Chapter 47
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
Beckett
“This is fucking insane,” Caiden says, dropping into the lounger next to mine with a cocktail in his hand. “I could get used to this.”
It’s a typical Grayson Abbott birthday extravaganza and the party hasn’t even started yet.
This year he’s hosting his thirty-first birthday at a twelve-bedroom villa in Cabo with an infinity pool, ocean view, a butler and a personal chef.
He flew us all down on his family’s private jet and now I’m stuck here for four days of sun and mandatory fun.
I check my phone for the hundredth time from my poolside lounger but nothing has changed since I checked it two minutes ago. Just a few texts from Hunter who has been left in charge of the vineyard in my absence.
I returned to my regularly scheduled life in San Francisco but it just left me feeling hollow and empty like everything else in my life right now.
Not sure why I keep thinking Daisy will text or call when I haven’t heard from her in the two weeks since she took off.
That’s not entirely true. I got one email from her, and, like a sap, I open it again and reread it for the dozenth time, searching for clues. By now, I already know it by heart.
Dear Beckett,
Hope you are well. Your father was going to hire me to shoot a marketing campaign but never got around to it. So I took it upon myself to do it anyway. I tried to capture the entire process from vine to bottle, with a special emphasis on the people who make it possible. The photos are yours to do with as you wish.
All the best,
Daisy
The photos are fantastic. Not that I’m surprised. She’s a pro.
But the email leaves plenty to be desired. Especially after the way she just left me.
I’ve texted but gotten no reply. I’ve called but she doesn’t answer.
Now I’m in fucking Cabo with no sense of purpose. No company to run. No vengeance to seek. And no Daisy.
My phone rings and I check the screen, but my hopes are dashed. Fucking Harold. I silence his call just like I’ve been doing for the past two weeks.
Whatever he has to say, I’m not interested.
The only person I want to hear from is Daisy.
I type out a text. I miss you . Then I delete it, toss my phone on the table next to me and close my eyes.
If I were smart, I’d forget all about Daisy and her mood rings for eyes.
I’d forget about her smile and her laugh and her kisses.
I’d forget all about the way she lit up every room she entered and how I felt like I was basking in sunlight whenever she was near me.
I’d forget about our slow dances to sad songs and how I never fully appreciated a sunset until I watched it with Daisy.
I’d forget her voice, sweet and low, and the way her soft lips brushed my skin.
If I were smart, I’d forget all about Daisy Larsson.
I wake up to Caiden’s voice and get the distinct feeling that I’m being watched so I keep my eyes closed.
“He can’t even admit it to himself, can he?”
“Nope. He’s a stubborn bastard. For such a smart guy, he can be really fucking stupid when it comes to matters of the heart,” Grayson says.
Matters of the heart? Sounds like a raunchy bodice ripper. Which in turn reminds me of Daisy.
Then again, what doesn’t remind me of Daisy?
I have no idea how she managed to infiltrate nearly every aspect of my life in a mere three months, but everywhere I go, I’m reminded of her.
Even the fucking ocean reminds me of Daisy.
A few weeks ago, we drove up the coast and spent the day at the beach.
On the way home, we stopped at a waterfront restaurant, and she ate her weight in fresh seafood.
There was a lot of moaning and a lot of finger-licking and a lot of dirty kisses.
On the drive back, she leaned across the center console and gave me a blowjob.
It was a fucking miracle we didn’t end up in a ditch on the side of the road. Would have been worth it, though. Those goddamn lips of hers. Bee-stung. Rose-tinted. My undoing.
“Who’s going to tell him?” Caiden asks.
I was hoping by now they would have given up and left me alone but no such luck.
I crack one eye open to find two sets of eyes trained on me. “What the fuck are you doing? Don’t you have something better to do than interrupt my nap time?” I grumble. “What do you have to tell me?”
“You’re in love,” Grayson says gravely.
Caiden nods.
“Fuck off. I’m not in love,” I scoff. Fuck. Am I?
“He’s so deep in denial, we’ll have to toss him a life preserver,” Grayson says.
“Dude’s in over his head.”
“Man down,” Grayson says, and they both laugh like their stupid jokes are the funniest thing they’ve ever heard.
“I saw the writing on the wall from day one. RIP.” Grayson claps me on the shoulder and solemnly lowers his head like he’s attending someone’s wake. “You never stood a chance.”
I don’t even know why I hang out with these assholes.
What do they know about love, anyway?
They’re both single.
“So how’d you fuck it up?” Caiden asks.
“ I didn’t fuck up anything. She left.” I rub my hand over my chest to alleviate the tightness but unsurprisingly, the ache doesn’t go away.
I’m lying, of course. I know I fucked up. I’m just not entirely sure what to do about it.
“Talk to us,” Grayson says. “Maybe we can help.”
Don’t ask me what compels me to start talking, but I end up telling them everything. Dishing the dirt like we’re a bunch of schoolgirls at a slumber party.
I wrap up the story with my revenge plot for Astrid and how the whole thing went down followed by Daisy’s hasty departure. “She just took off.” I throw up my hands. “Can you fucking believe that shit?”
My words are met with utter silence. They’re both staring at me.
“You fucked up,” Grayson says finally.
Shit. He’s right. I scrub my hand down my face and groan.
I fucked up big time.
I did the one thing I said I wouldn’t—I fell in love with Daisy Larsson.
For the first time in my life, I’m in love and what did I do?
By plotting and scheming to ruin Astrid, I destroyed Daisy in the process. Astrid waltzed away with her held high while Daisy looked… devastated.
