As Shantelle makes her way out of the Cavendish Vineyards, she’s seething. Who the hell does Caleb Cavendish think he is?
Fücking bastard. Threatening the man she loves.
She should have known better than to ask a snake for a favor.
Her foot presses harder against the gas.
What pisses her off the most is how he laughed. Mocked her. As if she were some love-struck föol grasping at straws.
The worst part?
Maybe she is.
Because she has no plan. No brilliant, föolproof scheme that’ll make Claire disappear from Damon’s life for good, anything that doesn’t involve a homicide that is. And Caleb is right about one thing—her past attempts have been absolute shït.
The TV stunt? A disaster. An embarrassing attempt that barely made a dent in Damon’s infatuation with Claire. The whole thing had
