My eyes flick to Daisy again, this time lingering a moment too long. One thing is painfully clear:
I do not see Daisy Wilson as a little sister.
I drag my eyes away, back to my drink, willing myself to focus on anything else.
I’m no closer to figuring out what to do about her than I was when she was stealing pastries and cars.
Though handcuffs still seem like a viable option.
I rinse off quickly, hot water stinging my tired muscles, washing away the remnants of a long, intense work week. Wrapping a towel around my waist, I step out of the shower. My head feels heavy, a dull ache from far too little sleep. Staying up late last night was a mistake—first enduring the group’s endless chatter around the fire, then painstakingly finishing my paper in the faint glow of my laptop. And, of course, Daisy and Hugo were the last ones to go to bed. Her laughter had floated outside my tent, light and maddening, long into the early hours.
So, the last thing I expect, stepping out of the shower block, is to nearly collide with my own personal form of chaos.
That’s all I bloody need.
She’s on all fours in those criminally short shorts, ass elevated at an angle that makes my throat go embarrassingly dry.
I freeze.
At least she’s not sprawled across my bed this time, though this position isn’t much better for my sanity.
She appears oblivious to my presence, lost in whatever bizarre ritual she’s performing. I stop in my tracks, both fascinated and mildly horrified, as she lowers herself to the ground, her fingers tracing patterns in the grass like she’s attempting to communicate with it.
“What on earth are you doing?”
She lets out a startled squeal, scrambling upright. “Don’t do that! You scared the crap out of me.”
She presses a hand to her chest, catching her breath, before adding with absolute sincerity, “I was doing reiki. Connecting with the earth’s natural vibrations. The trees here have amazing energy. Very grounding.”
“The energy,” I repeat slowly, “outside the shower block. Next to the chemical toilets.”
God give me strength.
“They’re not chemical toilets!” she protests, indignant. “They’re fancy toilets. With fancy soaps and . . . other fancy things. Just because they don’t have bidets doesn’t mean you have to insult them.”
“I’m sure they won’t take it personally.”
She opens her mouth to retort, but hesitates—because her eyes flick downward.
And land on my bare chest. Her gaze lingers before she catches herself, snapping it away.
I tighten my grip on my towel, every muscle focused on maintaining this one piece of fabric between dignity and disaster.
“Anyway, it’s quiet here,” Daisy says, shrugging. “I didn’t think anyone else would be up. Plus, this patch of grass has incredible healing properties for your third eye chakra.”
I stare at her. Torn between disbelief and the urge to launch into an impromptu lecture on actual human anatomy. “Yourwhat?”
“Third eye chakra,” she repeats, voice patient, as if I’m the one speaking nonsense. She taps the center of her forehead. “It’s been blocked lately—probably all the negative energy at BritShop. But this grass,” she says, waving a hand at what is, unmistakably, just normal English grass, “is helping realign my spiritual DNA.”
I inhale slowly. “Spiritual DNA,” I repeat with the kind of flat disbelief I usually reserve for patients who diagnose themselves via TikTok and arrive at my office convinced their Ulcerative Colitis is actually caused by gluten-intolerant ancestors haunting their gut. “I’ve spent fifteen years studying human anatomy, completed a fellowship at Cambridge, and performed thousands of surgeries. I can assure you with absolute medical certainty that there is no organ called a ‘third eye chakra.’”
She narrows her eyes at me. “You’re very rude, Dr. Cavendish.”
“Last night I was the knight in shining armor.”
“You have your moments of humanity. Sometimes.” She tilts her head. “The rest of the time, you’re just cruel.”
“Not cruel. Just stating medical facts. There’s a difference between cruelty and scientific accuracy.”
