Page 79 of Bitter Rival

Sometimes Beckett is funny without even trying. And sometimes he’s kind of…sweet. “I’ll see you tonight.”

“Where are you going?”

“To a festival.” I stop in the doorway and look over my shoulder. “Why? Do you want to come?”

He strokes his jaw like he’s actually considering it. “Festivals aren’t really my thing.”

“Yeah, I figured. This festival is definitely not your thing. You’d hate it.” He’s just contrary enough that if I tell him he’ll hate something, he’ll go out of his way to prove me wrong. But in this case, I’m not using reverse psychology. I can’t see him enjoying this festival, so I’m trying to spare us both from the agony. “Have a good day.”

When I reach the front door, I hear his footsteps behind me.

“Hang on. Where is this festival?”

I pause, my hand on the brass knob. “Petaluma.” I yank open the door and keep on walking with Beckett hot on my heels.

“I’m not so sure you should be driving. Your wrist isn’t fully healed. And I’m also not sure that truck will make it.”

“My wrist is completely healed. I’ll be fine.” I wave away his concerns, toss my backpack into the truck, and slide behind the wheel.

But when I turn the key in the ignition, the engine rumbles, then sputters and dies. I try three more times but get the same result.

Dammit. I smack my palm against the wheel.

“Not much of a getaway car,” Beckett drawls when I climb out of the truck and stare at it balefully.

I round on him. “Did you put a hex on it?”

“I’m not a warlock.”

I arch a brow like I’m not entirely convinced. “Are you sure?” I plant my hands on my hips. “Because it worked just fine the other day.”

“If you’re referring to the day when you shot-gunned down the road, leaving a trail of black smoke in your wake, I would hesitate to call that ‘fine.’ But if you mean fine in the sense that it was fine when that asshole grabbed your arm, then yes, this truck was running just fine.”

I exhale loudly. He really needs to let that go, but he doesn’t let anything go.

“I’m not going to debate the definition of fine with you.” I pull out my phone and scroll through my contacts as if any of them will be able to help me. Most of them don’t even live in California.

“Do you know any mechanics who work on Sundays?”

“Let me have a look.” He sighs loudly, letting me know this is a huge imposition and not at all what he planned to do on this fine Sunday. “I think I know the problem.”

If I didn’t want to go so badly, I’d tell him to forget it, but if there’s any chance he can fix this truck, I’m not going to stand in his way.

He pops the hood and sticks his head under it, tinkering around in there, checking this and that while I cross my fingers, hoping he can figure out the problem and that it’s an easy fix.

I have no idea if he knows anything about car engines, but this is no time to question his skills as a mechanic or wound his fragile ego by insinuating he has no idea what he’s doing.

“Maybe it needs water,” I offer helpfully.

“It’s not a houseplant,” comes the voice from under the hood. “Must be a dirty carburetor,” he concludes. “There’s fuel on the spark plugs.”

“So you know your way around an engine, huh?” For some reason, that makes him a hundred times hotter.

A guy who can wear the hell out of a suit, chop wood, drive a tractor, and fix your car?

Hello, sign me up.

Beckett Heyward is coming dangerously close to becoming my dream man.

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