Too late. I’m in.
OH. MY. GOD.
It’s a full-on shrine. Every single video is me. Welcome toThe Daisy Wilson Collection: Greatest Tits and Bits, starring yours truly in that Union Jack skirt that apparently lights a fire under His Lordship’s posh exterior.
There I am, bent over a garden trimmer—way more suggestive than I ever intended. There’s me bouncing around a heated bird bath, jiggling in ways that scream “invest in a sports bra.” And, oh look, me gripping an extending pole saw with a hold that, in hindsight, looks straight out of a dirty joke.
Well well well.
Turns out Dr. Cavendish has got quite the appetite for common-as-muck girls in patriotic mini skirts.
The posh bastard’s gottaste.
I’m not imagining things either—I saw that look in his eyes when he caught me in his bed. That flash of heat before his control slammed back into place. I doubt he wanted to join some weird uncle-nephew sandwich situation but he definitely liked what he saw.
Not that it changes anything. I know how men like Edward Cavendish operate with girls like me. They’re after the fun parts, the filthy parts, the no-strings parts—not the real me. To him, I’m just a walking fantasy: a living, breathing patriotic pin-up who demos garden tools and gets him going.
I don’t have a Cambridge degree. I couldn’t pair a wine with a steak if my life depended on it, and I’d be lost in a debate about foreign policy or whatever people like him ramble about over their overpriced foie gras. My version of artisan bread is grabbing a loaf from M&S instead of Tesco. Most days I don’t even make my bed—I just sort of . . . rearrange the wrinkles.
But still . . . apparently,me in that skirtdoes it for him.
Maybe he’s got a thing for the whole schoolgirl-meets-national-pride aesthetic. Maybe he’s secretly harboring fantasies about teaching me a thing or two about proper behavior. All that commanding presence, the tightly leashed control that fills a room without him even trying. Andthat voice.The one that drops into a dangerous, low register when he’s displeased.
Oh, he’d make an excellent teacher, all right.
My mind’s running wild when I hear footsteps. Closing in fast.
I stare at the screen like it’s about to explode.
Shit shitshit.
How do I get this back to how it was? I jab at the screen frantically, my fingers suddenly clumsy and useless.
I can’t let him catch me here, elbow-deep in his secret video stash. He’ll know I’ve seen it. And then what?
The footsteps are getting closer. Fuckfuckfuck.
My hands tremble as I swipe at the screen.
Come on, Daisy, you absolute muppet. Get it together.
Maybe I should just own it?Hey, Edward, quick question—do you prefer the bidet breakdown or the garden shears mishap? Just gathering viewer feedback. Also, should we talk about this weird sexual tension or keep pretending it doesn’t exist?
Oh god. I can’t. I can’t do it.
Once we acknowledge whateverthisis between us, there’s no going back. No more safe, comfortable distance. Just the raw truth that Edward Cavendish gets off on watching me make a tit of myself on television, and how some twisted part of me is thrilled by that knowledge.
The tent flap rustles.
My wine-soaked brain picks the only rational option available, and I dive into his wardrobe.
I hunker down, squashing myself under his perfectly hung suit.
Edward strides in, and even from my new sanctuary, I can smell him—fresh from the shower, with that expensive soap scent and an aura of unapproachable Edward-ness.
Why the actual fuck did I think hiding in his wardrobe was better than getting caught with his iPad? I hope he doesn’t decide to do laundry right now.
He zips the tent flap shut, and my stomach flips. Great. I’m trapped.
