I surface with a gasp, shaking the water from my eyes.
“You couldn’t resist after all,” Daisy shouts, swimming toward me.
“Something like that,” I mutter.
“The water’s nice, isn’t it?” She drifts closer still, her thigh brushing against mine as we tread water. My cock hardens further despite the cold water.
She lets out a little sigh.
This is what damnation feels like: trapped in a lake with Daisy Wilson.
She tilts her head, studying me, then giggles. “You look like you’re in pain. Bit chilly on the willy, is it?”
Christ.
“You really do have no filter, don’t you?” I mutter. “I’m going for a swim.”
I turn away from her and cut through the water like I’m being pursued by demons. Though there’s only one demon here—a five-foot-nothing temptress in a white bikini who seems hell-bent on unraveling every rule I’ve ever lived by.
Daisy makes me miss Millie—not in the way I expect, not with that sharp ache of grief, but with a quiet longing for what we had. Millie was warmth, stability. There was no chaos. Just quiet, uncomplicated companionship. My blood never ran hot in her presence, but I felt like myself. We fit together in quiet harmony, and I was content.
Daisy and I have nothing in common.Nothing.
I live by precision and proven facts—decades of medical research underpinning every decision I make. She believes in spiritual energy and achieving enlightenment by communing with the bloody lawn outside chemical toilets.
I’ve built my life on order, on control. My reputation rests on years of discipline. She barrels through life like a force of nature, making decisions based on whatever whim strikes her fancy. My life runs on carefully calibrated schedules; hers seems to operate on a combination of impulse and blind luck.
I wake at five a.m. for my daily run; she staggers home at dawn from whatever adventure caught her attention the previousnight. I read medical journals; she reads tarot cards. I drive an Aston Martin; she drives me absolutely mad.
We’re fundamentally incompatible.
Which makes my reaction to her all the more infuriating.
The fact that I find her particular brand of chaos increasingly . . . compelling is a diagnosis I refuse to examine too closely.
If Sophia knew the direction of my thoughts, she’d never forgive me.
Daisy is absolutely forbidden. The one woman I cannot touch. As off-limits as a patient.
Or perhaps that’s precisely why she’s so dangerous. Daisy Wilson represents everything I can’t control, everything I shouldn’t want.
CHAPTER 14
Daisy
After our refreshing dipin the lake, we took a lazy stroll through the fields to stretch our legs before wandering back to camp.
Swimming was a hell of a lot more fun than I’d anticipated—once I managed to tune out Edward’s trademark nostril flares of disdain every time I let out a laugh.
Does the man ever relax? Like, ever?
And for the record? The half-bottle of rosé didn’t make me clumsy in the water—it gave me style. I wasn’t splashing around; I was gliding. Graceful as a swan.
Watching him perched on that boat with Bernice and Imogen was like observing two nuns having tea with a judgmental cardinal. I honestly didn’t expect the man to actually get in the water.
But then he did. And oh. My. Actual. God.
The man sliced through the water like he was auditioning for a freaking Olympic sponsorship deal. All power and precision. He was probably mentally clocking the efficiency of every breaststroke.
