I lunge forward—or as far as this duvet cocoon will let me—and snatch the dress from him.
His signet ring glints in the bedroom light, that family crest practically smirking at me, as if it knows I’m a complete disgrace.
“Sorry, Uncle E,” Spencer mumbles, his smooth-talking Casanova vibe collapsing into a pathetic, whimpering mess.
“Why thefuckis your uncle here?” I shriek, wrestling with the duvet to keep it in place while simultaneously trying to squirm into my dress—a logistical nightmare. “And since when isheyour uncle? How does that even work?” I thrust an accusing finger at Edward.
Edward cuts in before Spencer can muster a reply, his tone suggesting he is actively restraining himself from committing murder. “Which question would you like me to tackle first? Why I’m in my own house?”
My stomach doesn’t just sink—it plummets through the floor, tumbling three stories down, blasting through the earth’s core, and landing somewhere in the middle of the Australian outback.
Edward fucking Cavendish’s house.
“One might also inquire,” Edward continues, every syllable dripping with disdain, “why my nephew is playing dress-up doctor in my bedroom—wearing my work coat.” He pauses, letting the ridiculousness of it all settle in the air. “But maybe I’m just old-fashioned about these things.”
Spencer looks like he’s praying the floor will swallow him whole. “I’m . . . really sorry,” he mumbles.
Edward’s fucking bedroom.
The bed where I just—oh my god.
I yank my dress over my head with the kind of frantic determination that would make a firefighter proud. Somewhere, a seam rips, and the whole thing is absolutely on backward—the tag is scraping my chest— but I couldn’t care less. I’d wear it inside out, ass-up, and tied in knots if it meant putting even an inch more distance between me and Edward’s icy glare.
“You said you lived here with your brother,” I hiss at Spencer through clenched teeth. “You lying little shit.”
He opens his mouth, but all that escapes is a pitiful wheeze.
“Not exactly. My nephew is staying here while he waits for student housing,” Edward answers for him.
“Student . . .” The word barely makes it out before choking on itself.
Spencer turns to Edward. “Please don’t tell Mum.”
Mum?
I blink. Hard. “How old is this man-child? Someone better start explaining.”
“He’s Cressida’s son—Millie’s sister,” Edward states coolly. Millie, his wife that passed away—her nephew. Shit. “My twenty-year-old nephew. And godson. I assume you didn’t waste time on trivial details like age before you decided to defile my bedroom.”
A horrified squeak slips out of me despite the hand I slap over my mouth. “Twenty?”
I’m a cougar.
“Indeed.” Edward skewers Spencer with a look.
“He said he was twenty-nine! A gastroenterologist at Waterloo East!”
Edward exhales sharply, like it physically pains him to be a part of this conversation. “He’s an aspiring gastroenterologist. Currently an undergrad at King’s College, working toward his medical degree.”
He shifts his attention to Spencer, voice dropping to a lethal calm. “Take off my coat and glasses. And put some damn clothes on.Now.”
It hits me—the glasses, the coat, all just pilfered props in Spencer’s pathetic doctor dress-up game.
“You asshole,” I hiss at him, my eyes narrowing into slits.
He scrambles to follow Edward’s orders, tearing off the coat in a frantic rush and fumbling for his jeans, his naked dick flopping around and somehow making this trainwreck even worse.
“You stole your uncle’s identity just to get laid?”
