CHAPTER 11
Daisy
“It’s stunning!” I say, my voice spilling over with excitement.
About forty little conical tents dot the field, their white canvas catching the moonlight and glowing softly under strings of fairy lights. The Gilded Glade Retreat lives up to every dreamy promise from the website—romantic, whimsical, almost too perfect to be real.
Fire pits flicker in groups, ringed by wooden benches piled with fluffy blankets that scream sit down and live your coziest life .
For the first time in days, I feel a flicker of relief.
“I thought you said this place was supposed to be luxurious,” Imogen mutters behind me.
My flicker of relief dies a brutal death.
I turn to face her. Imogen doesn’t just look unimpressed—she looks like she’s stumbled into a nightmare. The kind of horrified you reserve for discovering you’ve accidentally booked a weekend in a bog instead of a glamorous glamping paradise.
To make it worse, she’s not even trying to be mean. No passive-aggressive digs. Just pure, honest horror.
It is luxurious—for normal people. It’s just not a five-star glacier resort in Iceland, which is apparently her baseline for “acceptable.”
“It’s rustic chic!” I say, distraught. “Glamping is all the rage now.”
“I love camping,” Sophia chimes in, like the angel she is. “This is such a great idea.”
I shoot her a look of gratitude—though, honestly, I could have done without the word camping.
Imogen visibly flinches , like she’s just imagined squatting in a bush with a roll of toilet paper and a headlamp.
I glance at the others, desperately scanning for even the tiniest flicker of agreement—anything to suggest they don’t all hate my glamping dream.
No such luck. The girls look like they’re one fairy light away from calling an Uber.
Behind us, Giles and Hugo trudge along, radiating the quiet defeat of guys who’ve learned not to bother complaining. Hugo—the groomsman whose idea of flirting is winking at anything with a pulse—hauls luggage for Imogen so massive it could double as a lifeboat.
I sneak another glance at the glowing tents, their amber lights blinking softly as if trying to reassure me.
Come on, magical glamping site, pull your weight. Don’t let me down now.
Edward hasn’t arrived yet—he’s driving down after his hospital shift—and against my better judgment, I catch myself wondering what he’ll think of all this.
We duck into one of the tents, and—thank god —it’s perfect. A double bed piled high with plush, cloud-like bedding, twinkling lights draped along the edges, everything looking like a scene straight out of a Hallmark movie.
“This is cute!” I chirp, hoping my enthusiasm is contagious.
Imogen steps inside, her stilettos clicking against the floor. She pauses, scanning the space with the kind of wary suspicion most people reserve for dodgy Airbnbs with unidentified stains.
“Are you sure it’s safe to sleep here?” she asks, frowning at the walls like burglars, murderers, or possibly a werewolf are lurking in the bushes, waiting to make off with her travel-sized Dyson hairdryer.
“What? Of course it’s safe!” I say.
“There’s no security.” She gestures toward the entrance as if expecting an armed guard to materialize.
I glance outside at a couple of staff members milling around, clearly not trained assassins but definitely people . “Look, there are . . . people. They’ll, um, keep an eye on things.”
Before I can muster a better argument, Bernice pipes up. “I read an article about this area having an outbreak of mutant super rats. Apparently, they’re the size of cats.”
Oh, for the love of—super rats? Are you fucking kidding me?
“What? No. That’s ridiculous,” I rush to say, trying to ignore the way Sophia’s expression tightens. “The rats here are normal -sized. Tiny , even! I’m sure they’re adorable. Like . . . cartoon mice .”
I flutter my hand in the air, as if physically summoning the image of a wholesome little rat in a waistcoat. “This place is perfectly safe.”
Sophia shoots me a grateful smile, but it’s strained—more I’m trying not to panic than best weekend ever. Her gaze flicks nervously between Imogen and Bernice, like she’s more concerned about them than enjoying herself. Or maybe she’s bracing for a surprise attack from Bernice’s mutant rats.
From somewhere beyond the tents, a raspy neigh slices through the night.
Everyone freezes. Even me.
