Shit.
Edward’s death glare bores into me like I just resurrected Bernard for the sole purpose of disrespecting him to his face.
My face erupts into flames.
He clears his throat. Looks down at his notes.
Looks back up at me.
Then down again, like he’s bracing himself for me to start making barnyard noises at any moment.
I want to die.
I sit up straighter, pasting on the most solemn, apologetic expression I can muster. Definitely not a woman who just oinked at a funeral.
“Uncle Bernard was . . . ah . . .”
Edward, who probably hasn’t stumbled over a single word since he learned to talk, trips over his own tongue.
He tugs at his tie.
“Poor Edward,” a lady whispers behind me. “He’s so overcome with emotion.”
Sure, Margaret. That’s exactly it.
CHAPTER 19
Edward
No time to dwellon that disaster of a speech. Duty calls, as it always does—the monotonous circuit of the church hall, a grim parade of dipped heads and murmured platitudes I’m obliged to endure.
“What the hell is she doing here?” Charlie mutters, the instant his fiancée, Julia, vanishes down the corridor with Mother.
I barely turn my head. “Charlie,” I say, keeping my voice even, “try, for once in your life, to behave like the gentleman you were raised to be. She’s here for Sophia.”
As the words leave my mouth, my eyes slide—against my better judgment—to Daisy.
She’s propped against a stone column, shifting unsteadily in those ridiculous heels. Her smile’s polite, plastered on for show, but her fingers drum a restless beat on the pillar, like she’s counting down the minutes until she can make her escape.
“This is bloody disrespectful,” Charlie hisses. “Showing up to my great-uncle’s funeral.”
“Most people would consider attending a funeral to support one’s dearest friend the very definition of respect.”
“Oh, come off it,” he scoffs. “This isn’t about Sophia. She’s still hung up on me.”
Daisy shifts, like she can sense the conversation, her head tilting slightly. For a fleeting moment, her gaze finds mine. Just as quickly, she looks away. My jaw tightens.
Charlie has always operated under the staggeringly deluded belief that any woman in possession of a pulse must be hopelessly infatuated with him. The infuriating part? He’s rarely wrong.
Part of me wonders if Daisy still harbors feelings for him. Despite the years that have passed. Despite the regrettable business with my nephew. Despite Charlie’s graceless handling of their ending.
He was her first love, after all.
“Yeah.” He chuckles, low and cocky. “Bet she reckons she’s still in with a chance. Shame, really. I do regret not being able to tap that anymore. She is bloody stunning.”
He glances at me expectantly, like we’re adolescents trading locker room gossip.
“Try,” I say, voice dropping to a steely edge that makes him twitch, “to summon the barest scrap of dignity and speak about women with respect. They are notobjects to be tapped.”
