Barely restrained beneath the polished, surgeon-perfect exterior.
His hands shift as he sets me down, the brush of his fingertips trailing along my thighs just long enough to send a full-body shiver straight through me.
By the time my feet hit the ground, my knees barely hold me up.
“Let’s go. Now,” he says, a tone that leaves no room for hesitation.
I stumble after him, legs shaky, head spinning, heart pounding—and it’s got nothing to do with the tents anymore.
CHAPTER 12
Edward
I’m certain I’ve justcommitted an act of financial idiocy that would make my accountant weep.
The group pounced on my offer to move them into the communal lodging. As they bloody well should—the figure I handed over belongs more in a merger agreement than as payment for vacating a few tents.
Not that the monetary aspect matters.
The sight of Daisy Wilson, tears streaking from those expressive hazel eyes, was intolerable. Would’ve handed over the entire bloody estate to erase that look of defeat from her face. Purely because Sophia’s best friend being a mess would’ve put a damper on my sister’s celebration, and I couldn’t have that.
Still, when I told her it was taken care of, the way she looked up at me—her expression blooming into a smile so full of relief it could knock a man flat—well, it almost made the hit to my bank account feel like a rational decision.
The fact that I can still feel every soft curve of her body pressed against mine is entirely beside the point. Completely irrelevant. As is the inconvenient memory of those thighs clamping around my waist with surprising force for a pocket-sized menace.
I cannot have her launching herself at me in the middle of a glamping site where my youngest sister could stroll by any second.
Someone really ought to teach that girl about control.
Though perhaps I’m not the most suitable candidate for that particular lesson.
Not after the way my body responded to her . . .
Right. I drag a hand down my face. I need a drink. Something that’s been aging in an oak barrel since before she was legally allowed to drink, preferably. Strong enough to burn away thoughts of Daisy Wilson and her apparent mission to systematically dismantle my sanity.
I swap my clothes for sweats and a T-shirt, trying to shake it off and get my head on straight.
A whole bloody weekend. Trapped in close quarters with my sister’s friends. And her.
I feel like the designated adult—the chaperone. Or, as Daisy so infuriatingly and provocatively put it, thedaddy.
I am not the daddy.
Everyone else here, however, is in their twenties while I’m knocking on forty’s door.
I could be sailing with Liam right now. Ever since he got together with Gemma, he’s been taking more time off from Ashbury Thornton, his private equity firm, to enjoy life.
Or I could be polishing off that paper on laparoscopic anterior resection techniques that’s been sitting untouched.The British Journal of Surgerydoesn’t hand out extensions for camping emergencies. Instead, I’m here, playing unwilling campcounselor to a bunch of millennials who, among other sins, make me feel every single year of my age in the worst way possible.
I steel myself, duck through the flaps of my tent—and, of course, there she is.
Daisy Wilson, sprawled on one of the benches. Her eyes meet mine and . . . stop. Her jaw goes slack, and her gaze rakes over me.
“What?” I snap, sharper than I mean to.
“Nothing.” She shakes her head.
Christ. Those shorts of hers appear to be violating several public decency laws.