“What the fuck was that?” Imogen shrieks.
The sound comes again, louder this time, rattling through the darkness.
I squint, trying to locate the source. “A donkey,” I say finally, though my voice lacks conviction. “I think.”
“A donkey?” Bernice repeats, eyes wild. “Why is there a donkey?”
“It’s the countryside,” I say, throwing up my hands like that’s all the explanation required. “Donkeys . . . happen.”
I need a stiff drink. I thought this place was a slam dunk, but now we’re spiraling over donkeys and fictional rats.
I take a deep breath, summoning what’s left of my optimism reserves. Come on, Daisy. Rally. “Look, it’s probably just a friendly farm animal. Adds to the rustic charm, right?”
“Or it’s a wild beast waiting to attack ,” Bernice mutters darkly, arms crossed, gripping her designer handbag like it’s her last line of defense.
So much for the win.
“Where are the ladies?” Imogen snaps.
I blink at her, confused. For one horrifying second, I think Oh god, have we lost a bridesmaid? Is one of them out there, wandering helplessly in the donkey-infested darkness?
Then it dawns on me—she means the toilets. It feels weird to say ladies when we’re in the middle of a field.
“There’s no ladies’ room?” she shrieks. “Don’t tell me it’s unisex !”
“There is! Of course there is. They even have GHDs in there! And fancy soap. Everything’s fine.”
She huffs through her nose. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”
“We will,” I reply, my voice strained but painfully cheerful—like a flight attendant trying to convince everyone the emergency landing is a totally normal part of the experience. “In time. For now, let’s all just . . . relax.”
I spot a man who looks vaguely in charge—thank fucking god. “One sec. I’ll find out which tents are ours.”
Preferably before the super rats get here.
I stride toward him, forcing a smile even though my nerves are shot and we haven’t even unpacked yet. “Hi. We’ve just arrived.”
He beams back, all enthusiasm. “Daisy’s group, right?”
“That’s us,” I confirm, relieved someone’s excited about this weekend.
“Fantastic. Welcome to The Gilded Glade Retreat.” He thrusts a glossy brochure into my hands. It’s all lush nature scenes and beaming faces—none of which resemble the grumpy bridesmaids I left behind.
“I’ll give you the full tour soon,” he adds, “but let’s get you settled first. Your spot’s just behind the farmhouse.”
Great. Right next to that mystery neighing in the dark.
I follow him past the charming farmhouse, and he flings open the flap of a tent—our tent, apparently—with the flair of someone unveiling Narnia.
“This is yours,” he announces cheerfully.
I step inside.
And stop dead.
Rows of single beds stretch out in military-grade precision.
I blink.
It’s a dormitory. An actual dormitory. The kind you’d find on a school trip. I half expect a matron to appear, barking orders about lights-out.
“This is . . . ours?” I manage, my voice barely a whimper.
“Isn’t it great?” He crosses his arms over his chest, proud of himself.
Sure, it’s technically cute. But for a group of adults, one of whom casually rents private villas in the Maldives for “a quick reset”? It’s a nightmare. A sweaty, snoring, farting, shared space nightmare.
“No,” I mutter, shaking my head like I can wish it away. “This isn’t right. We’re supposed to have the private tents—the luxury ones up front.”
His smile falters. He pulls out his phone, scrolls . . . scrolls . . . keeps scrolling.
Then he delivers the final blow.
“This is the one you booked.”
My heart slams against my ribs as I take in the rows of dorm beds. “But these are much more basic. This can’t be right. There’s been a mistake. Look at the bill—clearly, we’re supposed to be in the glam ones.”
He takes my phone, glances at the booking confirmation, then shrugs with the detached ease of someone who does not have to deal with Imogen. “Not for that price. This is about a quarter of what those tents cost.”
My mouth opens.
No sound comes out.
I’ve made a Titanic-sized mistake.
I’ve dragged everyone here, hyped up this weekend—
And I’ve booked them into a glorified youth hostel.
I can already see Imogen’s face when she steps inside. The slow, incredulous blink. The inevitable Daisy, what have you done? And Bernice? She’s going to faint.
