I blink up at him, delighted.
“It’s very useful going out with a world-class surgeon. Not that we are going out! Just . . .”
“Daisy, we’ve established, we’re going out.”
I swallow.
“Okay,” I croak.
And because I cannot begin to process that in any healthy way right now, I double down—my strokes growing faster. Two pink spots bloom high on his cheeks.
“I can’t,” he groans, grabbing my wandering hand, like some tedious, responsible grownup who has actual things to do today besides being edged to madness in his own bed. “I’ve got a conference this morning. I’m already late. If I don’t stop you now, I’ll never drag myself out of this bed.”
“Aconference?” I echo, scandalized. “On a Saturday? What monster schedules these things on weekends?”
He lets out a pained breath.
“I already agreed to it,” he mutters, sounding less than thrilled. “It’s the Global Health and Surgery Initiative—an international humanitarian conference. We’re supporting an NGO that sends surgical teams abroad. It’s at the QEII Centre. A thousand people will be there, so I need to turn up.” He rubsa frustrated hand down his face. “Particularly since I’m a guest speaker.”
“You’re speaking at the QEII?” I sit up, beaming. “Wow . . . that’s sexy.”
“That is not its intention,” he says, dry as hell. “I’d hope I’m there for my medical expertise.”
Before I can fire back, he groans, leans down, and plants a kiss on my forehead. Then he peels back the blankets with a muttered “This might be the hardest thing I’ve ever done—getting out of bed with you in it.”
I smirk,verypleased with myself.
I prop myself up against the pillows, watching as a naked Edward stalks to his wardrobe and pulls out a fresh pair of neatly folded underwear.
His entire drawer is a military operation—everything stacked, arranged, color-coordinated to an almost unsettling degree.
A man who folds his underpants? Not inherently hot.
A surgeon who folds his underpants and speaks at a prestigious humanitarian conference?
That’s dangerously hot.
“I suppose I should let you get on with it,” I say, stretching lazily across the sheets. “Who’s going to this thing, anyway?”
“Industry and medical people. Interested members of the public.”
I barely pause before blurting, “Can I come? I’d love to hear you talk.”
He stills. It’s the smallest pause—half a second. The flicker of something before he schools his expression back into composure.
My stomach dips.
“You’d be bored,” he says, reaching for a shirt.
I frown. “I wouldn’t. Not if it’s you up there.”
He smiles.
But it’s the polite Cavendish smile. The one that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
“Maybe next time,” he says, voice gentle but still . . . off. “I’m not sure I could get tickets at this late notice.”
There it is again.
