“You were in my tent?” My voice is carefully neutral, though my pulse kicks up.
“No,” she squeaks.Squeaks.“I forgot to get the whiskey.”
I stare at her, watching every tell unfold in real-time—the way she won’t quite meet my eyes, the nervous fidget of her fingers against her beer bottle, the slight flush creeping up her neck.
She’s lying.
And she’s doing an appalling job of it.
The question isn’tifshe was in my tent. That much is obvious.
The real questions arewhenwas she in there . . .
And, far more importantly,what exactly did she see.
Daisy
So maybe I dragged my hungover ass out of bed at an ungodly hour to do yoga near the toilets again. And maybe—justmaybe—it’s notentirelybecause it offers stunning views of some trees.
Even though my head feels like a herd of elephants is doing Zumba up there, and those bloody donkeys spent all night aggressively hee-hawing in what I can only assume was an attempt at harmonizing—here I am. Attempting to twist myself into poses no one this hungover should even dream of.
Obviously, I’m here because I’m committed to my 30-day yoga challenge. That’s it. I can’t miss a day. Has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that Edward is leaving early, and I won’t see him for a while.
I nearly keeled over last night when Hugo exposed me. Nothing quite gets the adrenaline pumping like the possibility of your dirty little secret being revealed over toasted marshmallows. I can still feel the campfire’s heat on my face as I tried to play it cool.
Haven’t slept a wink. Just lying there, replaying The Tent Incident on a mental loop. The way he looked at that video while . . . taking matters into his own hands. Not justangry.Furious. Like he’d been personally offended by his own biological response to me.
I mean, come on. Who gets that mad about a wank? Like, mate, it’s supposed to be enjoyable. You’re having a moment with yourself. Let loose. Enjoy the solo performance. Have a fucking ball.
Footsteps crunch closer. Shit. Act natural.
I drop into a seated forward bend so fast I nearly snap in half, nose practically glued to my knees. Totally normal. Totally innocent.
Oh god. Here he comes.
Fuck.
I swallow hard, forcing my face into what I hope is a serene, enlightened expression and not aZen goddess who definitely did not see you wankingsmile.
This was a terrible idea. Maybe I’m still drunk.
“Daisy.” He’s slightly out of breath from his run, chest rising and falling in a distracting way. He lifts the hem of his T-shirt to wipe his face, flashing those sweat-glistened abs like a personal attack. Dirty move.
“Morning!” I chirp, tossing in a goofy little wave from my upside-down disaster of a pose.
“Sleep okay?” I manage to ask. I drop my gaze to my kneecaps, which are suddenly the most interesting thing in the world.
“Yeah. Fine.” He takes a long swig from his water bottle, his Adam’s apple bobbing.
“Time to go home now!” I squeak, my voice hitting new, dog-whistle heights. I snap up to standing. “Did you have a fun weekend?”
“It was . . . certainly different.” His eyes sweep over me, sharp and assessing. Then his brow furrows. “Daisy, is there anything we should talk about?”
My stomach plummets straight into my yoga pants.
I swallow hard, caught between not hungover enough for this and nowhere near sober enough to cope.
“Oh!” I say, a little too loudly. “You mean the upgrade you got us?” I beam. “Thank you so much!”