And—oh god—Edward.
I’ve booked a very senior surgeon in a top London hospital into a dormitory.
“You don’t understand,” I croak. “I can’t tell my friends we’re staying here.”
The guy frowns, genuinely perplexed, like he’s trying to figure out why I’m acting as though I’ve been condemned to live in a cave. “These are very comfortable. Lots of people love the communal aspect.”
“Not these people!” I choke out, my voice pitching higher as the walls seem to close in. “We’re talking about a girl who has a hundred and twenty rooms in her house. Her friends who grew up with herds of ponies. A world-class surgeon who sleeps on a very expensive, very comfortable mattress.”
The words spill out, a frantic avalanche I can’t stop. “Please, I’m begging you. I’ll do anything—mow every lawn you have, wrestle that donkey out there—just fix this before I’m the worst bridesmaid in history.”
His expression softens. Finally, he gets it. Salvation’s coming.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “The others are booked. It’s not possible.”
No, no, no.
“There has to be something. We could trade with someone? Or—or bribe them?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Please,” I plead, seriously considering getting down on my knees. “Just . . . check again. One more time.”
His patience frays. “I get that you’re upset, but this is what you booked. I can’t magic up space that isn’t there.”
He’s right. He can’t. Just like I can’t magic myself into a competent human who books the right damn tent.
My heart sinks.
If this were any other group—Jamie, Lizzie, even just me and Sophia—we’d already be laughing about this. We’d call it “hostel chic,” and take bets on who would snore the loudest.
But this crew? They don’t roll with punches.
“I need to check on another tent,” he says, his tone clipped, like my spiraling is giving him a migraine. “I’ll be back soon.” And then he’s gone.
I stumble outside, my legs shaky. The perfect weekend I’d pictured—cozy tents, happy friends, me shining as maid of honor—has collapsed into a signature Daisy Wilson train wreck. Tears hit fast, streaming down my face as I clap my hands over my eyes, my chest tightening with every ragged breath. I can’t stop it.
I’ve ruined everything. The dream weekend I promised them, the one I so confidently sold—poof, gone. I’ve managed to transform it into a setting for a budget horror film.
What the hell was I thinking? I can’t even demonstrate a bidet on live television without having a meltdown, and now I thought I could pull this off? Organize a glamping trip for them ?
My brain churns through the mess:
Tent reality: Horror hostel chic
Price paid: Apparently equivalent to bag of crisps
Super rat threat level: Rising, apparently
Chance of maintaining bridesmaid status: Rapidly diminishing
In full panic mode, I dial Jamie. He picks up after two rings, chirping a casual “Hello,” and I let loose—sobbing, ranting about tents, expectations, and my total failure.
There’s a long, agonizing “Ummmmmm” from his end. I hear a mouse click—he’s on his damn computer.
“Ohhhhh shit,” he says finally, way too chill.
“‘Oh shit’?” I snap, practically snarling. “That’s it, Jamie? Oh shit?”
There’s a sharp inhale on his end, the sound of someone realizing they’ve just made a tactical error. “Okay, okay, I’m sorry! But I’m literally looking at the website right now, and those tents look nice. They’re, like, comfy .”
“ Comfy? ” I hiss, my voice descending into something feral. “Posh people don’t do comfy . They do chandeliers and gold bloody bidets!”
“Shit,” he says again, quieter this time. “I’m sorry, Daisy. Honestly. But . . . yeah.”
I hang up before I say something I can’t take back.
Sniffling, I trudge back toward the campsite entrance, kicking at clumps of grass like they’ve betrayed me personally.
“Daisy?”
That voice—deep, steady, unmistakable—stops me cold. Of course Edward Cavendish shows up now.
I swipe at my face in a futile attempt to hide the evidence of my breakdown, but let’s be honest—there’s no coming back from blotchy cheeks and snotty sniffles.
He’s still in his work shirt, the crisp white fabric slightly creased from what was obviously a long day. And yet, despite everything—my brain takes a moment to notice the way it stretches across his broad shoulders and how his sleeves are rolled up just enough to expose forearms that belong in . . . I don’t know, medical erotica?
