Page 80 of Bitter Rival

But I have complete faith that he’ll find a way to squash my dreams by proving that he is not, and never will be, anyone’s dream man.

“My grandmother had a piece of shit car that was always breaking down, so I learned the basics,” he says, wiping the grease stains off his hands with the paper napkins I dug out of the glove compartment. “But you’re not going anywhere in that truck today. You’re not driving that truck at all until I get it completely overhauled. It wasn’t safe to be driving in the first place.”

Even as I melt a little at his gruff tone and the concern etched on his brow, my shoulders sag in disappointment.

I’m not that subtle, so Beckett notices immediately.

“You really want to go?”

“Yeah. But it’s fine,” I say, trying to brush it off. “I’ll get over it.”

He hesitates a moment. “I’ll take you.”

I give him a skeptical look. Even though a tiny part of me hoped he would offer, I don’t want him to feel obligated.

Dragging someone to an event they have no interest in attending is a recipe for disaster. If he’s miserable, I won’t be able to enjoy myself either. “Are you sure?”

He shrugs. “Yeah, why not.”

I’m not entirely convinced that this is a good idea, so I try to talk him out of it.

When that fails, I point my finger at him. “You can’t complain, though. Just remember that you volunteered. No one is forcing you to do this.”

CHAPTER THIRTY

Daisy

Ten minutes later, we hit the road with the festival address programmed into Beckett’s GPS “in case you fall asleep” and a playlist chosen by me—the essential Laurel Canyon playlist circa late 60s, early 70s.

“Just so you know, by agreeing to accompany me today, you’ve also given me permission to take your photo.”

“I never agreed to that.”

“That’ll teach you to read the fine print.”

He snorts a laugh and then he gives me his special smile. Dimpled and boyish. And I’m swooning.

“What am I going to do with you?”

I twirl a lock of hair around my finger. “I can think of a few things…”

He glances over, his gaze on my mouth before it roams down my body. With a slight shake of his head, he focuses on the road again, but his grip on the steering wheel tightens. His knuckles have turned white. That’s how hard he’s gripping it.

I chuckle under my breath.

“What’s so funny?” he asks like he’s anticipating a good joke.

You. “Nothing.”

Led Zeppelin’s “Going to California” is pouring from the speakers, the sun is shining, and I’m hit with so much nostalgia and longing that it feels visceral.

I miss the West Coast with its muted sunset hues, the Pacific Ocean, and rocky beaches.

I miss the giddy highs and the kaleidoscope of butterflies that invade your stomach when you fall in love with a boy and he loves you back.

I’ve been alone for so long, and I’ve been telling myself I'm doing fine. But a nagging sensation in my gut tells me something is missing.

It feels like a hunger. A sickness. An ache that won’t subside.

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