My oars dig into the water with force, each stroke driving us closer to their boat.
“Hugo,” Daisy warns, laughing again—always bloody laughing—her voice dipping into that husky, maddening tone she probably doesn’t even realize she’s using. “I swear to god; I’ll haunt you forever. I’ll become a lake ghost.”
I adjust my grip, jaw tightening further as his hands move to cover hers on the oars.
She’s had at least two glasses of that godawful rosé, her cheeks flushed pink, dark hair slipping free from its clip, tumbling over one bare shoulder. The very picture of chaos in a white dress.
I dig the oars into the water, muscles tightening as I pull harder. The boat jerks forward, sending up a sharp splash that arcs over the side and lands against my arm.
“Edward, try not to soak us.” Imogen sighs, dabbing at her sleeve.
“Apologies,” I mutter, though my attention remains fixed on the nautical farce unfolding across the lake.
I glance at Sophia in the third boat, so clearly happy with Giles. At least there’s that.
Daisy squeals as their boat tilts again. She clutches Hugo’s arm, and in the commotion, her dress shifts just enough to reveal a white thong.
My grip on the oars tightens.
Hugo, predictably, looks like a man who’s just had his wildest adolescent fantasy realized. His tongue might as well be hanging out of his slack-jawed mouth.
It’s embarrassing.
I force my strokes into something resembling a controlled rhythm, though my knuckles remain white against the wood.
I am too old for this. Too old to be sitting here, pretending not to notice the way Daisy Wilson is turning this weekend into some impromptu wet sundress competition.
My jaw clenches as I try to block out the sound of her laughter.
When Giles asked me to serve as his best man, I was honored. A decade of guiding him through increasingly complex thoracic procedures has forged a bond of mutual respect and professional camaraderie. He’s the kind of steady, level-headed man Sophia needs.
But these endless wedding festivities? Jesus Christ. Engagement parties, now this—some lakeside retreat masquerading as bonding time. It’s excessive. It’s unnecessary. It’s . . . exhausting.
Sophia has gone completely overboard. Sometimes I wonder if she remembers she has a Cambridge business degree gathering dust while she plays society hostess. Life isn’t all champagne toasts and flower arrangements—though our mother seems more than happy to let her pretend otherwise.
Daisy compared herself to Sophia at the engagement party when we were on the patio, but the truth is, Daisy has never been anything like my sister. She’s always stood on her own two feet.Always worked. Always managed. She might be chaos incarnate, but she’s always been her own person.
Behind me, Imogen groans. “Those god-awful donkeys kept me up all night. I’m absolutely shattered.”
“I kept thinking it was getting closer to the tent. Like a horror film,” Bernice adds, shuddering.
“I’m sure the donkeys were desperately plotting to break into your tent,” I say, my voice dripping with sarcasm.
Silence.
They exchange looks, clearly taken aback by my tone.
I exhale sharply, rolling my shoulders. There’s a strange mood following me today—a sharp edge that’s lowered my already limited tolerance for nonsense.
“Hugo!” Daisy shrieks as their boat tilts dangerously to one side.
“We’re going in, Daisy Duke! Accept your fate!” he crows, sounding far too pleased with himself.
My chest heaves with a breath.
The inevitable disaster unfolds exactly as expected. Hugo, displaying all the maturity of a schoolboy, rocks the boat harder while Daisy—naturally—encourages him.
The splash when they finally capsize is impressive.