“You wore a suit to a campground?” I blurt, my voice wobbly and weirdly accusatory.
One dark brow lifts. “No. I wore a suit to work, took my morning meetings, scrubbed in at dawn to perform an emergency bowel resection, removed a gallbladder and then an appendix, explained to a patient why they can’t actually keep their appendix as a souvenir, and as a result didn’t have time to change before arriving at this . . .” He glances at the campsite. “. . . charming retreat.”
Well, okay then.
His gaze drifts over me, taking in every blotchy inch of my face.
“What’s going on?” he asks, stepping closer. “The others said you’d been gone a while sorting accommodation.”
“I just . . .” I sniffle. “I messed up.”
His frown deepens. “How exactly?”
I stare at his shoes—fancy leather, now smudged with mud, another victim of my chaos. “I booked the wrong tents,” I mutter, mostly to the ground.
There’s a beat of silence.
“I see,” he says slowly. “And that warranted tears because . . . ?”
“It’s bad,” I huff. “Like, really bad.”
He studies me, his face blank. I brace myself for some cutting remark about my obvious incompetence.
Instead, he does something entirely unexpected.
His hand hovers for a brief second and then gently brushes a stray tear off my cheek with the pad of his thumb.
I still, caught somewhere between wanting to sink into the earth and leaning into the warmth of his touch.
“Oopsie Daisy has done it again,” I mumble, voice thick. “As your uncle Bernard would say.”
“Show me.”
With a sigh heavy enough to knock over a small donkey, I turn and trudge toward the dorm tent.
Edward follows, stopping just inside the entrance. He folds his arms, leaning against the frame as he takes it all in—the endless rows of single beds, the distinct school-trip horror of it all.
The silence is agonizing.
“It’s bad, right?” I ask, sneaking a nervous glance at him.
“No,” he says at last, his tone so dry I almost miss the sarcasm. “I can’t possibly imagine a more delightful sleeping arrangement. What man in his late thirties wouldn’t jump at the chance to spend the night crammed into a tent with his younger sister’s friends? It’s . . . fantastic.”
A laugh spills out of me—choked but grateful. His sarcasm stings just enough to make it funny, and somehow, that helps.
“There’s also super rats,” I add.
“Super rats.” He drags a hand through his hair. “I don’t even want to ask.”
“Probably for the best.”
He exhales. “Who’s in charge here?”
I shake my head miserably. “The guy said there’s no chance of fixing it. You’re wasting your time. You can huff and puff all you want, but it’s hopeless.”
“I don’t huff and puff. I’m not a wolf. Now, where is he?”
I flick a tired hand toward a tent in the distance. “Over there somewhere.”
Without another word, he strides off into the darkness, his broad shoulders taut with exasperation.
I watch him disappear, then sink onto the grass, spent.
Sophia’s going to be crushed. She won’t say anything, of course—she’s too well-mannered for that—but I know this will ruin everything. We’ll end up in some overpriced, soulless hotel, and this whole trip will go down in history as another Oopsie Daisy Disaster?.
The thought makes me snort. Swiping at my damp face, I try to pull myself together when a shadow falls over me.
I glance up.
Edward stands there, silhouetted against the soft glow of the string lights. He extends a hand. For a second, I genuinely can’t tell if he’s offering to help me up or contemplating how best to put me out of my misery.
“It’s resolved.”
I blink up at him. “What?”
“Are you going to get up?” His wide-legged stance makes it very clear he does not have the patience for my dramatics.
I stare dumbly at his outstretched hand before finally taking it— definitely not noticing how warm and strong it feels because that would be inappropriate in this moment of crisis.
He hauls me to my feet like I weigh nothing.
“We’re in the tents at the front. Everyone gets their own.”
My jaw drops. “How? Edward, did you—did you bribe him? Free surgeries for life or something?”
“It’s handled,” he mutters, looking away as his jaw ticks. “Don’t worry about it.”
