It’s beyond pathetic. It’s disrespectful. It makes me wonder where I went wrong as an uncle.
Part of me tries to dismiss it as typical university idiocy, the kind of thoughtless, arrogant stunt young men pull.
But the other part—the part that remembers alittle boylooking up at me with trust and admiration—feels something heavier.
A pang of disappointment.
I press my fingers harder against my temples, but it does nothing to banish the image of Daisy Wilson sprawled across my sheets.
The way her hazel eyes widened in shock.
The wild tumble of glossy dark hair spilling over my pillows, framing her heart-shaped face.
The creamy curves I had no business seeing.
I close my eyes and let out a groan. It has been a long time since I’ve seen a woman’s body in the flesh.Far too long.
Daisy Wilson. The girl barrels through life like a force of nature, all five-foot-nothing of her radiating chaos.
A part of me—some exhausted, clearly deranged corner of my mind—wonders if Millie orchestrated this from beyond the grave. It would be just like her.
Though even Millie might have drawn the line at our nephew’s head between Daisy’s thighs.
I exhale sharply, shaking the thought loose.
Daisy, who spits out every thought that crosses her mind with absolute disregard for consequence. No filter. No boundaries. No concept of lines that shouldn’t be crossed.
The same Daisy who once tore through my estate with Sophia, a feral little menace, always running, always breaking rules.
Daisy, who pined after Charlie so openly it was painful to witness.
Daisy, who I found inmybed with my nephew. Mytwenty-year-oldnephew.
The audacity of her, to call me Daddy with that insolent mouth of hers. As though she were deliberately testing the limits of my patience, challenging my authority inmy own home.
And the worst part?
For half a second, something in me reacted.
The sight of her, thirteen years my junior and unsuitable—the sort of unsuitable that makes “inappropriate” seem like a quaint understatement.
We can hang our walls with medical certificates, park vintage Aston Martins in our garages, sit through operas, and treatThe Economistlike it’s gospel. But strip all that away and we’re stilljust animals underneath. Driven by urges that don’t care about refinement.
It’s been two years.
Two years since I’ve felt the warmth of a woman’s skin under my hands, since I’ve caught that heady mix of perfume and female arousal in the air.
I tug at my tie, the fabric rasping against my neck as I yank it free.
The office feels stifling.
I’ll have to get maintenance to look at the damn system.
CHAPTER 7
Daisy
“They’ve remixed it withdubstep now,” I say, staring at my phone in disbelief as the bass drop lands right when the bidet sprays me square in the face. “What did I ever do to deserve this nightmare?”
