He stares at me, his jaw doing that little clenchy thing that’s really fucking hot.
“Okay,” he says stiffly, clearly wrestling with something. “I should . . . that is . . .” His normally articulate manner falters, and for a man who performs life-or-death surgery on a regular basis, he’s suddenly found it impossible to string together a coherent sentence.
He frowns, and for a second, he looks so genuinely worried that I almost feel sorry for him.
And here we are. Just two people standing awkwardly by some posh portaloos at dawn: One of us might have seen the other having amomentwith himself, and the other is desperately trying to find a way to ask if they know anything about it.
The tension crackles between us. I swear I can feel it on my skin, raising goosebumps along the backs of my arms.
“Right,” he says at last, his tone clipped. “I’ll be saying goodbye then. I’m jumping in the shower then heading back to London.”
Another unnecessarily long gulp of water, then a curt nod as he turns toward the showers.
“Edward,” I blurt.
He stops. Turns back. His expression is a perfect mix of dread and resignation, like a man preparing for impact, for whatever madness is about to come flying out of my mouth.
I plaster on my cheekiest smile, despite every cell in my body screaming at me toshut the fuck up.“For what it’s worth . . . I’m flattered.”
He stares at me, the creases in his brow deepening as alarm creeps over his handsome features. “What are you talking about?” he asks slowly.
“What you said about my product demonstration skills, of course,” I say breezily, my eyes wide with mock sincerity. “Last night. I’m flattered you think so highly of my . . . technique.”
The words drop between us like a live grenade.
I wink. I actually wink, letting the suggestive moment linger.
Then I turn my back to him, crawl into a downward dog, and—like a human exclamation point—push my ass into the air.
There’s a strangled, choking sound behind me. A spluttering, as if Edward is attempting to inhale his entire water bottle.
Absolutely worth whatever karmic punishment is coming my way.
CHAPTER 17
Daisy
My phone’s blaring ringtoneyanks me out of sleep. I grope around blindly, managing to knock over a water bottle and what feels like my vibrator.
My fingers finally close around the offending device. I yank it off the charger, squinting through one eye as I shove the screen an inch from my face.
7:00 a.m.
What sick, twisted fuck is calling me after I just finished an eight-hour shift at BritShop?
My brain’s still untangling itself from a dream about Edward. Sometimes it’s the tent porn special—half wet dream, half guilty thrill. Other times, it’s a nightmare where he yanks me out of a wardrobe, teaming up with super rats and a donkey to finish me off. Because at the very least, heknowsI went into his tent.
I blink at the caller ID. Sophia.
If this is another bridesmaid dress crisis, I swear togod, I will tie her to a chair with one of those satin bows she’s making us wear and force her to watch every unhinged TikTok tutorial she’s sent us on “perfecting the bridal look” until her eyes bleed.
Eggplant or mauve? Neither, Sophia. Fucking neither.
All fucking week, it’s been like this. Ever since we got back from glamping.
I swipe to answer. “Someone better be dead,” I growl into the receiver.
But instead of Sophia’s usual chirpy, wedding-obsessed ramblings, I’m met with . . . full-blown wailing.
