In a prayer alcove.
At my great uncle’s funeral.
Daisy
I launch myself off Edward’s lap like I’ve been shot from a cannon, yanking my dress down. It’s a crumpled mess, clinging to my sweaty skin, and—oh god—did I really just do that? Straddle Edward Cavendish and grind him into next week likesome baboon in heat? This isnotwhat they meant by “getting closer to god” in Sunday school.
I nearly tipped over the edge myself, just from rubbing up against him.
I’m still so turned on I can barely string thoughts together. My thighs are trembling. My skin is flushed with the aftermath. I’m caught somewhere between wanting to die of shame and wanting to climb back on for round two.
At the back of the church, the vicar is having a very calm, very normal conversation with a sweet-looking elderly woman, gesturing with the patience of a man who hasno ideathat the sanctity of his sacred space has just been utterly defiled.
Did he see anything?
My eyes dart to the arched window above the cross.
Did Jesus see anything?
Of course he did.
He sees everything.
At this point, I imagine him sighing heavily from his celestial couch, pouring himself a stiff drink.Oh, it’s her again.
Though actually, that means he also saw Edward wanking to my bidet demonstrations, so maybe he’s used to it by now.
I glance at Edward.
The man looks like he’s just been struck by lightning, and frankly, the damage appears permanent. He’s desperately adjusting his trousers in a way that won’t draw attention to his . . . sticky situation. His eyes are wild when they meet mine. His underwear must look like a crime scene.
But damn. This might have been the hottest moment of my life.
Right up there with The Edward Show in the tent.
The vicar and the lady start making their way over.
Oh no.
Oh no no no no.
The lady’s face lights up when she sees him—like she’s just spotted Paul McCartney in Tesco. If only she knew what those expensive trousers are hiding.
If I wasn’t trying to remember how basic motor functions work, I’d be crying with laughter at how rattled Edward looks.
She puts a sympathetic hand on Edward’s bicep—the same bicep I was gripping for very different reasons mere moments ago.
“Oh, Edward, dear,” she coos, all grandmotherly concern. “You look quite flushed. Oh, poor boy, you must be so upset about your uncle.”
Edward makes a strangled sound.
“Hi, Vicar!” Ichirp, and it comes out so bright and unnatural that I immediately regret speaking. I sound deranged.
I perform an involuntary hand flap in the air, which is supposed to be a wave but instead looks like I’m signaling for emergency help. Simultaneously, I try to smooth my hair as inconspicuously as possible.
My heart is pounding loud enough to count as its own hymn.
Edward clears his throat and starts rambling—words tumbling out in a posh, malfunctioning loop. “Wonderful service, Vicar. Bernard would have loved it . . . yes . . . very moving . . . very fitting . . . yes.”
