Last time, he made a few sniffy comments about myMarried at First Sightobsession but, to his credit, let me watch it anyway. Though really, after what we just did, he’s lost all right to pass judgment on my life choices.
He re-emerges, handing me my gin. He has a small whiskey for himself. Only one, of course, because the man has superhuman levels of self-control.
“Thank you,” I say, taking a large sip.
His brow furrows slightly. “Let’s drink these and go to bed. It’s late.”
“Yes, Doctor Daddy,” I tease.
Edward exhales through his nose—the long-suffering kind that I know means I’m being simultaneously exhausting and endearing.
He reaches out and pokes my nose like he’s pressing aDaisy, behavebutton. “Less cheek, you menace.”
I smirk, swirling my drink lazily. “If you keep scolding me in that stern, disapproving voice, I’m just going to give you more cheek. It’s basic cause and effect.”
“I’m serious.” His tone shifts, and when I look up, he’s watching me with that concerned, slightly exasperated, very Edward expression. “I know this is your job, but these constant late nights aren’t good for you.”
Or for him—maybe that’s what he’s really saying. Because as much as he works brutal shifts at the hospital, he also adjusts aroundmygraveyard hours.
I study his face—the tired, handsome angles of it—and a flicker of doubt creeps in.
Is this becoming too much for him?
Am I?
“I have a full night off Wednesday evening if you’re free,” I ask in a small voice.
“Yes, but I’m warning you now—we’ll be in bed by ten. I need my sleep.”
“Fine by me.” I pause, taking another sip. “Oh! Next Saturday, I was thinking we could try that new vegan place near mine. What do you think?”
He hesitates, a crease appearing between his eyebrows. “Ah. Actually—there’s a Tate Britain members’ night that evening. I’d planned to attend. Could we reschedule? Or perhaps I could pick you up after and take you to mine?”
Hmmm.
“Or . . . I couldcome with youto the Tate?”
“You don’t have to. I know it’s not your thing. You’d be bored.”
I feel a little insulted.
That’s the same line he trotted out for his work conference—“You’ll be bored.”
What does he think I do all day—sell bidets and read gossip rags? I mean, yes, occasionally, but I’ve been known to glance at the news when I’m not busy being a cultural illiterate.
“Excuse me? I love art,” I say, sitting up straighter, fully offended now. “That exhibition at the Tate was incredible. The giant room with all the flickering lights and mirrors was properly mind-blowing.”
My eyes heroically refuse to dart towardMarried at First Sighton the telly, where some bloke named Jez is currently sobbing into a protein shake.
“That was TateModern, not TateBritain. Tate Britain focuses on historical and classic British art from the 1500s onward.Tate Modernhas your”—he air-quotes—“’edgier contemporary pieces.’”
Ugh. The superiority of this man.
I cross my arms. “I just got them mixed up. I’d still love to go. But I suppose you don’t think I’m smart enough for Tate Britain, is that it?”
He presses his lips together. “Daisy—”
“It’s fine,” I barrel on, ignoring thecalm down, madwomanlook on his face. “Clearly, I’m just anidiotwith no appreciation for anything beyondLove Island, bidets, and yoga mats.”
