Up front, the giant screen’s been flashing through photos of award-winning doctors, healthcare advocates, and random do-gooders in the medical world for the past hour.
I’ve been watching that screen as obsessively as I’ve been scanning the crowd, half expecting Edward’s face to pop up and punch me right in the gut.
My nerves are fucking shot.
And I have no one to blame but myself. Brilliant, Daisy, top marks for self-inflicted carnage.
I shelled out hundreds of pounds for this dress, all for what? To play some unhinged game of hide-and-seek with a guy who isn’t even here?
I could’ve just asked him. But no, I went full-on stalker instead, and now I’m drowning in my own pathetic desperation.
Mike and I have ended up at one of the roulette tables down on the lower level.
He’s placing bets, I’m not—I’ve already lost enough for one night, what with the cost of this outfit and my rapidly deteriorating self-respect.
The roulette wheel spins, the ball clatters, and Mike groans. “Damn it.” He drags a hand through his hair and asks, “Another drink?” his words slurring into each other. He’s way drunker than I am, and I can’t blame him—I’ve been a ghost of a date, barely listening, offering weak smiles while my eyes keep hunting the room.
He’s on to me, too. I can tell. Poor bastard’s bored out of his skull.
I sigh, finally hitting my limit. Enough is enough.
Time to call it. Go home. Sleep off the champagne. Maybe text Edward tomorrow like a normal human being, suggest a chilled Sunday walk through Primrose Hill, instead of . . .whatever this is.
“I think I’m done for the night,” I say, exhaling tension I’ve been carrying for the last two hours. “You okay with that?”
Mike shrugs, but there’s a flash of disappointment in his eyes that he doesn’t bother hiding. “Word is there’s some crazy afterparty at that celeb chef’s place. I might head to it.”
“Sounds fun,” I reply, waving a hand vaguely. “Sorry I’ve been so . . . out of it tonight.”
“No stress, Wilson. Let’s grab your coat.” He slings a heavy hand across my back to steer me through the crowd. His breath is pure whiskey fumes, and honestly, if I were him, I’d be face-down in bed already. He’s going to be a trainwreck tomorrow.
I slide my empty flute onto a waiter’s tray, relief washing over me. Done. Over.
Mike, meanwhile, snags another glass.
“Seriously?” I arch a brow.
He grins, raising his glass.
“Oh my god, Mike, your hangover’s gonna be—” I start, but the words choke off mid-sentence.
Because there he is, across the hall.
Tall. Broad. The perfect cut of a tuxedo, his dark jacket molding to those shoulders. One hand tucked into his trouser pocket, the other gripping a champagne flute.
My stomach plummets. Hard.
He’s not alone.
Lucia stands beside him, every inch the kind of woman who belongs at an event like this. Poised. Elegant. Wearing a respectable cocktail dress that actually reaches her knees, rather than some slinky, showstopper number.
She leans in, says something with a smile, like they’re in on some private joke.
Edward tilts his head toward her, and my heart stops dead. Is he smiling? Laughing?
It’s a date. A fuckingdate.
Lucia was good enough to be seen with him in public. But not me.
