“Nothing,” she says, far too quickly. That breathy tone hasn’t left. “Just . . . I can imagine howfocusedyou are. On whatever task you’re . . .” She pauses, a deliberate beat. “Handling. On whatever needs handling.”
A jolt shoots through my chest, hot and unwelcome.
Shecouldn’tpossibly know what I did in the tent.
. . . Could she?
I don’t have the chance to dwell on that thought, because Imogen interrupts with a tittering laugh. “Oh, Daisy, leave poor Edward alone. I’m sure he’s got more than enough on his plate without you subjecting him to the Spanish Inquisition. Not everyone can wing it like you do and just land on their feet.”
Daisy’s spine straightens. It’s her tell—the way she squares herself when she’s gearing up for a fight.
“Wing it?” she asks, her voice even.
“Well, you’re the only one with a fun job, aren’t you?” Imogen’s tone is light, but there’s no mistaking the barb lurking beneath. “The rest of us are stuck in the ‘boring, serious stuff,’ you know—lawyers, accountants, or—” She glances at Sophia. “Investing in charity.”
“You’re right,” Daisy replies smoothly. Not a flicker of the fire burning in her eyes shows in her voice. “Itisfun. While all the respectable Brits are coming home from the pub and slipping into their pj’s, I’m putting on a patriotic skirt to demonstrate smart bidets and gardening tools at three in the morning. So much fun. Especially when I get those heartfelt letters from eighty-year-old men named Denis telling me I’ve brightened their day.”
The self-deprecation is her armor, I realize with an uncomfortable jolt. She’d rather wound herself than leave the opportunity to others.
“Daisy, stop it,” Sophia scolds.
I clench my jaw.
“I imagine live television comes with its own unique pressures,” I say. “One take, no margin for error. Not everyone’s got the fortitude to handle that kind of environment.”
“Oh yes, for the evening news perhaps—” Imogen begins.
“In fact,” I continue, cutting her off cleanly, “having witnessed Daisy handle certain . . . shall we say,unexpected situationson air, I’d argue her position demands exceptional crisis management abilities.”
Daisy’s head snaps toward me, her eyes narrowing in suspicion. “Are you taking the piss?”
“No.” My frown is automatic, though tinged with exasperation.
She studies me, her lips pressed together in a way that suggests skepticism. “Okay then. Thank you,” she says with obvious difficulty.
I want to tell her she doesn’t need to thank me. That anyone paying attention would recognize the truth in my assessment. Daisy may be chaos, but she’s good at what she does.Exceptional,even.
“You love your job, right?” I ask.
“Yes,” Daisy snaps, too quickly. “Despite the obvious indignities. I’d still rather be doing this than be trapped in some soulless office. Five minutes of corporate life was enough for me, thanks.”
“Then that’s all that matters.”
I glance at Imogen and level her with a look I usually reserve for overconfident junior doctors about to dig themselves into a hole. The sort of glare that strongly suggests further commentary on Daisy’s career choices would be inadvisable.
Before anyone can respond, a slurred voice cuts through the tension.
“Oi, Daisy Duke!”
Hugo stumbles out of his tent, dragging a hand through his hair. “Where’s that whiskey you were supposed to nick from Edward’s tent?”
Daisy’s entire body stiffens. “Uhh . . .”
Hugo squints between us, trying to focus with the painstaking effort of someone far too drunk to function. “Sorry, mate, hope you don’t mind. We were just gonna borrow a bottle . . .”
Daisy’s eyes widen in unmistakable panic. “I, um. I didn’t get it. I . . . forgot.”
My mind flickers back to earlier. My tent. The small, almost imperceptible shift of my iPad from where I’d left it on my bedding. At the time, I dismissed it—exhaustion, distraction. But now . . .
