Chapter 37
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Daisy
Later that night I’m still stewing over my dream and the conversation with Pete. I’m almost positive they’re linked.
I’ve never had a sixth sense, but that dream felt like a premonition. And even though Beckett claimed that Zelda was a fraud, how do you explain the cards I drew?
When eleven o’clock rolls around and Beckett still isn’t home, I climb into the hot tub with a bottle of rosé, and with each minute that passes and still no sign of Beckett, I am convinced he’s hooking up with a beautiful girl who looks nothing like me.
I take a swig of rosé straight from the bottle and look up at the stars—tiny white pinpricks on an inky canvas. I can’t even find the brightest one to make a wish on. That’s how shitty this day has gone.
I’m not sure what makes me angrier. That he might be hooking up with someone else. Or that he deceived me.
Bonus points. At least I have the hot tub to myself tonight. I can spread out and take up as much room as I want.
Even as I silently seethe and call him every name in the book, I am inexplicably jealous of the woman he’s hooking up with.
A woman I’ve conjured up in my imagination.
I can envision the entire scenario in my head—a dreamscape starring Beckett Heyward and a Brazilian model. She’s tall and willowy with long dark hair and a body honed by HIIT classes six times a week.
They’ll probably share post-coital wheatgrass smoothies while admiring each other’s superior genetics.
Asshole .
I chug more wine, getting angrier and drunker by the minute as my thoughts flip back and forth from the porn scene to Beckett keeping me in the dark about Michael Castellano’s true identity.
This is exactly the kind of stunt my mother would pull. She would keep me in the dark until she was ready to implement her plans and schemes and then she’d feed me some half-truths. Just enough to ensure she had my full support so I wouldn’t blow things for her.
Everything was an elaborate game for Astrid, but she was the only one who knew the rules. She’d bend them and change them and manipulate them to benefit herself.
I am sick and tired of being a pawn in everyone’s game. First Astrid. Then Robert. And now Beckett.
That dirty rat.
“There you are.”
Speak of the devil. How dare he waltz in with his clean shave, designer clothes, and disheveled hair. Sex hair . He looks thoroughly fucked.
I bet she enjoyed running her fingers through his thick, tousled hair. I bet she just loved riding that big dick of his.
I aim a glare at Beckett. “Well, if it isn’t the Beast himself. Have a good night?”
“Not particularly.”
“What a shame. So she didn’t live up to your impossibly high expectations?”
“Who is the ‘she’ in this equation?”
“Whoever you were hooking up with.” I lift my chin. “I hope you at least brought me some cinnamon rolls.”
He has the nerve to laugh. “How much wine have you had to drink?”
I’m well past tipsy and on my way to drunk so I conveniently ignore the question and ask one of my own. “Are you just going to stand there in your Tom Ford designer threads, or are you going to join me?”
I slowly run my tongue over my lips, noting the way his eyes follow the movement. “I dare you.”
I’m expecting him to tell me that he’s not going to play these juvenile games. But he holds my gaze and starts unbuttoning his pristine white shirt, revealing his bronzed skin and sculpted abs. They’re so defined that I can run my fingers over them and count each one.
It’s unfair that he should be allowed to look this good.
It’s downright inconvenient that I’ve become so enamored with my bitter rival that I’m almost willing to overlook all his dastardly deeds. Almost.
He tosses his shirt on the ground, which is so unlike him.
I snooped around in his bedroom while he was out. I’m not proud to admit that I went through his things, but I put every item back where I found it because he would notice if something was in the wrong place.
The man is meticulous. Every T-shirt and item of clothing is freshly laundered and neatly folded in the drawers. His bed was made, all the corners tucked in with military precision. Dress clothes hung in the closet on wooden hangers with three inches of breathing room between—he’s so anal he probably measures.
Other than the box of condoms in his bedside table, I didn’t find anything of interest. There were no personal items whatsoever. No photos or keepsakes or receipts.
He’s watching me, and I’m watching him as he pushes his pants down and kicks them aside, leaving him in nothing but boxer briefs. My gaze involuntarily dips to the bulge in his boxers as he strokes himself through the cotton.
I have to take a fortifying sip of wine to stop myself from drooling, but I can’t stop my thighs from clenching.
Damn him to hell and back.
Beckett climbs into the hot tub facing me, and just like the last time, he spreads out, shrinking all the available space, smirking at me while he does it.
