“I should go,” he says. “Let’s discuss this some other time.”
My heart sinks. Right. Sure. Definitely. Some other time.
“Will you be okay getting home? I can call you a cab.”
“No,” I say too quickly, willing myself not to cry.Ridiculous, Daisy. “I’m heading to work anyway. Fun Friday night, right? Working till one a.m.—an easy shift.”
I try to smile, but I canfeelthat it looks more like I just bit into a lemon.
He nods. For a second, I think he might say something to make this hurt less.
Instead, he turns and walks away, back to his doctor friend, who glances at me and smiles kindly.
That kind of soft, pitying smile people give when they realize you’re a complete idiot.
CHAPTER 25
Daisy
“Now, we come tothe crown jewel of tonight’s garden collection—” I grunt, wrestling with what has to be the world’s most uncooperative garden kneeler. The bloody thing keeps folding and unfolding like it’s got a mind of its own.
“This innovative multi-position kneeler converts from bench to padding with just one smooth motion—” The device snaps shut, nearly amputating my fingers.
“Watch how easily this transforms into a kneeling position—”
I flip the kneeler over, trying to maintain some dignity as my Union Jack skirt decides to stage its own Brexit from my thighs. “Perfect for those long, lonely weeding sessions.”
Lonely?
Not sure I meant to say that.
I grip the handles, preparing to demonstrate what the manual refers to as a “graceful descent.”
There is nothing graceful about what happens next.
My body does a sort of lurching drunk squat, my knees buckle, and I’m caught between standing and kneeling.
“These ergonomic handles provide support as you”—I wobble, barely stopping myself from toppling forward onto the astroturf. For the love of god, let this segment end—“effortlessly lower yourself to soil level.”
Now I’m stuck in what is, quite frankly, a compromising position—kneeling, gripping the handles for dear life, while also trying to keep my knees together.
God, I hate this job sometimes.
Stupid bloody chair.
Stupid, silly Daisy, thinking that Edward Cavendish—walking, talking, tailored-navy-suit-wearing perfection—would ever give a second chance to someone who spends her evenings losing fights with homicidal garden furniture. He clearly overcame his moment of insanity.
No, Edward is currently in bed. Having grown-up, sophisticated doctor-sex while I wrestle with garden furniture under the fluorescent lights of a shopping channel studio.
I bet she didn’t act like a complete idiot when he invited her over for dinner. Bet she just smiled elegantly and said something classy likeThat sounds lovely, Edwardinstead of flinging accusations.
I also bet she’s in that big, manly bed, curled up against his broad chest, tangled in those expensive sheets.
Ugh.
Lucky bitch.
“The cushioning provides comfort for extended periods of—”
