I nod, grip tightening on my glass. “I just need to focus on what needs doing. Ensure Bernard’s legacy is properly honored.”
Liam nods, sensing the no-fly zone around the subject. “Of course.”
I take a long sip of whiskey, the burn settling in my chest. A dry chuckle escapes me, more reflex than humor. “I need people to remember Bernard for his career. For being a damn genius. Not the way he chose to bow out.” I grimace. “That particular detail is going to my grave before Mum or Sophia get so much as a whisper of it.”
Liam smirks. “Well, at least he died doing what he loved. There are worse ways to go.”
I feel my jaw tighten. “That’s not even the worst part.”
“Oh?” Liam raises a brow.
I down half my whiskey in one go. “I’m fairly certain Bernard was watching Daisy Wilson on her shopping channel when he . . . you know.”
The silence that follows is deafening.
“Daisy . . .” Liam’s brain clearly stalls as he processes this. “As in Sophia’s friend? The one who works with Lizzie?”
“Yes,” I say, like the word physically pains me.
“I’m lost,” Patrick says, frowning. “What am I missing?”
“It means,” I say, running a hand over my face, “that Bernard died watching Daisy demonstrate whatever ridiculous product they were selling that night, with an impressive array of . . . supplies within reach.”
Patrick freezes mid-sip. Liam nearly chokes on his whiskey before dissolving into the kind of laughter that makes me seriously reconsider our friendship.
Bloody bastards.
I keep my face carefully blank, though internally I’m . . . less composed.
Because the truth is, the comparison between Bernard and me is landing far too close to home. The line between esteemed surgeon and lecherous old fool isn’t as distinct as I’d like to pretend. And lately, I’ve been toeing it.
“Christ,” Liam manages, wiping his eyes. “How old is Daisy?”
“Twenty-six,” I reply, bracing for the inevitable.
“Jesus. Sixty years younger than Bernard.”
“Sixty-seven, actually,” I correct. “Not that the extra seven years improve the situation.”
I stare into my whiskey, wishing it had better answers. “Bernard wasn’t exactly subtle about his interest. I had to have words with him. Repeatedly.”
The irony isn’t lost on me.
Patrick smirks, the look of a man who enjoys stirring the pot. “Might have to start watching this shopping channel. If it’s enough to put men in the grave, it’s got to be entertaining.” He pauses, and then, because he’s an ass, grins even wider. “Will she be at the funeral?”
“I wouldn’t waste your time,” I say, forcing an evenness into my tone that doesn’t quite mask the spike of irritation. “She’s . . . chaotic. Not your type. And she’s my sister’s best friend. It would be complicated.”
Patrick’s eyebrows lift. “Chaotic, you say? Sounds promising.”
“It’s not,” I snap. “It’s a headache. Trust me.”
Patrick raises his hands in mock surrender. “Consider me warned. Because of all those very logical reasons you just listed.”
Liam’s expression sharpens with that insufferable precision he’s perfected over the years. “She is quite striking though, isn’t she?”
“Right,” Patrick drawls, his tone thick with exaggerated seriousness. “So completely unsuitable. Not worth a second thought.”
I set my glass down, the sound sharp in the room. “Don’t think I don’t see exactly where you’re trying to steer this. And let me be perfectly clear—it’s not happening.”
