“Okay,” I say, before I can overthink it. “Book it.”
Takethat, Imogen.
As Jamie confirms the booking, a tiny flicker of pride blooms in my chest. For once, I’m actually on top of things. And I will pull this off. Something that’ll prove to Sophia—and maybe even to myself—that I’m more than just the flaky, scatterbrained friend who can’t get her life together.
And . . . who knows? Maybe Edward will notice too.
Not that it matters.
It doesn’t.
Obviously.
CHAPTER 11
Daisy
“It’s stunning!” I say,my voice spilling over with excitement.
About forty little conical tents dot the field, their white canvas catching the moonlight and glowing softly under strings of fairy lights. The Gilded Glade Retreat lives up to every dreamy promise from the website—romantic, whimsical, almost too perfect to be real.
Fire pits flicker in groups, ringed by wooden benches piled with fluffy blankets that screamsit down and live your coziest life.
For the first time in days, I feel a flicker of relief.
“I thought you said this place was supposed to be luxurious,” Imogen mutters behind me.
My flicker of relief dies a brutal death.
I turn to face her. Imogen doesn’t just look unimpressed—she looks like she’s stumbled into a nightmare. The kind ofhorrified you reserve for discovering you’ve accidentally booked a weekend in a bog instead of a glamorous glamping paradise.
To make it worse, she’s not even trying to be mean. No passive-aggressive digs. Just pure, honest horror.
Itisluxurious—for normal people. It’s just not a five-star glacier resort in Iceland, which is apparently her baseline for “acceptable.”
“It’s rustic chic!” I say, distraught. “Glamping is all the rage now.”
“I love camping,” Sophia chimes in, like the angel she is. “This is such a great idea.”
I shoot her a look of gratitude—though, honestly, I could have done without the wordcamping.
Imogen visiblyflinches, like she’s just imagined squatting in a bush with a roll of toilet paper and a headlamp.
I glance at the others, desperately scanning for even the tiniest flicker of agreement—anything to suggest they don’t all hate my glamping dream.
No such luck. The girls look like they’re one fairy light away from calling an Uber.
Behind us, Giles and Hugo trudge along, radiating the quiet defeat of guys who’ve learned not to bother complaining. Hugo—the groomsman whose idea of flirting is winking at anything with a pulse—hauls luggage for Imogen so massive it could double as a lifeboat.
I sneak another glance at the glowing tents, their amber lights blinking softly as if trying to reassure me.
Come on, magical glamping site, pull your weight. Don’t let me down now.
Edward hasn’t arrived yet—he’s driving down after his hospital shift—and against my better judgment, I catch myself wondering what he’ll think of all this.
We duck into one of the tents, and—thankgod—it’s perfect. A double bed piled high with plush, cloud-like bedding, twinkling lights draped along the edges, everything looking like a scene straight out of a Hallmark movie.
“This is cute!” I chirp, hoping my enthusiasm is contagious.
