Everything feels light and floaty, like I’ve been injected with gooey happiness serum ever since Edward Cavendish decided to masturbate in a tent to videos of me, thus launching the most unhinged romantic chain of events in human history.
Even the boring stuff is brilliant now.
Grabbing toilet rolls at Tesco? Hilarious.
Hunting for potato waffles in the frozen aisle? Fucking delightful.
Standing in the sweets section, staring wistfully at a pack of Percy Pigs and debating whether to buy two? A deeply fulfilling experience.
The past few weeks, everything’s tilted in the best way. I’ve been spending nights at his townhouse, curled up in a life I absolutely should not belong in, but here we are.
We’ve done this weird dance between his world and mine, and somehow, it works. We’ve had picnics in Hyde Park, where he brought actual crystal champagne flutes. We went on those little swan pedal boats, where he looked ridiculous—six-foot-something of brooding, put-together handsomeness crammed into a plastic bird—but he did it anyway, because I asked. At one point, I fed him grapes and genuinely had to stop myself from climbing onto his lap in broad daylight. It was a close call. A few more minutes and I’d have been banned from Hyde Park.
It’s been . . . nice. More than nice. Like being wrapped in a warm, cozy bubble where our differences don’t matter. Where I don’t have to think about how different we are or worry about the fact that he introduced me as his niece.
Michelle leans back from her masterpiece—my heavy-handed “dusty pink” eyelids—and gives me a critical once-over.
“Does he have any friends?” she asks. “Because I’d like to be this disgustingly happy too.”
I perk up.
“Actually, yeah. He’s got these friends—the McLaren brothers. One of them, Liam, owns some finance company, but he’s shacked up. The other, Patrick, is single. He owns hotels.”
Michelle’s eyebrows shoot up. “Is he hot?”
“Gorgeous.”
“Right, well, get me set up then.”
“I haven’t met him.”
Lizzie arches a brow. “Have you met Liam yet?”
I pause. “No, we’re not at the ‘meet the friends’ stage yet,” I admit, carefully avoiding her pointed look.
She tries to mask the concern creeping into her face.
“Look,” I say, a little too brightly. “We’re doing our first official thing together tomorrow at Sophia’s rehearsal dinner.”
Lizzie’s eyes narrow. “As a couple?”
“No . . . but only because we’re not telling anyone yet.”
Michelle rolls her eyes. “Are you two at least going to play footsie under the table?”
“Edward’s not really the type.”
Lizzie grins, wicked. “Knowing Daisy, she’ll be under the table sucking him off.”
I gasp, clutching my chest in mock outrage. “How dare you.” Then I pause, considering. “I would only do that in the privacy of his house. I have some dignity. I think.”
Lizzie frowns. “And Sophia still doesn’t have any idea?”
“Not yet, but she will, and it’ll be fine,” I say firmly.
We can make this work. I feel it in my bones. Sure, Sophia might kick off at first, but she’ll come around. Deep down, she’ll be chuffed for us. I’d bet my last fiver on it. She’s my best mate—she’ll see how stupidly besotted I am with him.
Before I can convince myself of this any further, a bellowing voice cuts through the studio.
