“She knew the score. Oh, come on. What did she expect? For us to settle down? For her to be the mother of my child?”
I turn to face him properly, feeling every inch the long-suffering elder brother. “Sometimes, Charlie, you really are an ass.”
“You’re very uptight,” he mutters, defensive now. “You’re the one who told me to break it off.”
“And you’re the one who proved me spectacularly right,” I reply, exasperation settling into something heavier. “I suggested ending things before Daisy became too serious—not treating her like disposable entertainment. Though I realize the distinction between being a gentleman and being an absolute cad might be too nuanced for your comprehension.”
“Jesus. Talk about a mood. Is this because you fumbled the speech, or is Mum back on her matchmaking crusade?”
I let out a tired breath. “As well as you being an ass, both of those things may be contributing factors.”
Mum has been relentless today, parading every remotely eligible woman past me like it’s some kind of macabre debutante ball. As if a funeral isn’t trying enough without her not-so-subtle remarks about grandchildren and biological clocks.
It’s been a weird fucking day.
I’ve delivered countless lectures—hospitals, universities, even bloody television—and not once have I stumbled over my words like a schoolboy. Not once.
Until today.
Infuriating.
Three people have already come over, all soft voices and pity, muttering how tough it must’ve been up there, first funeral since Millie passed. They’re not wrong. It is difficult. Two years, and I’m still living like a monk in mourning.
But that’s not why I lost my composure today.
Charlie claps a hand to my shoulder. “I’m grabbing a drink. You should too—loosen up. Bernard’d want you to get some action, you know.” He nods at the crowd. “Have a bit of fun. Half these women are here for you, I reckon.”
I let out a grunt—half annoyance, half exhaustion—as he swaggers off, leaving me to survey the crowd of mourners.
Voices drift by, all blurred noise.Terrible shame. So sudden.
But my focus keeps dragging back to Daisy.
She’s a walking calamity, stuffed into a dress that’s frankly too distracting for its own good and teetering on heels that have me half-tempted to call in a bloody orthopedic specialist before she does herself an injury.
My jaw tightens, frustration coiling taut in my chest.
And then there’sthatmatter.
The niggling suspicion that’s been eating at me since the glamping trip. I’m almost certain she went into my tent. Found my iPad. Unlocked, of course—because I’m an idiot—and laid bare exactly what, or ratherwho, I’d been watching.
I stride over, irritation warring with a different kind of heat in my veins.
She clocks me coming, her eyes widening just a fraction, a flicker of something like panic darting across them. Good. Let her squirm. Let her feel even a fraction of the disruption she’s caused—not just today with the speech, but forweeksnow, in ways I can’t even begin to articulate.
“H-hey,” she stammers, peeling herself off the column she’s been leaning against.
“Daisy,” I say, planting a hand against the stone beside her head.
My gaze drops to those ridiculous shoes. “Those heels seem a particularly ill-advised choice for standing upright, let alone walking on cobblestones.”
Her lips quirk as she follows my gaze down to the culprits. “Cheers for the concern, Doc. I’ll be sure to consult you next time I’m shoe shopping.”
At least it’s notDaddy. I’ll takeDocand call it a win.
“Consider it preventative care. I’d rather not have to patch you up after an inevitable fall.”
“Thanks,” she mutters, her tone dripping with mock gratitude. “Great speech, by the way. Very . . . moving.”
