Chapter 28
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Beckett
Two weeks later, I return from a run on Saturday morning and follow the sound of laughter to the terrace where I find Grayson entertaining Daisy.
My gaze darts to the bagel in her hand and the iced coffees on the table then to her face and those fucking lips that tempt and tease.
I scrub my hand down my face and try to erase the vision of the dream I had last night but even after a five-mile run it’s still clear as day.
Daisy, sauntering into the study dressed in black lace lingerie and six-inch heels.
Daisy, spread out before me on my desk, ready and waiting and so wet for me it was dripping down her thighs?—
“You look like you could use an iced coffee.”
My gaze swings to Grayson who hands me a coffee. “What are you doing here?” A reasonable request considering he didn’t even mention that he was coming.
“I brought bagels and an overnight bag.” Not the answer to my question. He lets out a contented sigh. “It’s good to be home. Miss me?” He bats his lashes at me.
“Like a toothache.”
He chuckles. “Beckett hates surprises,” he tells Daisy as if I’m not standing right here drinking my coffee.
Daisy nods. “I know. You know what else he hates?”
“You?” I say pleasantly.
Daisy smiles, amused. “You don’t hate me. You just wish you could hate me.”
Sadly, she’s not wrong. I’m struck with the disturbing realization that I might even like her. Not only as the object of my desire—because she is fuckable to a fault—but as a person. To the point where I’m beginning to enjoy her company.
Fucking hell. What is this madness?
I don’t even hate it when she narrates the movies we watch or puts her own unique spin on things.
Or when she moans her way through dinner.
Or when she barges into the study while I’m working on my laptop to “keep me company.”
On those evenings, she sits in the leather chair in the corner reading and I can tell by her expression if the particular scene makes her feel sad or joyful or angry or somber.
Some passages move her to tears. Some poetry plunges her into despair. I know this because she leaves annotated copies on my desk earmarked with Post-it notes for easier access.
Daisy can’t even listen to Jeff Buckley’s version of “Hallelujah” without lamenting over the death of a musician she didn’t even know.
That’s how deeply Daisy feels things. I don’t think I’ve ever felt that deeply about poems or novels or music or art.
But Daisy…she feels it all. She revels in her feelings. Marinates in them. What a fucking curse that would be.
But I guess that’s what makes her such a good artist. Another thing I have grudgingly acknowledged after my self-guided tour of the photos clipped to a clothesline in the dining room-turned-darkroom.
“Grayson wants you to introduce him to Caiden,” Daisy says, stretching her arms above her head, exposing a sliver of golden skin where her T-shirt rides up, before standing from her chair.
Grayson nods. “Daisy sang his praises and it looks like he did a great job on this place. And since he’s a friend of yours, I already know I can trust him.”
I drop into the chair Daisy just vacated and now I’m inundated with the scent of orange blossoms and honey. “Trust him for what?”
“I’m doing a walk-through of an old inn later,” Grayson says. “Cool place. Nineteenth century mansion. Figured it would be good to bring along someone who can tell me if it’s structurally sound.”
I have no idea what the fuck he’s talking about. Structurally sound for what?
“See you guys later. I need to get to work,” Daisy says, grabbing her iced coffee and heading across the terrace. “I’ll be in the tasting room if you need me because my boss doesn’t trust me to work on the vineyard.”
I watch her ass and the sway of her hips as she saunters away then run my hand down my face and suppress a groan.
It’s a special kind of hell being forced into close proximity with Daisy Larsson.
After she’s gone, Grayson smirks. “What kind of boss are you, exactly? Does she call you daddy?”
Jesus. I shudder at the thought. That’s definitely not one of my kinks.
“Since you’re obviously not interested, she’s fair game, right?”
I glare at him. “Stay the fuck away from her.”
He chuckles under his breath. “That’s a pretty strong reaction for someone who wanted her gone two months ago. I keep forgetting that she’s your stepsister,” he muses. “What could be hotter than forbidden love? Remember that time I slept with those two sisters? I didn’t even realize they were sisters until one of them slapped me in the face.” He grins. “Worth it, though.”
