“Evidently.” I lift a brow, cool and pointed. “I couldn’t help but notice how moved you were. In fact, the entire congregation witnessed your . . . emotional response. Apparently, my heartfelt tribute to one of British medicine’s greatest had—how shall I put it?—unforeseen comedic value for you.”
Her cheeks flare pink. “What? No! It was very . . . touching. Beautiful, even.”
She’d sell that line better if she could maintain eye contact for more than three seconds.
“You were laughing, Daisy Wilson,” I say, her full name falling from my lips with the weight of a schoolmaster catching a pupil red-handed.
“I wasnot,” she shoots back, straightening up as much as those heels allow—which still leaves her staring up at me from somewhere below my chin. “I can’t believe you’d even suggest such a thing. At your own uncle’s funeral, of all places.”
My lips twitch despite myself. “Your thoughts were written all over your face during my eulogy.”
“That’s nonsense.” She sniffs, crossing her arms in what I suppose is meant to pass for authority. All it does is pull that dress tighter across her chest.
The truth is, Daisy has the worst poker face I’ve ever encountered.
The other truth is that she looks devastatingly beautiful in that dress. It clings to every curve with an audacity that feels deliberately provocative in this setting. Bernard would have been beside himself with delight at her presence—at her sheer nerve to appear like this, drawing every eye in the room.
The thought alone makes my mood darken.
I drag my eyes back to her flushed cheeks, shoving down thoughts I’ve no business entertaining. “Go on, then—enlighten me. What, precisely, did you find so amusing about my tribute?”
She huffs, puffing herself up like she’s got the moral high ground. “I wasn’t laughing atyou. I was just . . . thinking about a funny story Bernard told me once. That’s all.”
“Is that right?” I let the words drip with sarcasm. “Well, don’t keep me in suspense—share this side-splitting tale that had you disrupting his send-off. I’m all ears.”
“It’s not something I care to repeat.”
“How uncharacteristically restrained of you.”
Her eyes flash. “Well, I’mso sorryif my private thoughts offended you during your speech.Sorryfor thinking.”
I take a step closer, letting my voice drop to a murmur. “Word of advice? You might want to work on hiding your intrusive thoughts. Especially the inappropriate ones.”
Her breath hitches. For a heartbeat, that bravado slips, and something like nerves flickers across her face.
Then she rallies, squaring her shoulders. “You can’tpossiblyknow what I’m thinking. Half the time, I don’t even know what I’m thinking.”
“That is painfully obvious.”
She scowls. “And anyway, what even is an ‘intrusive thought’? Aren’t they all just . . . thoughts? Just random noise bouncing around in our brains?”
“There’s a difference,” I say, slipping into lecture mode despite myself—stood here at my uncle’s funeral, sparring with the one woman who seems hell-bent on throwing me off-kilter. “An intrusive thought is unwelcome. It arrives uninvited and refuses to leave. A regular thought is one you consciously entertain—‘I should pick up milk on the way home,’ for instance.”
The faintest smirk tugs at my mouth. “And an analytical thought? That’s when your mind methodically solves a problem. Say, calculating the number of pleasantries required before it becomes socially permissible to make a discreet exit from this funeral.”
Her mouth falls open, indignation flashing across her face. “I wasn’t doing that.”
“Of course not. Not on purpose, at least. Though if you were, I’d hardly hold it against you.”
I pause. “Still, credit where it’s due. Showing up for Sophia today? It’s appreciated. Even if you did manage to throw my eulogy off course with that rather . . . vivid display of emotion.”
“I didn’t mean to put you off,” she mumbles, her gaze dropping to the floor. And for once, she looks—dare I admit it?—genuinely contrite.
“I’m sure you didn’t. But you do have a particular talent for it. Somehow, you always manage to.”
“Yeah, well,” she says, her voice softening, “You really don’t want to know what I was thinking while I was watching you up there. Trust me—it was pretty intrusive. Definitely not funeral appropriate.”
I go still.
