Standing at the counter, sleeves rolled up, forearms tense, a half-eaten peach in his hand—staring at it like it has personally ruined his day.
Something hot and inconvenient flares in my stomach.
“Thought you’d gone back to London,” I say.
“I am. Shortly. And you?”
I shake my head, grabbing a glass from the counter. “I’m stopping by my mum’s first. Although she’s probably sick of me by now—I’ve been popping in so much lately.”
I brush past him to the sink, pour my water, and then turn to make my escape. “Okay, well . . . bye, then.”
But before I can bolt, his hand catches my arm. Gently, but firmly. A bolt of electricity snaps through my skin.
“Why did you lie in there?” he asks abruptly.
That muscle in his jaw does its signatureangry little dance, and my stomach does something very annoying in response.
“Lie about what?” I blink, genuinely lost.
“Your name. That story about your mother thinking it would make you sweet and innocent.”
I freeze, glass halfway to my lips.
“Your mother told me the real story once. She said she saw daisies growing through concrete and thought, ‘That’s the kind of resilience my daughter will need.’ I find it rather a sweet story.”
The water in my glass becomes endlessly fascinating. “Is there anything you don’t forget?” I mutter.
“I’m just curious why you said something more . . . superficial.”
“Maybe because I don’t feel all that resilient right now,” I snap. “I don’t feel like some badass flower.”
I feel his eyes on me, heavy and searching, and it’s too much.
I set the glass down and turn to leave before he can respond, because apparently, I can face furious customers on live TV—grown adults yelling about faulty bidets—but I can’t handle Edward Cavendish knowing my mother once believed I was strong enough to bloom through concrete.
Downward dog might not be the ideal pose for a full-blown rant, but here I am—palms pressing into Mum’s yoga mat, hips in the air, vibrating with frustration.
“I swear to god, if I have to go to one more bridesmaid fitting, I’m going to set the dresses on fire.”
“Deep breaths, love,” Mum says, shifting effortlessly into Tree Pose. “Sophia means well. Sweet girl, but let’s be honest—she was raised to expect . . . certain things. Reality isn’t her strong suit.”
I roll my eyes, stretching into Warrior Two. “Yeah, well, I wasn’t raised to spend my weekends twirling in satin. Some of us have limits.”
Mum mirrors my pose—not even a wobble—and leans toward me conspiratorially, whispering. “I blame Mrs. C.”
“She can’t hear you from the main house, Mum. Unless she’s bugged the yoga mats.”
“She hears everything.”
“Just like Edward,” I mutter.
Mum straightens up, her eyes glinting with interest. “Edward?”
“Mm-hmm,” I mumble, fixing my gaze on my front hand, instantly regretting saying his name out loud.
She’s like a bloodhound with a fresh scent now. “I saw you two talking at the funeral last week. It looked quite . . . intense.”
I snap upright. “Not in the church, right? Dear god, Mum, did you see?”