I roll my eyes. I never understood the appeal of openly discussing your sex life, but Grayson is big on sharing. “I still don’t understand why you’re here.”
He leans back in his seat, props his feet on the coffee table and laces his hands behind his head. “I’m working on my next venture. And I thought this would be the perfect opportunity to surprise you with a visit and check on your progress. Two birds, one stone,” he says with a grin. “And I have to say, I am pleasantly surprised. Things have changed. I can feel it in the air. I’ve come up with a few theories about you and Daisy?—"
“You obviously have too much time on your hands.”
“You don’t hate her anymore. In fact, I think you’re infatuated with her.”
I scowl at him. “Don’t get too carried away. We’re coexisting, nothing more.”
“Whatever you say.” His smile is smug. “Anyway, Daisy mentioned that your friend owns a biker bar so here’s the plan. Invite Caiden to the bar. We’ll swing by and you can introduce me to your childhood friends. And then we can all bond over a few beers and talk about you behind your back.”
“How about I introduce you to my friends and we can all talk about the time you got so drunk in Cabo that you woke up the next morning with no keys. No phone. No wallet. You showed up at my door empty-handed and in tears.”
He snorts a laugh. “In tears, my ass. I was pissed off.”
“Stop lying. You were weeping like a baby.”
“Tears of frustration, maybe. I’d just had the best sex of my life and had no way of tracking her down.” Grayson sighs and shakes his head. “If you’d been a decent wingman, you would have gotten her full name and address. Or at the very least, her friend’s name.”
I wish I hadn’t brought it up. He’s been trying to remember that night for five years. Most likely, his one-night-stand stole his phone and his wallet full of cash before she took off, leaving him high and dry.
And as for “the best sex of his life”, that’s debatable.
If he can’t even remember that night, how great could it have been?
I finish my iced coffee and stand. “I need a shower. You need a life.”
“I have a life and I have a plan so hurry up and get ready. We’ve got shit to do.”
“I have a vineyard to run.” But since I’ve given myself weekends off, I text Hunter a list of instructions and message Caiden before pocketing my phone and heading to the shower.
I’ve been doing double the work for the past two weeks, picking up the slack for Daisy, who is of absolutely no help on the vineyard because of her wrist.
In addition to running this place, I’ve been working overtime to ensure the sale of our startup goes smoothly. It hasn’t gone through yet, but in two weeks’ time it will. In the end, we didn’t really have a choice. The board and our investors were so eager to make a quick sale that they would have ousted us if we hadn’t agreed.
I could use a change of scenery. Which is why I go along with Grayson’s plan.
Although I insist on driving.
“Boutique hotels, baby. That’s where it’s at,” Grayson says, rubbing his hands together as we drive past a field of sunflowers and a farmstand along the side of the road selling lavender-infused honey.
“Since when?”
“Since I sat on the terrace of your crumbling mansion and looked out at the rolling hills of the vineyard. I want a legacy of my own.”
How ironic that I’m intent on shitting all over my father’s legacy while Grayson is trying to create one.
After taking a scenic tour of Sutton Ridge wine country and the historic downtown, we head to Ledger’s bar for lunch on the deck.
“So this was your old man’s place?” Grayson asks when Ledger returns to our table, straddling the chair across from me, after settling a dispute with a customer.
Ledger nods and runs his fingers through his hair, squinting against the sun streaming through the redwoods.
“Yeah. He ran it into the ground before he took off. A while back, I bought it from the sleazeball he sold it to. Got it pretty cheap because the guy needed some quick cash but I had to put a lot of money into it before I started running at a profit.”
Ledger’s old man was a shitty father but in a different way than mine. Ledger never really talked about it much, but everyone in Sutton Ridge knew that Virgil Hale was trouble.
