Patrick scratches at his stubble. “Yeah, for you. You’re too old for her. I, on the other hand . . .”
“I have to agree with Patrick on this one,” Liam looks at me wearily. “You’re being remarkably defensive about someone who’s supposedly just your sister’s mate. And, let’s be honest . . .” He places his glass down with care. “A woman in her mid-twenties? That’s not your world anymore. Probably best not to entertain the thought.”
“For god’s sake,” I mutter, but there’s something about the way he says it that cuts a little too deep. “Nothing will ever happen.”
Which makes me feel even more like Bernard. Brilliant.
Patrick’s grin widens. “So . . . what channel did you say she’s on?”
CHAPTER 18
Daisy
The church could’ve beenripped straight from a BBC period drama—crumbling stone walls, ivy sprawling everywhere, plonked in the middle of one of those quaint English villages I grew up near.
A perfect setting for a Cavendish family funeral.
I totter up the gravel path in heels that are inappropriate for the occasion—or any occasion that doesn’t involve standing still while holding a martini. They’re the only black dressy heels that I own, so here I am, risking a sprained ankle in the name of respecting dead perverts.
My stomach flips in a way that has nothing to do with the train sandwich I inhaled earlier. All I want is to get this over with and hop back on a train to London, far away from Charlie, Mrs. C, and the rest of the Cavendish clan.
I spot Mum’s beacon of blonde hair among the sea of tasteful mourning hats.
We hug, and for a moment, the knot in my chest loosens.
Then I pull back, and it slams into me all over again.
“I have to see Charlie.” I groan. “He saw me running out of Sophia’s engagement party. How am I supposed to face him?”
Mum tuts—that sharp little sound that instantly drops me back to fifteen. “With your head held high, love.”
She fusses with my dress sleeve like I’m about to perform at the Royal Albert Hall instead of slumping into a pew, trying desperately not to make eye contact with my ex.
“You’re too good for him anyway,” she adds primly. “All charm and not much else, that one.”
The church bells kick in—slow, heavydong, dong, dong—and the crowd starts shuffling forward. Black hats, stiff upper lips, the full funeral package.
I scan the crowd frantically, my heart thudding faster with every passing second.
Where is he?
And more importantly, which “he” am I actually looking for?
“Do you think all of Bernard’s ‘cleaners’ will show?” I mutter, throwing sarcastic air quotes aroundcleanersthat Mum studiously ignores.
“Shoosh!” she hisses as we pass a woman dabbing her eyes with a lace-trimmed handkerchief. She nods politely at the woman, then leans in conspiratorially.
“Actually,” she murmurs, her eyes flicking toward the front, “there’s one.”
I follow her gaze to a twenty-something stunner with legs that don’t quit and a Rolex gleaming on her wrist. “Her?” I whisper, eyebrows shooting up. “You’re telling me she earnedthatsorting his socks?”
“Yes,” she says through gritted teeth, which is Mum-code forobviously fucking not, but we don’t talk about that in public.
“Mum, if you’d just batted your lashes at Bernard a bit, you’d already be sunning yourself in Spain. Your Marbella beachfront villa could be a reality by now. Think of all the sangria you’ve thrown away.”
She elbows me. Which is frankly unnecessary.
I bite back a laugh. “No, but seriously, why does nobody ever acknowledge the giant, scandalous elephant in the room?” I keep my voice low, though apparently not low enough, because Mum stiffens. “We’re always on about his brilliant medical career, but somehow forget he spent his golden years auditioning for Hugh Hefner of the village.”
