Oh, here we go. The Charity Work.
I choke back an eye-roll, guilt nipping right behind it. I adore Sophia, but if I hear about that damn year one more time . . . It’s never just “we met in Cambodia.” No, it’s always “my charity work in Cambodia building orphanages,” like it’s some sort of suffix she’s legally required to tack on.
“And Daisy here works in TV,” Sophia announces proudly.
Bernice’s eyes widen. “Wow! Like a TV presenter? Anything I might’ve seen?”
“Uh . . . not exactly,” I mutter, staring hard at the bubbles in my glass. “BritShop TV. It’s a home shopping channel. You’ve probably . . . yeah, you wouldn’t know it.”
Bernice frowns, clearly trying to place it. “Is that on the BBC?”
Oh yes, Bernice. Right after theevening news, they cut to me dazzling the nation with deals on hedge trimmers and juicers.Breaking news: Juicer sales are up 300% in the Greater Manchester area.
I shift uncomfortably, the pleather strap cutting into my ankle. “No, not the BBC. It’s more . . . niche.”
“She’s amazing at it,” Sophia jumps in, her voice warm with pride. “I have no idea how she does it—turns the most boring stuff into something you can’t look away from.”
I shoot her a gritted-teeth grin—please, shut up.
“You wear those little Union Jack skirts, don’t you?” Imogen smiles at me. “So brave of you. I could never pull something like that off myself. One has to have such . . .confidence.”
Translation:One has to have no shame.
I stiffen. “Yep, that’s us at BritShop—patriotic to a fault.” I tilt my head, matching her sweet tone. “You sound like you’ve caught the show, Imogen. Don’t tell me you’re one of our most loyal viewers?”
Her smile doesn’t budge—Imogen’s kind doesn’t crack under social pressure. “Oh, I’d love to see you but those middle-of-the-night slots . . .” She lets the sentence dangle like a noose. “And, well, what you’re selling reallyisn’t my style.”
I don’t know why but now I feel like a hooker.
Heat crawls up my neck. I’m scrambling for a comeback—anything—when Imogen’s hand flies to her mouth in mock surprise, her eyes widening theatrically. “Oh!”
“What?” I bite out, bracing for impact.
“Nothing, just . . .” She drags it out, hooking everyone’s attention. “I saw—”
Here it comes.
“The memes,” I cut in, deciding it’s better to own it. “Yep, that’s me—Bidet Girl.”
Edward lets out a huff—barely a breath, but I feel it.
I don’t dare glance his way.
“Just a plumbing hiccup,” I say, brushing it off with a shrug that’s more casual than I feel. “At least I gave the bidet its moment to shine—full spray, maximum chaos. A public service, really. Here’s hoping I’m yesterday’s gossip by tomorrow.”
A wave of laughter rolls through—half real, half pity.
“Like it or not, you’re not fading into the background that fast,” a deep voice rumbles, slicing through the chatter.
My head snaps up before I can stop it.
Is he mocking me? He’s got to be, right?
His expression, carved from stone, doesn’t give me much to work with.
But those deep blue eyes? It’s like he’s got me stretched out on his operating table, every flaw magnified under the surgical lights, every insecurity laid bare for his inspection.
My heart kicks into overdrive. Edward Cavendish unnerves me more than anyone alive. But if he thinks he can out-mock me, he’s in for a rude awakening. Nobody mocks me better than I mock myself.