I’m surprised he’d want anything to do with this bar but I guess he made it his own and removed all traces of Virgil. Still. Why hang on to it at all? I doubt that Ledger is any more sentimental than I am. I want to get rid of the vineyard as quickly as possible. The fewer reminders of my father, the better.
“Cool place. Great location,” Grayson says, glancing around the deck like he’s thinking about buying a bar to go with this boutique hotel he wants to open. “Where’s Caiden anyway?”
Now that we’ve finished our lunch, he’s chomping at the bit to check out his “new hotel.”
“Should be here soon,” Ledger says. “He got tied up doing some work for his hot neighbor.”
I take a pull of my beer. “The single mom he claimed nothing was going on with?”
Ledger grins. “That’s the one.” His gaze drifts to the doorway. “Allegedly, Caiden and Mia are ‘just friends’ but he’s always over there playing handyman. Isn’t that right, Donnelly?”
“Fuck off,” Caiden says, dropping into the empty chair at our table. “We are just friends. No need for the air quotes,” he grumbles.
“I don’t use air quotes.”
“They were heavily implied.” Caiden looks at Grayson. “So you must be the guy who wants to buy the old Riverside Inn?”
“Caiden, Grayson,” I say, making the introductions. “If he ends up buying that place and hires you for the job, give him friend rates just like you did for me,” I tell Caiden. “In other words, overcharge him for the labor.”
Caiden holds up his hands. “If you want quality workmanship, you’re not gonna get it at bargain basement prices.”
“That’s his motto,” Ledger says. “But I can confirm that he charges friends a higher rate. Pretty sure it was no coincidence he bought a shiny new truck right after he finished renovating my bar.”
“You’re so full of shit,” Caiden says with a laugh. “But I can tell you right now that renovating that inn won’t come cheap.”
“In that case, I don’t want the friends’ rate,” Grayson says. “I’m not sure I can afford it.”
That’s a joke. Grayson Abbott has deep pockets and an enormous trust fund courtesy of his grandfather. He’s generous to a fault, lavish with his gifts, and spends money like it’s water.
Grayson wouldn’t have to work a day in his life if he didn’t want to, but his threshold for boredom is so low that if he’s not always seeking new challenges, he grows despondent.
He stands and claps his hands together. “Let’s go check out my new hotel.”
By the time we return to the house that evening, Grayson has put in an offer to buy the 19 th century mansion and the surrounding twenty acres; Astrid has made another generous donation to my mental health organization, and I’ve managed to forget all about my infatuation with Daisy.
That is, until I walk into the kitchen and see her at the stove, shaking her ass to the beat of the music while she stirs her witch’s brew.
Hunter is right beside her chopping vegetables, but he’s so busy ogling her that he’s going to lose a finger.
Callie is at the island preparing a charcuterie board big enough to feed a small village in Tuscany, and the guy she was with at the bar is opening a second bottle of wine like he owns the fucking place.
“We got here just in time,” Grayson says, plucking an olive from the charcuterie board and introducing himself.
Daisy spins from the stove and waves a wooden spoon in greeting. Red sauce splatters all over the floor and I am pleasantly surprised to find that maybe there’s still a sliver of animosity left in me.
“I’m making pasta arrabiatta. Your favorite,” Daisy says with a sweet smile that looks completely genuine. “Do you want to taste it? Make sure it’s okay?”
“How did you know it’s my favorite?”
She shrugs. “I asked Grayson. I wanted to do something special for you. To thank you for taking care of me when I hurt my wrist. I just…it really meant a lot to me.”
“It was nothing,” I say gruffly.
“Do you want to taste the wine?” Callie asks, handing me a glass of red. “Personally, I think Heyward Estate zinfandel is better than this primitivo, but I brought a few bottles back from my trip to Italy so I figured we should enjoy it.”
“Thanks.” I swirl and taste. “And you’re right. Ours is better.”
Daisy’s smile widens and it’s only then that I realize what I’ve said.
Ours is better.