“It’s already on its way. You’re not leaving until I see you safely in it.”
God, that fucking tone.
It drags me straight back to a memory I’ve tried to bury.
Years ago, Edward picked Charlie and me up from some party where I’d made the brilliant choice to mix cheap prosecco with top-shelf gin—trust me, don’t. I was a giggling, sloppy mess, sprawled across Charlie’s lap in the back of Edward’s spotless Land Rover.
“Remove yourself from my brother’s lap,” he’d said, each word laced with cold disapproval.
Even now, years later, every encounter with Edward feels like I’m back in that car, shrinking under his judgment.
But not this time.
This time, I square my shoulders, lift my chin, and adopt a breezy, unbothered tone. “I’m sure you’ve seen worse things in the operating theater. No need to look so scandalized.”
“Seriously?” His voice drips with incredulity. “You never cease to amaze me with what comes out of your mouth. I handle intricate surgeries weekly, but somehow this ridiculous scene tops the list of things I’d rather unsee.”
Rude.
I huff, turning to grab my coat, which has somehow gotten tangled in his fancy coat rack.
“I didn’t do anything wrong,” I say indignantly, tugging harder. “He’s the one who catfished me.”
Shut up, Daisy. Just focus on yanking your cheap coat out of this cashmere nightmare and get out of here.
“Oh, for god’s sake,” I grumble as it snags again, this time dragging half the coat rack down with a clatter. Perfect. Not only am I a cradle-robbing deviant, I’m also a furniture vandal.
“Allow me,” Edward says, stepping in before I can stop him. His broad chest brushes my back as he leans over to untangle the mess, and I go still. I’m trying—really trying—not to notice how good he smells, or how solid his chest feels pressed against my shoulders.
He stiffens too, like being this close to me triggers some full-body recoil.
With a heavy, pained sigh, he finally frees my coat and hands it over. “I never said you did anything wrong,” he says, scrubbing a hand along his jaw. “I’ll deal with my nephew.”
There’s a beat of silence, thick with that familiar judgment I’ve come to expect from him. “Maybe this can be a lesson for your next dating adventure.”
Oh, no, he did not.
I hug my coat to my chest, bristling. “What, so now I’m supposed to assume every guy I meet is a liar? Or is that advice reserved just for the posh ones with fancy postcodes?”
“At the very least, you might consider vetting your dates a bit more thoroughly—and maybe double-checking whose bedroom you’re stumbling into. Just a thought.”
I open my mouth, fully prepared to launch a scathing rebuttal, but he beats me to it.
“I’m serious, Daisy. You need to consider your personal safety more carefully.”
“Ididtake precautions,” I argue, even though I already know how pathetic I sound. “I got his ID and sent it to my friend.”
Edward arches a disbelieving brow. “That’s hardly sufficient. And clearly, you didn’t even glance at his birth year.”
“I didn’t think—”
“Precisely the problem,” he cuts in, his voice crisp with disapproval.
Defiance flares in my chest.
Who does this man think he is, lecturing me like I’m some naughty schoolgirl?
I’m a twenty-six-year-old woman who, yes, has a knack for poor judgment when it comes to men—but that’s beside the point.
