Not someone who once demonstrated a vacuum cleaner’s suction power on her face during the three a.m. slot on a shopping channel. That’s my lane.
Then again, I’d bet good money that none of those posh birds have ever made him come in his pants in a church.
Which brings me to my current spiritual crisis. Time for a much-neededChakra Check-Inafter desecrating a house of worship:
Root Chakra:Not grounded. In critical condition.
Sacral Chakra:Absolutely feral. Vibrating at a frequency that could power the whole of London.
Solar Plexus:Full of butterflies and inappropriate pride at making Edward cream his posh pants in a prayer alcove.
Throat Chakra:Making all sorts of suspicious noises.
Exhibit A:the pig snort during the eulogy.
Exhibit B:the not-church-appropriate whimpering.
Third Eye Chakra:Witnessed things it cannot unsee, including Edward’s “Oh god” face.
I’m so lost in thought that I slam straight into what feels like a brick wall.
I blink up into a too-familiar pair of blue eyes—Edward’s blue, but six inches closer to my height and significantly more irritating.
For fuck’s sake. Charlie.
He winces before smearing on his golden-boy grin. “Daisy. What a surprise. Good to see you.”
Lying bastard.
“You too,” I manage.
He shifts awkwardly, adjusting his perfectly straight tie. “It’s sweet of you to come to these things. For Sophia. But please don’t feel obligated.”
My smile freezes in place. I dig deep for restraint. “Sophia wanted me here.”
“Yeah, of course, but we don’t expect it,” he says smoothly. The subtext is loud:I don’t want to see you. Please fuck off.
“I’m going to say goodbye to Sophia,” I say coolly, no longer pretending to be civil. “Goodbye, Charlie.”
The fact that this man still has the power to make me feel like shit is infuriating.
Part of me wants to screamGuess what, Charlie, I just dryhumped your brother.He’d hate it, the smug prat. But let’s not kid ourselves—that wasn’t some grand romance to rub in his face. It was . . . whatever the hell that was.
I shove the thought away and wobble inside. I spot Sophia standing with Imogen and make a beeline for them.
“Hey,” I say. “Sophia, love, I’ve got to head back to London. I have work tonight—those garden shears won’t demonstratethemselves!” I add quickly, before Imogen can get a word in with whatever snotty comment she’s dying to make about my career.
To her credit, she just . . . smiles at me. Suspicious, but I’ll take it.
“Of course.” Sophia pulls me into a tight hug. “Thank you for coming. You’re always there for me.”
“It’s hard for you, sweetie.” Imogen swoops in. “You need your friends around you. You take all the time you need to get over this.”
Sophia sniffles. “Thanks.”
I nod along, making sympathetic noises, but internally, my thoughts are alittleless supportive. It’s Great-Uncle Bernard, for fuck’s sake. It’s not like he was cruelly snatched away in his prime. We all saw this coming.
And yeah, maybe I’m a heartless cow, but out here in the real world, nobody gets a free pass to wallow. When Mum was sick, I still dragged my ass to work, flogged gadgets with a smile, paid the bloody gas bill. I couldn’t just pause everything to wallow in grief.
