He had belonged to her once—a very long time ago. But not anymore.
And now? He was a stranger. A man who had deliberately ended that kiss.
He had stopped, and then stepped away.
The humiliation of it burned through her like fire licking up dry parchment.
“Wait.” He reached for her, but Daisy jumped down from the table, her heart slamming against her ribs.
She couldn’t explain herself. Not now. Not yet.
Oh, God.
“Please, forgive me,” she said stiffly, forcing her tone into something cool, something controlled. Something not utterly mortified. “If you’ll excuse me, I have… things to do.”
Without waiting for a response, she turned and fled, practically flying up the stairs before locking herself in her small bedchamber.
She pressed her back against the door, chest heaving.
What have I done?
She stared blindly out the window, not noticing how the sun hovered on the horizon and then dipped below it.
She was going to have to return to the kitchen eventually. Face him. And when she did…
What would she say?
What could she say?
Would he be angry? Or worse—would he pity her?
Pity the poor shop woman who had thrown herself at a man who had no recollection of her—who might very well have a fiancée waiting for him?
He wore no wedding band, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t a wife.
A wife. A home. A whole world she wasn’t a part of.
Kissing him, as incredible as it had been, had been a mistake of historical proportions.
But as she lay back on her bed, staring up at the cracks in the ceiling, the warmth of his lips still lingering on hers, she couldn’t bring herself to regret it.
A GLIMPSE
Alastair hovered over her, his palms braced against the soft earth, his arms straining to keep his weight from crushing her—but he wasn’t going anywhere.
Not while she was beneath him, her hands clinging to his shoulders, her lips parted, waiting for his.
Honeysuckle and sweet lemonade. The scent of her skin, the taste of summer on her tongue.
His Daisy. His best friend. His everything.
Alastair’s fingers tangled in her unruly curls, the silk of them slipping between his knuckles as he imagined all the tomorrows they would share. He could see it—her in white, laughing as he carried her across the threshold of their home. He could feel the weight of their future children in his arms, hear their laughter as they played beneath the very trees that shaded them now.
Daisy made up the other half of his soul.
He would live for her.
He would die for her.
