“Lying doesn’t suit me. But for the record, I find your particular brand of chaos far more compelling than someone being charming and polite all the time. Even if you do have a complete disregard for consequences most of the time.”
My mouth opens, but no sound comes out. Is he . . . mocking me? Flirting with me?
“And if you think my life’s all sorted out,” he adds, quieter now, “you’re not looking close enough.”
I stare at him, trying to decode that. His jaw’s tight, his eyes guarded, and I realize just how close we’re standing.
As if he’s just noticed it too, he takes a sharp step back.
“I should go,” he says, his voice snapping back to its usual coolness.
I nod, my throat dry, desperate to sound unaffected. “Right. Good night.”
“Good night, Daisy. Take care of yourself.”
He turns and walks away. And oh, I am definitely looking.
Sure, he’s handsome in that brooding, storm-cloud way, but who needs the constant disapproval? He’s not exactlyfun. He’s just . . .Edward.
But seriously. What would it have been like if Spencer hadn’t been there that night? If Edward had just walked in and found me sprawled out on his bed, my—well, mum would want me to say “delicate bits,” but let’s be real—pussy wide open.
Dr. Cavendish is a fucking handsome man. I know I can have sex with people I’m physically attracted to, even if it’s going nowhere. If I spotted him in a bar, I’d be a puddle.
But that’s all it’d be—sex. He’s still woven from the same privileged thread as his brother.
He would never—and I mean never—consider something more with someone like me.
His type is painfully obvious: educated, career-driven, perfectly bred, beautiful.
I know men like my looks. But I also know I don’t have the rest. The polish. The refinement. Whatever the fuck makes someone “acceptable” in his world.
The power of potentially bringing someone like Edward Cavendish to his knees? The thought is dangerous.
I highly doubt he gets on his knees for anyone.
I need to stop looking at him. Right now.
CHAPTER 10
Daisy
I barely knock onthe Cavendishes’ front door before Mum swings it open, pulling me into a hug so tight you’d think we hadn’t just shared burnt toast and lukewarm tea a few hours ago.
“They’re in the drawing room,” she says.
“Thanks, Mum. Don’t work too hard,” I reply, as if she has any say in the matter.
She waves me off with a laugh, and I marvel—again—at how she stays so upbeat after decades of cleaning bidets and herding exotic birds off the lawn.
Then again, when you’re a single mum and the job comes with a cottage straight out ofCotswolds Living, I suppose you find ways to stick around. Plus, ever since she started seeing Richard, she’s been genuinely happy.
My stomach knots as I trail down the hallway. Through the heavy oak door, I can already hear giggles. Bloody hell, I shouldn’t have walked out of the engagement party lastnight like a dramatic twit. Fantastic way to kick off Important Bridesmaid Duties. A+ performance, really.
I knock softly before pushing open the door.
Sophia, Imogen, and Bernice lounge across the chaises and armchairs, buried in bridal magazines and planners. They look annoyingly fresh for people who were tossing back champagne just hours ago.
I glance down at my own crumpled jumper and scuffed trainers. Would it have killed me to iron something before showing up?
