I snort. “I’m not famous. Carrie probably let you in because you’re handsome.”
“Right. So was Ted Bundy apparently.”
“Why do I feel like I’m being scolded already?”
“I’m not scolding. Merely highlighting the glaring lack of security here. Now, regarding our critical business—I’d like to resolve it.”
Oh, we’re back to that.
My heart flutters. I bite my lip. “What exactly are you proposing? Planning to whisk me away mid-infomercial? Because Simon will suffer an actual medical emergency if I abandon the telescopic pruner demonstration. I have thirty minutes left.”
He chuckles. “I’ll wait. If I’m allowed. Watch you finish your shift. Then give you a lift home.”
The grin that spreads across my face is entirely involuntary, a gooey warmth pooling in my chest despite my best efforts to act indifferent.
“Okay. Make yourself at home, Dr. Cavendish. And prepare to be dazzled.”
“I’m sure by the end of this,” he deadpans, “I’ll have purchased the full garden tool display.”
I smile up at him, already mentally calculating how long it’ll take to get to my flat. And how much self-control I’ll need to survive the ride because my clit is throbbing loud enough for Camera Two to pick up as background noise.
Ladies and gentlemen of the BritShop audience, I am absolutely going to scale this man like one of the trees I just demonstrated pruning equipment for.
Thoroughly.
Repeatedly.
Fact.
CHAPTER 26
Edward
She strides out ofthe studio, that pleated mini skirt skimming the curve of her thighs with every step, paired with a leather jacket that does nothing to shield her from the cold—or from my attention.
A restless heat knots low inside me.
Watching Daisy on set has felt like bloody foreplay. Every coy smile and teasing lilt in her voice, the shift of her hips as she demonstrated whatever overpriced nonsense they were peddling . . . it had me gripping the arm of my chair like a man barely holding it together.
My jaw tightens as my gaze flickers down her body before I can stop myself.
I let out a sharp breath.
Right. Rein it in.
I won’t admit to her that I’ve spent the last three hours driving in aimless circles around London, as if I had anywhere else to be, only to end up here, outside her TV studio.
“You letting me drive?” she asks, flashing that grin of hers.
“Not a chance,” I say, brisk. “Where’s your coat?”
She spreads her arms wide, as if to sayta-da. “I’m wearing it.”
“Stylish as that leather jacket may be—”
“Pleather, actually,” she cuts in, spinning with a theatrical twirl. “But convincing, isn’t it?”
“Regardless of its authenticity, it’s still insufficient for these temperatures at two in the morning.”
