I am a man of habit. I work long hours. When I’m not in surgery, I research. Occasionally in Latin, if the source calls for it. I sail when I can. There’s nothing like the focus it demands—the way it clears the mind. I work out. I have a quiet drink with Liam, but only if he promises not to discuss politics. I guest lecture at Imperial College London. I read—usually history or philosophy. I play chess, though finding a worthy opponent is rare. I unwind with the BBC news. It’s a reliable ritual, a signal to my body that the day is done and it’s time to wind down.
And when my schedule allows—which is rare—I take holidays. Skiing in St. Moritz. A weekend in the Cotswolds. But these are indulgences, not necessities.
But as I stand here, staring at Daisy Wilson, her hair wild from the morning air—I’m reminded of one thing I haven’t done in far too long.
An activity that her presence makes increasingly difficult to ignore.
“You must have slept well if you managed to get up and run five miles,” she says.
“I slept about as well as one can,” I mutter, “when serenaded by a farmyard orchestra at dawn.”
She grins. “I think the donkey might have been getting some. Either him, or the super rats.”
I lift a brow, deadpan. “Ah. That explains the tiny capes and masks I found outside the tent.”
She giggles, a sound that’s far too chipper for this early in the morning.
I realize, with a mix of horror and resignation, that only Daisy Wilson could drag me into a conversation about randy donkeys and rats before breakfast.
“It would’ve been worse in the dorms,” she continues. “And speaking of nocturnal noises—you snore. I heard you through the wall. Proper foghorn situation. I thought it was the donkey at first.”
“The joys of camping,” I mutter. “Nothing quite like sharing our most intimate flaws. For the record, I have sleep apnea. Without a firm mattress, I’m essentially signing up for a night of gasping.”
“For the hundredth time—” She mutters “Glamping” under her breath, though her outrage is undermined by the way her lips keep threatening to curve upward. “Now I feel bad about the donkey comparison.”
“I’m fairly certain you’ve called me worse over the years.”
“Sometimes you deserve it,” she says quietly, and something in her tone makes me still. “I just wanted to enjoy my reiki. I didn’t need you telling me it’s pseudoscience or whatever. I believe people give off bad energy and good energy. I believe energy can make you feel good or make you feel ill. I didn’t need you making me feel like an idiot for it.”
With that, she grabs her shoes and walks away, leaving me standing there feeling like an utter bastard.
For god’s sake. It’s too early for this.
Or maybe it’s too early to admit she’s starting to get under my skin.
CHAPTER 13
Edward
Perfect weather for aday on the lake. The Devon countryside stretches out before us, a picturesque reminder that I haven’t taken a proper holiday in years. Not since before Millie’s death, anyway.
But if I’d imagined my first proper Saturday away, it certainly wouldn’t have included watching Daisy Wilson flirt shamelessly with Hugo bloody Morrison while slaughtering a bottle of subpar rosé on a boat.
That white sundress of hers . . . Christ. The fabric catches every breeze like it’s been designed specifically for torment, alternating between clinging to her curves and billowing away in a manner that’s entirely too distracting.
My grip tightens on the oars, muscles flexing as I row with firm strokes. Anything to channel this . . . irritation into something useful.
Behind me, Imogen and Bernice are deep in some discussion about garden renovations—requiring no input from me. At least they understand the unspoken rules of proper lake etiquette: how to maintain a sense of quiet that doesn’t make me contemplate drowning anyone.
One particular boat, however, is practicing no such restraint.
I grit my teeth, focusing on the rhythm of the oars. In. Out. Push. Pull. Repeat.
“You’re going to tip us!” Daisy’s laughter slices through the air, far too loud, far too . . . provocative.
My grip tightens on the oars.
Hugo, grinning like the smug bastard he is, leans in under the pretext of demonstrating “proper rowing technique.” I highly doubt the man could navigate his own bathtub, let alone a boat.