When his leg brushes against mine, I feel that familiar jolt of electricity and curse my brain for sending the wrong signal to my body.
He’s the enemy.
But he defended you at the bar.
He kept you in the dark about Michael Castellano.
But he bought you tampons and chocolate.
He has sex hair so he was obviously with another woman. No meeting lasts that long.
But you don’t know that for sure. Stop jumping to conclusions.
He leans forward, grabs the bottle out of my hand and takes a big swig. “Truth or Dare?” he says, holding the bottle hostage.
Our eyes lock and hold. “Dare.”
“You’re so predictable.”
What a joke. I’ve told him plenty of truths. I’ve been more honest with him than he’s been with me.
I’m starting to think that nothing he’s ever told me is the truth. It was all just sweet words designed to get exactly what he wants—my cooperation.
“So are you.” I spread my arms across the back of the hot tub and push out my chest. Look, but don’t touch . “So what’s the dare?” I give him a seductive smile and bat my lashes, practically purring. “Do you want me to seduce Michael Castellano?”
I had no intention of saying that but those are the words that came out of my mouth, and I can’t take them back now.
A vein in his temple I’ve never noticed before is throbbing. Good. Let him get angry.
This wasn’t how I planned to broach the topic, but I’m on a roll now, so I double down. “Should we offer him more than just this vineyard?”
That little muscle in his jaw is working overtime. I can tell he’s trying to rein in his temper, but I’d rather see him lose control, so I keep going, keep taunting and teasing, trying to push him over the edge.
“I could be his very own Astrid.” I tap my finger against my chin like I’m thinking it through. “If I play my cards right, I can walk away with both vineyards. After forty years with the same woman, he’s probably looking for a little variety.”
Beckett’s nostrils flare and his eyes darken. “That’s not who you are,” he says through clenched teeth.
I laugh. “Really?” If I weren’t so drunk, I’d be disgusted with myself. But hey, all’s fair in love and war and he had it coming. “Would you bet your life on it?”
His eyes narrow like he’s trying to figure out what game I’m playing.
“How do you know I haven’t been playing you all along? Seems only fair since this is obviously just one big game to you .” My voice escalates until I’m almost yelling.
“I thought we were finally a team.” I shake my head, getting angrier and more worked up by the minute. “Silly me. You were just using me as a pawn in your own twisted little game.” And that’s what really gets to me. The complete lack of respect. “So really…you’re no better than your father, are you?”
He flinches. Bullseye. My poison arrow hit the mark.
“What are you talking about?” His voice is measured and controlled. So steely it should scare me, but it doesn’t.
“I’m talking about Michael Castellano. Your uncle .”
He laughs under his breath and looks up at the sky. “So, that’s what this is all about.” He relaxes, looking visibly relieved now that he’s cracked the code, and chugs some wine. “He’s not my uncle.”
“Interesting. So he’s not, in fact, your father’s illegitimate brother ?”
“Just because we share DNA doesn’t make him family.” He spreads his arm across the back of the hot tub and takes another swig of wine. “Who told you?”
“It doesn’t matter who told me. It should have come from you.”
He shrugs. So casual. So cavalier. So dismissive .
“I can’t see how it matters,” he says calmly.
Maybe I’m being irrational. Maybe I’m overreacting and this really isn’t a big deal. But it feels like a big deal to me. “It matters to me.” And really, shouldn’t that be enough?
“Well, it shouldn’t.” Another dismissive shrug.
As if he has any right to tell me how I’m supposed to feel.
I’m drunk and angry but most of all…hurt.
I hate being left in the dark.
I hate being an unwitting accomplice.
And I hate that he’s trying to minimize my feelings when all I’ve ever done was try to validate his .
“I can’t believe I went along with your plans. You’re going to destroy this place if it’s the last thing you do, aren’t you? You’ll set this place on fire and dance on the ashes.”
His eyes are at half-mast, and he doesn’t look the least bit repentant. “Don’t worry, princess. I’ll save the last dance for you.”
And that does it. I’ve had enough. “Enjoy your hot tub, asshole.”
I stand, intent on making a speedy but graceful exit, but as soon as I get to my feet, all the blood rushes out of my head, and little dots form in front of my eyes.
The smart thing would be to sit back down until it passes.
But I, of course, don’t choose that option.
Which is how I end up sprawled on the ground, with Beckett crouched over me.