“I’m sorry you have to get the train,” Sophia says, squeezing my arm. “I would’ve driven you, but I’m staying with Mum for a few days to recover. I just hope Second Chance Paws understands.”
Her dog charity—matching lonely grans with even lonelier mutts—is genuinely adorable, and I support it with my whole heart. Even if, statistically speaking, at least two people and four Labradors have definitely died since she started it.
“Oh, don’t even worry about that,” Imogen chimes in, smoothing a perfectly manicured hand down Sophia’s arm. “I’m sure they’ll understand you need time to heal.”
Andthisis where I struggle.
Because it’s like Imogen is filling Sophia’s head with all this soft, fluffy, not-in-the-real-world nonsense.
Simon would laugh himself into a hernia if I asked for time off because mygreat uncledied. His exact words, barked in that gruff East End accent, would be:“Are you taking the fucking piss? Unless he left you enough money to buy the shopping channel, get your ass back to work and sell me some bleeding garden tools.”
And honestly, fair enough.
But before I can say anything, Imogen’s tone sharpens. “Sophia, darling . . . who’s that woman with Edward?”
I follow her hawk-like gaze, and my stomach plummets straight through the floor.
Oh. Oh god.
Some goddess in a perfectly tailored dress is standing next to Edward, her arm hooked through his like she’s done it a hundred times before. She’s closer to his age—mid-thirties, maybe—and she has that kind ofgrown-upsophistication I’ll never, ever master.
Not even if I live to 100.
Like it’s the most natural thing in the world, she rests her hand on his chest.
Like itbelongsthere, like she knows every inch of him and doesn’t need permission to touch him.
Right where my hand was—just an hour ago.
Something inside me twists.
“Hmmm.” Sophia studies her. “Oh, wait! That’s Lucia. She works with Edward.” She leans in like she’s about to deliver some juicy gossip, and Ihatethat I want to hear it. “Giles told me about her. Edward’s taken her out a few times. Dr. Kelly.”
Of course she’s a doctor.
Imogen’s face contorts into something demonic.
“I really hope they become a proper couple.” Sophia sighs dreamily. “They’d be so good together. Edward deserves to find happiness again, you know? I worry about him sometimes.”
“Oh, for god’s sake, Sophia!” Imogen actually stamps her foot. “You’re supposed to be helping me get Edward, not . . . cheering onher.”
Sophia shrinks under Imogen’s glare, rubbing her arm apologetically. “I’msorry, darling, it’s just . . . well, youknowhow he is. He doesn’t go for younger women. He thinks women in their twenties are far too young. Thinks we’re all a bit . . .silly.”
Right.
Of course.
We’re all just silly little girls to him.
A spark of anger flares in my chest, and it has nothing to do with Imogen’s dramatics or Sophia’s gentle condescension.
In so many ways, Edward and Charlie couldn’t be more different. Edward, despite being a moody, awkward grump, has depth. Real depth. The kind you feel in your chest when he’s talking about something he cares about.
Edward has morals. He actually wants to help people, while Charlie studies medicine for the clout and the framed certificates for his wall. Edward is thoughtful. Introverted.
But in one very important way he is exactly like Charlie.
The kind of man who’ll do just fine with me in secret but marry the doctor, the one who fits neatly into the Cavendish world.
