It’s fine. London cabbies have seen it all.
Just another girl crying in the back of a black cab over a man who can’t decide if he wants her or not.
The knock comes just as I’m drifting between exhaustion and restless thoughts.
For a second, I assume I’ve imagined it. That my brain, being the utter dick that it is, has manufactured this as a sick joke.
Then—another knock.
A slow, insistent rhythm that sends a pulse of adrenaline flooding through me.
I blink in the dim light, my heart stumbling over itself as I fumble out of bed. The floor is freezing against my bare feet, but I barely notice. My pulse is too busy thundering in my ears as I shuffle, half conscious, down the stairs.
I pull open the door.
And there he is.
Edward, standing in my doorway at one in the morning, looking . . . tired. No, wrecked. Like he’s had a full hour of fighting himself before ending up here.
Which is satisfying.
His suit jacket is gone, shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His hair is unkempt. But it’s his expression that stills me.
The kind of look that makes my stomach flip, because Edward Cavendish is never uncertain.
And yet, right now, he looks uncertain.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I—” He lets out a breath. “I’m trying, Daisy. I just . . . I’m not always getting it right.”
I don’t even realize I’ve moved until I’m pressing into him, forehead resting against his chest.
For a long, quiet moment, we just stand there. Lettingwhatever this issettle around us.
“Let me in?” he murmurs against my hair.
I nod.
He steps inside, closes the door, and follows me to bed.
We don’t speak when we slip under the covers, when he wraps himself around me.
CHAPTER 35
Daisy
I will never complainabout BritShop again. Ever. It’s fabulous. Who wouldn’t want to do night shifts, talking absolute bollocks to an audience of insomniacs? I love it.
Lizzie plants her hands on her hips and glares at me. “Stop doing that with your face.”
We’re getting ready for our slots with last-minute makeup attacks at the corner of the set.
“She’s not even trying to hide it,” Michelle cuts in, narrowing her eyes as she grips my chin and aggressively dusts eyeshadow across my lids. “She’s having dirty thoughts right now. I feel violated.”
“Oh, shut it,” I scoff—or try to, at least, but it comes out as a massive grin instead.
Because honestly?
Life’s a dream. Even BritShop, the place where my dignity has been repeatedly slaughtered on live TV, is a dream.
