Then, because I am me, I blurt out, “Have you really not been with anyone since Millie?”
“No,” he says simply.
I glance up at him, trying to play it cool. “I feel honored,” I murmur, still tracing nonsense on his skin.
“I’m the one who’s honored,” he says. And it’s the way he says it—soft, completely sincere—that makes my idiot heart do a somersault.
“Why not?” I ask, because apparently, I’m incapable of letting a romantic moment breathe.
He pauses as if thoughtfully considering his answer.
“I’ve never been one for one-night stands or flings,” he says. “And I wasn’t in a rush after Millie.”
I shift, propping myself up to get a better look at him, likereallylook at him. “Am I allowed to ask how many women you’ve been with? You can tell me to shut up, because I know that’s overstepping and absolutely none of my business.”
“Five.” No hesitation.
“Five?” I repeat, voice going higher than intended. “Like, the number after four? The same number of Greggs veggie sausage rolls I inhale when I’m hungover?”
A man who looks like that—jawline carved by Michelangelo—having the same body count as my shoe size?
Make it make sense.
He chuckles. “I was with Millie for years.”
“Still,” I argue, my brain performing some mental gymnastics to figure out how a full decade in a relationship only leaves room for four other people. “Not yourentireadult life. A man who looks like you must’ve had a queue.”
“You flatter me. Two of the others were long-term relationships too.”
I bite my lip, suddenly feeling . . . vulnerable. “You don’t want to know my number?”
He shrugs. “You’ll tell me if you want. It bears no relevance.”
“It’s . . . more than five.”
Okay, it’ssignificantlymore than five.
Like, I probably shouldn’t do the actual math if I want to maintain any dignity here.
Not because I was out here setting world records or anything, but because . . . well, I like sex. Time passes. Numbers add up.
“Unless your number includes a scandal with a prime minister or you’ve somehow seduced the archbishop,” he says, voice completely dry, “I hardly think the numbers bear discussion.”
I bite my lip to keep from laughing outright. Even when he’s talking aboutshagging, he sounds posh. Like he’s hosting aBBC Radio 4panel instead of lying here, naked, while I doodle on his chest.
I think about my rather less distinguished lineup.
“Not quite. More like ‘Dave who fixed my boiler’ and ‘Stockbroker Prick Nick.’” I pause, considering. “Though, if we’re judging trends, I’d say my taste is improving significantly. Gone from plumbers and pretentious finance bros to . . . surgeons. That’s personal growth, right?”
His laugh rumbles beneath me, and he presses a kiss to my forehead. “That’s one way of looking at it.”
“For the record,” I add, “you had your own little lineup at your uncle’s funeral, you know.”
“A lineup?”
“Oh please. All those women, finding excuses to touch your bicep and tell you howdevastatedthey were. It was like watching an old-money version ofThe Bachelor.”
He exhales a short laugh. “It was a funeral, Daisy.”
