The weight of everything I might have ruined crashes over me, and suddenly I’m crying—proper, ugly crying that I couldn’t stop if I tried.
Something shifts in his expression. He exhales roughly before pulling me against his chest.
I collapse into him, fists bunching in his shirt, shoulders shaking as I sob.
“I’m sorry for being a brat,” I choke out against the fabric, my voice muffled and miserable. “It’s just . . . being at your mum’s house, that dinner, I just wanted to let my hair down, you know? But I didn’t mean to go full-on Ibiza teen on her first dodgy package holiday.”
He huffs a small laugh, but his arms tighten around me. “It’s fine. And I really am sorry for what I said at the meal. I never meant to hurt you.”
“It’snotfine, though,” I say, shaking my head against his chest. “It’snotfine that you were tired for work, that I made it worse—I don’t want that, Edward. I don’t want to be someone who drains you.”
His arms stay firm around me, but I can feel the tension humming through them. “Daisy—”
“When you’re with someone,” I continue, voice wobbling, “you’re supposed to bring out the best in them. Not the worst. And I was selfish.”
He pulls back just enough to look at me, his thumb swiping at my tears with this soft, steady touch that doesn’t match the hard line of his mouth.
“It’s not your fault that I worry about you,” he says quietly. “It’s not your fault that I think about you all the time. That’s my problem, no one else’s. If my discipline slipped, that’s on me. But—” He swallows hard, jaw flexing. “Itdoesworry me, Daisy. Thatwe’re at different points in our lives. That we approach things so . . . differently. And that should concern us both.”
I blink up at him, my whole body suddenly cold despite his hands still holding me. Tears cling to my lashes, stubborn little bastards.
“But . . . don’t opposites attract?” I whisper, barely audible, terrified of the answer.
Is this it? Is he done?
“Of course they attract,” he says roughly. “I’m insanely attracted to you. But attraction isn’t enough. Things need to work in reality. On a practical level.”
I hate the way he sounds. Like he’s thought about this.Reallythought about it. Like this isn’t some knee-jerk reaction to me making a fool of myself two nights ago. Like this has been turning over in his head for days, maybe weeks.
“Okay, maybe we’re at different stages in our lives,” I admit, forcing my voice to steady. “But maybe you’re not as old and boring as you think you are.”
That earns me a small quirk of his brow, like he wants to be amused but won’t allow himself to be.
“And maybe I’m not as young and immature asyouthink I am,” I continue. “Maybe we could meet in the middle. Or maybe the whole point is that we don’t match. Maybe it’s the difference that makes it work.”
I hold my breath.
He smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes, and something inside me crumples a little.
“Daisy . . .” His voice is soft. It feels like a prelude to goodbye. “My life is held together by pressure and control. Hospitals. Family. Expectation. And then there’s you.”
He says it like I’m a disruption. A fond one, maybe. But still a disruption.
“You walk in with all that color and noise and chaos. With your infectious smile, your boundless enthusiasm, your bubbliness.”
What the fuck is he saying?
“But does one thing cancel out the other?” My voice cracks. “Does my bubbliness overcome the fact that we’re in different stages of our lives?”
Because I can’t lose him.
But I can feel it—this conversation hovering on the edge of something dangerous.
Am I good enough for this Cavendish? The question screams inside my head.
I can’t be back here again.
“Daisy, your bubbliness shouldn’t have to cancel out anything.”
