Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
Daisy
Lunch is a group affair at a long table in an olive grove. The setting is idyllic and after working in the fresh air and sunshine all morning, I’m starving.
Hunter makes sure I’m seated next to him and introduces me to everyone at the table. Pete knows who I am and so does the head winemaker, Neil. But I’m not sure if the others realize that I’m the evil stepdaughter or if they just don’t feel the need to mention it. Either way, I don’t get any snide remarks or sidelong glances, which is a good thing because I don’t want anything to spoil my appetite.
I can’t remember the last time food tasted this good. Except for that cinnamon roll this morning.
Maybe food just tastes better here.
Over lunch, I mostly listen, but it doesn’t take long to realize that everyone who works here is obsessed with wine.
“Good wine starts with the grapes,” Pete told me this morning when we did a walking tour through the different vineyard blocks—grenache, zinfandel, syrah, cabernet sauvignon, and the old vine zinfandel planted on a steep terraced slope over a century ago. If those vines could talk, I’d bet they’d have stories to tell. They’ve survived Prohibition and have weathered storms, wildfires, earthquakes and diseases. They’re the real heroes in this story.
“So how long will you be here?” Callie asks as I take a bite of strawberry and feta salad garnished with fresh mint. She’s around my age with long brown hair in a high ponytail, a suntan, and a spray of freckles on her nose.
I swallow before responding. “Three months.”
“Perfect,” she says. “You’ll get to work the harvest. Most of it, anyway. Once you’ve experienced your first harvest, you’ll be hooked.”
“Did you hear that?” I tell Hunter. “You’ll be hooked after your first harvest. You might have found your calling.”
He smiles and it’s completely genuine, no artifice. He’s the kind of guy I should go for if I were smart, but I always end up with guys who would steal your money and your car and leave you stranded on the side of the road.
Technically, Sean didn’t leave me on the side of the road—he left me at a seedy roadside motel—but I guess I should have known better.
“I guess time will tell,” Hunter says. “But so far, I’m enjoying every minute. How about you?”
I open my mouth to reply when a dark shadow looms over me. A glance over my shoulder confirms it’s Beckett, all dark and brooding like Heathcliff after sojourning to the moors. “What ails you, milord?”
“Have you suddenly turned into a Voltaire character?”
“I was thinking more along the lines of a raunchy bodice ripper but okay, we’ll go with Voltaire.”
His lip twitches like he’s trying not to laugh, but he quickly schools his expression and narrows his eyes on me in accusation. “I’ve called you three times, but you didn’t bother answering.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize I was your beck and call girl.” It takes everything in me not to roll my eyes. “I was busy working. You should try it sometime.”
I turn back around to finish my lunch in peace, but all eyes are on me, and it only dawns on me now that we had an audience.
I guess the jig is up. If they didn’t know who I was before, they most certainly do now.
“Do you want some lunch, Beck?” Pete asks.
Beck. That’s what I used to call him when I was a kid. That’s what everyone used to call him, but he must go by the more formal Beckett now.
I’m expecting Beckett to say, Can’t you see I’m not a mere mortal? Gods only partake of ambrosia.
“Sounds good.” He taps Hunter on the shoulder. “Would you mind moving down?” It’s not a request, so Hunter being the good guy he is, slides down the bench and gives up his seat without protest. It’s not like I expected him to fight a duel for the honor of sitting next to me, but he could have at least put up a small fight.
Beckett Heyward is far too used to getting his own way, and I have no intention of bowing to his every command.
I arch a brow as his denim-clad thigh brushes against mine and studiously ignore the little jolt of electricity that courses through my body. “Not bad enough you ruined my breakfast, you have to ruin my lunch too?”
“Stop lying. You devoured your breakfast. I’m surprised it didn’t send you into a sugar coma.”
“If you’re trying to kill me, you’ll have to up your game.” I construct a sandwich of sliced tomatoes and cheddar between two pieces of baguette and take a big bite.
“Any food allergies?” He sounds hopeful.
“Sadly, for you, no.” I finish my sandwich in two bites and brush the crumbs off my tank top. “Why were you calling me anyway? If you needed me so badly, you could have left your lair and hunted me down.”
“As you can see, that’s exactly what I was forced to do.” He shovels a bite of food into his mouth while simultaneously checking his emails.
It can’t be good to be glued to your phone like that, but now I’m picturing him on the prowl, hunting me down, graceful but deadly like a big cat tracking the scent and pouncing on his unsuspecting prey.
I’m staring at his triceps flexing as he reaches across the table for some bread and wondering how it would feel to have him on top of me, crushed beneath the weight of his body, when his low, gravelly voice cuts through my little fantasy. “I need you to sign something.”
“If you’re trying to cut me out, we’ve been down this road before, and it didn’t work out for you the first time.”
“Which is why I need you to sign the amended contract,” he says. “I’ve included my legal fees as well as the work that I’ll be paying for out of pocket.”
This whole contract thing was a huge deal to him the first time around, and I received no fewer than a dozen shouty caps messages prompting me to sign and email a copy back to him ASAP. Like I had nothing better to do with my time than cater to his every whim.
I was in London at the time, working on a commission for Avant-Garde who sponsored a contemporary dance festival. I followed the dancers and choreographers every day, capturing analogue film images of their performances, backstage, in the studio, and in the streets. The work was intense, but magical.
And through it all, Beckett kept badgering me with endless messages and demands to the point where I couldn’t fully enjoy the immersive process.
Now we’re entering round two and I can already tell the experience will be just as pleasant the second time around. “And you had to kick Hunter out of his seat to tell me this?”
“No.” With a smirk, he snatches the glass of rosé right out of my hand and chugs it like a frat boy pounding shots on spring break. Then he slams the glass on the table and gets to his feet. “I sensed that you were enjoying yourself too much.”