he’s pretty much seen...well, just about everything.

“Jesus Christ.” He sucks in a sharp breath and quickly averts his head like he’s never seen boobs before.

I briefly consider just slinging the towel over my shoulder to see his reaction but think better of it and wrap it around me securely.

Rejection is not on today’s agenda.

“What’s a little nip slip between friends, am I right?” I flash him a smile.

He scrubs a hand down his face like he’s trying to erase the vision of my half-naked body.

Which, of course, compels me to mess with him. “Wait. Are you…a virgin?” My mouth forms an O, eyes widening in shock. I pat his arm as if I’m consoling him. “Don’t be embarrassed. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

“Put some fucking clothes on,” he growls.

It’s all I can do not to fall over laughing when he stalks down the hallway. I lean against the wall, silently shaking with laughter as his bedroom door slams shut with so much force, I’m surprised it doesn’t fly off the hinges.

Interesting.

Maybe our relationship isn’t so platonic after all. Maybe he just has a lot of self-control. That wouldn’t surprise me. Beckett is very disciplined. With his diet (no junk food). With his workout regimen. With his daily routine.

You learn so much about a person when you live with them.

I know he hates surprises. He’s a loyal friend (Grayson told me that when he visited last week). A neat freak. A die-hard 49ers fan and season ticket holder. A good grandson who adores his “Grams.”

I know that he has insomnia and doesn’t get enough sleep. That he paces when he’s trying to work through a problem in his head. That his academic intelligence is off the charts, but his emotional intelligence leaves something to be desired.

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