Oh my god. He totally did. He marched over there, all commanding and intense, probably flashed some inch-thick credit card, and growled fix it until the guy caved.
“No need to tell the others,” he adds.
I slap my hands over my mouth, stifling a gasp. “Are you serious?”
“Yes. Now let’s get to these damn tents. I’ve had a long day. A bridal party is the last thing I need, even if it is for my sister.”
Something in me shifts, a messy knot of feelings swelling up too fast to untangle. Before I can think—before reason or dignity can stop me—I do the most spectacularly stupid thing I’ve ever done.
I fling myself at him.
Full koala mode—arms around his neck, legs hooking his waist like I’ve lost all grip on sanity. Which, yeah, I probably have.
He catches me, his reflexes snapping into place, hands automatically clamping around my thighs.
His entire body goes rigid. Every muscle locked.
His face though? Priceless.
Like someone’s tossed him a live grenade while he’s mid-surgery. His handsome features are frozen in shock, his hands gripping my thighs like he’s afraid to move, blink, or breathe.
His scent hits me, woody and spice. It’s unfair for someone to smell this good after spending all day in surgery. Every nerve in my body is suddenly on high alert, every sense dialed to max volume.
I realize something that makes my stomach flip. This visceral, electric awareness of Edward? It’s not new. It’s been there all along, hiding in the shadows, waiting for the right moment to strike. Like some traitorous part of my body has been keeping a secret from my brain.
And now, wrapped around him like some deranged marsupial, that secret is out. Loudly.
“Daisy,” he growls, like he’s summoning every ounce of self-control just to get my name out. “What the hell are you doing?”
“I’m so happy I could kiss you,” I blurt, my mouth running rogue. “Not that I will! Obviously. God, no. I mean—sorry. You’re doing this for Sophia, not me. But still—thank you.”
His jaw clenches, nostrils flaring. “Get down .”
The words are practically guttural.
And yet . . . his hands—the same hands that perform miracles—tighten on my thighs. Not enough to move me. But just enough to hold me there.
I’m straddling Edward Cavendish.
In the middle of a field.
Full-on, thighs-wrapped, core-pressed-against-him, feeling-every-damn-inch-of-him straddling.
But I don’t move. I can’t move.
Holy. Shit.
This feels . . . good.
Not just good—dangerous. Inappropriately, criminally, “this should not be happening with your ex’s brother” good.
Every single point of contact between us is crackling, alive with a heat that’s fucking scorching. And where I’m pressed against his—oh.
Oh fuck.
That’s definitely not a stethoscope in his pocket.
His breath catches—a sound that travels straight to my core, igniting parts of me that absolutely need to shut up and stop having opinions right this second. It’s the kind of sound that makes me want to find out what other noises I could pull out of him.
But his hands stay right where they are, fingers pressing just a little harder into my thighs—like he’s making a counterargument.
His chest is solid granite against mine, and oh sweet hell, my tits are molded to him like they’ve found their forever home.
Through my flimsy top, I feel it all: the taut lines of muscle, the steady rise and fall of his breath, the quickening thud of his heart that betrays his cool exterior.
And sweet Jesus, Edward Cavendish is a whole different category of male. Compared to Charlie or Spencer—what was I thinking?—he’s a MAN. Capital M. Grown-ass, testosterone-drenched, probably makes junior doctors cry just by looking at them man.
“You’re testing my patience, Daisy.”
It’s not a request; it’s an order. One that should’ve had me peeling off him in a heartbeat.
His steel-blue eyes lock onto mine, and the entire universe narrows to this single, electric thread of connection.
There’s something dangerous in those eyes.
Something raw.
Barely restrained beneath the polished, surgeon-perfect exterior.
His hands shift as he sets me down, the brush of his fingertips trailing along my thighs just long enough to send a full-body shiver straight through me.
By the time my feet hit the ground, my knees barely hold me up.
“Let’s go. Now,” he says, a tone that leaves no room for hesitation.
I stumble after him, legs shaky, head spinning, heart pounding—and it’s got nothing to do with the tents anymore.