I sigh, dragging a hand down my face, the rough scrape of stubble reminding me I’ve been meaning to shave since this morning. “Yes, Sophia, I’m vaguely aware of how weddings work.”
She uncrosses her legs, fixing me with a look so sharp it could strip paint. Like she cannot believe I’m not taking this as seriously as she is.
And I am. Or at least, I’m trying.
I’ve written the checks. Agreed to every extravagant request without hesitation. Nodded along to conversations about hors d’oeuvres and seating plans. I haven’t said no to a single damn thing. I’ve given her everything she’s wanted.
But these past few weeks, I’ve found it increasingly difficult to keep my exasperation in check.
I understand her frustration. I do. I’m the eldest Cavendish, the one who’s supposed to have everything under control. The one who fixes things and always knows what to do.
But for the first time in my life, I don’t.
And it has nothing to do with this wedding.
I take a slow sip of scotch. “Sophia.” I sigh. “I know exactly what I need to do and when to do it. Relax.”
“You just don’t seem that interested.” Her voice has that wobble that’s always been my undoing.
I drain the rest of my drink, the glass hitting the table with more force than necessary. “I’m sorry, love. I’ve had a hell of a week at the hospital.”
It’s not a lie. But it’s not the whole truth either.
Being a surgeon grants me an automatic out from conversations I’d rather avoid. Usually, it works like a charm.
But that’s not why I feel like this. So damn off-kilter.
And no amount of work or whiskey or distraction or mind-numbing discussions about cake flavors will change that.
Sophia isn’t buying it. Her eyes narrow—a look so reminiscent of Mother it nearly makes me wince. Christ, when did my baby sister master that expression?
“There is too much stress right now. I feel like I’m going to throw up,” she mutters. “I should have just eloped.”
Yes, you bloody should have.
“Nonsense,” my mother interjects. “This is your wedding, darling. Everything will be perfect.”
It ironically sounds like a threat.
Sophia’s shoulders bunch with tension.
Against my better judgment, I lean in to press a quick kiss to her forehead. A peace offering. “You’ll be fine, freckles.”
She jerks away, her glower icy.
Ah. Still not forgiven, then. I can’t use her childhood nickname.
“Don’t mind Edward.” Charlie’s voice drifts over from his perch by the fireplace, his smirk audible in his tone. “He’s just going through his mid-life crisis. That’s why he’s grumpy as hell.”
Sophia shoots him a glare. “Charlie, shut up.”
Charlie only smirks deeper, tipping his glass in my direction.
I exhale slowly. Then, without another word, I stand. “Excuse me.” I don’t have the patience for his games.
I barely make it two steps before my mother reaches out, her fingers curling around my wrist.
“Edward,” she murmurs, her voice quieter now. “You haven’t been yourself.”