What have I done?
“You need to fix this,” Caiden says. “You gotta make it right.”
Damn straight I do. I need to find a way to get her back.
I need a plan of action.
The following week, I meet Harold for coffee. Not that I have any interest in socializing with him. I already told him my intentions over the phone and now I just want to get the paperwork taken care of.
The coffee was his idea. The outdoor table was mine. I snagged a parking spot right in front of the coffee shop so as soon as he hands me the paperwork, I can be on my way.
“So what made you change your mind about selling the vineyard?” he asks.
I changed my mind because Daisy said it was the only place that ever felt like home. And for whatever reason, it was important to her that I keep it. Ergo, by keeping the vineyard, I’ll stand a better chance of winning her back when I show up in New York for her photography exhibit.
I’ll apologize for my actions, ask her to come back to Sutton Ridge with me, and we can pick up where we left off. But Harold doesn’t need to know any of that.
“Doesn’t matter why I’m doing it. Just that I am. Give me whatever I need to sign, and I’ll make sure Daisy signs off too,” I say, trying to hurry things along.
“That won’t be necessary,” Harold says. “The vineyard is all yours. You’re the sole owner.”
I stare at him. “What are you saying?” I cross my arms over my chest. “Don’t tell me this whole thing was just another one of my father’s tricks.”
Harold chuckles. “No. Daisy signed over her half to you.”
I lean back in my chair, stunned. Why would she do that?
But why am I even questioning it? Of course, Daisy would do something like that. “When? When did she sign it over to me?”
“Months ago.”
“Months ago,” I repeat. “I need you to be more specific. When exactly did she do this?”
“July. On the day of my first visit, she told me what she wanted to do and later that day, she came to my office and signed the paperwork.”
While I was sawing down that tree, I thought I heard her take off in the truck. Which only goes to prove that she meant everything she said that day. She had nothing to gain from staying because she was never planning to keep her share.
Everything she did was for me. And when she tried to tell me that, I didn’t believe her.
I’m not only a grade A asshole, I’m a fucking idiot.
“She was adamant that it’s what she wanted and she asked me not to say anything.” Harold slides a manilla envelope across the table. “There you go. That’s all the paperwork. Better check that it’s all there. I’m getting forgetful in my old age.”
To humor him, I open the envelope and slide out the document. An envelope falls to the ground, and I snatch it up. My name is written on the front in my father’s handwriting. I stare at it for a few seconds before giving the document a cursory glance and shoving everything back into the envelope.
When I lift my head, Harold is already gone. I watch him walking down the street with a little bounce in his step and laugh under my breath as I get into my car and drive home. Home.
I’ll stay to finish the harvest and then I’ll fly to New York and do everything in my power to win back Daisy.
Hell, I’ll drop to my knees and beg if I have to.
But I’m not coming back without her.
“I’m glad you decided to keep this place,” Hunter says, working beside me as we harvest the cabernet grapes. “It wouldn’t be the same without you.”
“You’re just saying that because I gave you a fancy title and a good salary.”
He laughs good-naturedly. Nothing ever gets to this guy. He’s so easygoing that it would be annoying if he wasn’t such a good worker.
“I would have taken this job for half the salary you offered.”
“Then you’re a fool.”
He laughs again. I guess he thinks I’m joking.
I carry the full bucket over to the large crates and empty it then resume clipping and tossing the grape clusters.
The last time we harvested grapes, Daisy was right by my side.
In retrospect, that was the best month of my life. I was happy. We were happy.
But like a fool, I took it all for granted. I took her for granted.
Now she’s in Madrid and Barcelona and Paris while I’m here.
Without her.
“I think you’re a good boss,” Hunter says. “You’re always coming up with ways to improve the process and everyone respects you because you’re fair and you give clear instructions so everyone knows what’s expected of them. I’ve had some terrible bosses over the years. But I think the difference is that you really care about this place.”
“I’m just trying to get the job done as efficiently as possible.”
“No. It’s more than that. You know those jobs where you keep checking the clock because you can’t wait to leave and do something enjoyable? I never check the time anymore. This doesn’t even feel like work because I’d want to do it even if I wasn’t getting paid.”
I can’t fully relate because, for most of my adult life, I’ve been the boss.
But later, as I walk back to the house with dirt on my boots and my muscles aching, I understand what Hunter meant about doing a job that doesn’t feel like work.
Ever since I decided to keep the vineyard, I haven’t given a single thought to my next technology venture.
I was so opposed to running this vineyard because it was what my father wanted but despite myself, I ended up loving it.
How’s that for irony?
I wander through the house with a gnawing sensation in my gut that tells me something is missing.
The house is too empty. Too quiet. Too still.
I’ve got the solitude I always craved in the past but even that is tainted with memories of Daisy.
She’s everywhere. Her scent still lingers on the T-shirt she left on the floor of my bedroom.
The other day, I was searching for the remote and found a hair tie and her tinted lip balm wedged between the sofa cushions.
When I was doing my laundry, I found two odd socks and a pair of lace panties in the dryer.
Her shampoo and conditioner and shower gel are still in the holder.
The book she was reading–Donna Tartt’s The Secret History –is facedown on the coffee table, still open to the page she was on.
I feel like I’m living with a ghost who haunts my dreams and every waking hour.
Later that evening, I drop into the leather chair in the study and stare at my name on the envelope in my hand.
Guess it’s time to hear what that bastard had to say for himself.