My fingers twitch, hovering over his belongings.
His shiny, expensive-looking cufflinks. The stack of neatly arranged papers that sits on his bed. Must be the “crucial work” he was hunched over last night.
Out of nosiness, I lift the top sheet just enough to peek. Three sentences in, my brain’s drowning in medical jargon—big, pretentious words strung together like a torture device.
I slide it back into place, careful to match the edges exactly. Edward would absolutely notice if it was off by a hair.
My eyes land on his iPad, sitting a few inches away. What kind of screensaver would a guy like him have? A polo pony galloping across a pristine field? A moody, lit-up shot of his hospital at night?
Curiosity gets the better of me, so I pick it up and tap the screen, bracing for a passcode.
There isn’t one. It lights up instantly, revealing a grid of folders with labels so dull I almost yawn.
But then I stop.
In one of the tiny thumbnails, there’s something that doesn’t fit. It’s so small I almost convince myself I’m imagining it. No way. My eyes are messing with me.
I lean closer. Squint.
And there, in that little square, is a picture of me.
CHAPTER 15
Daisy
My breath hitches, caughtin my throat, as I tap the folder with a trembling finger. It opens.
Oh, bloodyhell.
Me.
Not just any me—it’s Unhinged Shopping Channel me, in my Union Jack skirt. From The Bidet Incident. The video that launched a thousand memes (okay, maybe a hundred) and singlehandedly destroyed any chance I had of being taken seriously outside of bathroom fixture demonstrations.
My jaw drops. Why? Why does Dr. Edward Cavendish—Mr. Big Brain with the judgey nostrils—have this saved on his iPad?
Hold up. Wait just a goddamn minute. Is this . . . Is this what I think it is?
No way.
It can’t be.
But there it is, staring me down, undeniable. Am I—oh god—am I in Edward Cavendish’s private spank bank?
A jolt of heat shoots through me, followed by a wave of near-hysterical laughter I barely manage to choke back with a hand slapped over my mouth.
Does he lie in his perfectly made bed and watch me cry over expensive bathroom fixtures?
This is . . .something.Though what exactly thatsomethingis, I couldn’t tell you if you put a gun to my head.
I swallow hard, staring at the screen. There I am in crisp HD: flushed, mascara smudged, that stupid skirt hiked up as I flail through the bidet’s “ferocious spray functionality.” The video’s so clear you can practically see the goosebumps pop up when the water blasts me by surprise.
I should stop.
This is already way too much. I definitely shouldn’t dig deeper.
My finger hovers over his video folder for about a millisecond before I’m swiping into it, hands trembling.
I really, really shouldn’t.
