I take a deep breath and step out onto the gravel.
“Ready?” he asks.
“Not even remotely,” I mutter, but I follow him inside anyway.
The moment we step into the grand dining room, it’s clear—we’re the last to arrive. A solid thirty people—Sophia’s family, friends, and what appears to be half theSunday TimesRich List—are already settled, glasses clinking, laughter buzzing.
Which means Edward and I entering together might as well have been announced by an actual town crier.
Sophia beams at us. “Thank you for giving Daisy a lift, Edward. I’m so sorry I couldn’t, darling.”
I kiss her cheek. “Don’t be ridiculous, you’ve got enough on.”
I even give Charlie a cheerfully hostile little wave. He nods stiffly. I smirk. Asshole.
Scanning the seating arrangement, I spot two empty seats—one beside Sophia, the other beside Giles.
Something warm flickers in my chest. Sophia wants me beside her. As maid of honor. As her best friend. Maybe I haven’t completely cocked this up yet.
“Hello, Daisy,” Mrs. Cavendish says coolly.
I turn, offering my most respectable smile. “Hello, Mrs. Cavendish.”
Twenty-six fucking years of living on this estate, and I still don’t get a “Please, call me Catherine.”
She nods politely, then returns to her conversation, apparently satisfied with our brief, soulless interaction.
I slide into my seat, letting the chatter around me settle like background noise. Opposite Sophia, Imogen is mid-story, herhands flying as she recounts some workplace catastrophe at her law firm.
“So this absolute child of a paralegal,” she says, her voice dripping with outrage, “accidentally sent a confidential client memo to the opposing counsel.”
I lean in, nodding like I, too, have suffered the grave incompetency of useless paralegals.
Meanwhile, Edward has already been sucked into a conversation with his uncle—a retired surgeon. Something about NHS budgets.
He’s deep in conversation across the table, a frown furrowing his brow in concentration. His fingers absently tap against his glass as he speaks, his jaw tensing as he makes some grave, intelligent point.
And I do not know why my lizard brain is so deeply turned on by Edward having a serious discussion about funding allocation.
But here we are.
He is way hotter than Charlie, who’s all charm and easy smiles—the kind of man who performed rather than engaged.
Edward engages. He actuallylistensbefore he speaks. He makes sharply worded, intelligent arguments and my entire brain just . . . melts.
It’s the intelligence. It’s the quiet authority.
I take a sip of my wine, my lips curling into a secret, knowing smile.
Because right now, I feel like the luckiest girl in the world.
Except two hours later the novelty of having an intelligent boyfriend has worn off.
I take matters into my own hands and pour myself another glass of wine, instead of waiting for Marie, the server. At this point, I should just start drinking from the bottle.
Sophia is talking about every minute detail of the wedding and Imogen is somehow still managing to contribute new thoughts on floral arrangements. I think she missed her true calling.
I’m pretending to be interested but I lost interest thirty minutes ago. I’m a terrible bridesmaid. Though, in my defense, Sophia is too obsessed and quite frankly she has too much time on her hands.
