CHAPTER 12
Edward
I’m certain I’ve just committed an act of financial idiocy that would make my accountant weep.
The group pounced on my offer to move them into the communal lodging. As they bloody well should—the figure I handed over belongs more in a merger agreement than as payment for vacating a few tents.
Not that the monetary aspect matters.
The sight of Daisy Wilson, tears streaking from those expressive hazel eyes, was intolerable. Would’ve handed over the entire bloody estate to erase that look of defeat from her face. Purely because Sophia’s best friend being a mess would’ve put a damper on my sister’s celebration, and I couldn’t have that.
Still, when I told her it was taken care of, the way she looked up at me—her expression blooming into a smile so full of relief it could knock a man flat—well, it almost made the hit to my bank account feel like a rational decision.
The fact that I can still feel every soft curve of her body pressed against mine is entirely beside the point. Completely irrelevant. As is the inconvenient memory of those thighs clamping around my waist with surprising force for a pocket-sized menace.
I cannot have her launching herself at me in the middle of a glamping site where my youngest sister could stroll by any second.
Someone really ought to teach that girl about control.
Though perhaps I’m not the most suitable candidate for that particular lesson.
Not after the way my body responded to her . . .
Right. I drag a hand down my face. I need a drink. Something that’s been aging in an oak barrel since before she was legally allowed to drink, preferably. Strong enough to burn away thoughts of Daisy Wilson and her apparent mission to systematically dismantle my sanity.
I swap my clothes for sweats and a T-shirt, trying to shake it off and get my head on straight.
A whole bloody weekend. Trapped in close quarters with my sister’s friends. And her.
I feel like the designated adult—the chaperone. Or, as Daisy so infuriatingly and provocatively put it, the daddy .
I am not the daddy.
Everyone else here, however, is in their twenties while I’m knocking on forty’s door.
I could be sailing with Liam right now. Ever since he got together with Gemma, he’s been taking more time off from Ashbury Thornton, his private equity firm, to enjoy life.
Or I could be polishing off that paper on laparoscopic anterior resection techniques that’s been sitting untouched. The British Journal of Surgery doesn’t hand out extensions for camping emergencies. Instead, I’m here, playing unwilling camp counselor to a bunch of millennials who, among other sins, make me feel every single year of my age in the worst way possible.
I steel myself, duck through the flaps of my tent—and, of course, there she is.
Daisy Wilson, sprawled on one of the benches. Her eyes meet mine and . . . stop. Her jaw goes slack, and her gaze rakes over me.
“What?” I snap, sharper than I mean to.
“Nothing.” She shakes her head.
Christ. Those shorts of hers appear to be violating several public decency laws.
“Just not used to seeing you all casual,” she teases, twirling a loose thread on one of the blankets. “I’m so used to the tuxedos and tailored suits.”
“My glamping tuxedo is currently at the dry cleaners,” I reply dryly, settling into the seat across from her. The campfire crackles between us—a welcome buffer against the disconcerting effect she seems to have on my composure. “Along with my hiking three-piece and my wilderness bow tie collection.”
She lifts a brow, smirking at my remarks. All right, that was snarkier than usual for me.
The others start trickling out of their tents while Daisy leaps up—way too enthusiastically—to grab the cooler.
“Drinks, everyone!” she calls out, already in her element, playing bartender. If Daisy Wilson were an element, it’d be chaos—loud, wild, uncontainable.
She saunters over, beer in hand, flashing that grin that always means trouble’s coming. I shake my head before she even opens her mouth.
“Aren’t you drinking?” she asks, somehow turning it into an accusation.
“I’ve got work to finish tonight. A paper that needs my focus.”
“Seriously?” Sophia groans. “You’re working?”
“Afraid so. I’ve got a deadline.”
“Come on,” Daisy says, her smile widening as she nudges the bottle toward me. “What’s this world-changing paper they can’t wait a few days for?”
I exhale through my nose, already regretting the answer. “A submission for the British Journal of Surgery . ‘Optimizing Outcomes in Complex Laparoscopic Anterior Resection.’”
She blinks, hazel eyes widening like saucers. “Wow.” Then she laughs.
“What’s so amusing, Daisy?”
She shakes her head in mock disbelief, dark hair spilling over one shoulder. “This is what you do on a Friday night? While the rest of us are drinking wine, you’re optimizing . . . whatever you just said.”
“I have responsibilities.”
“You know, most people would consider relaxing by the fire a responsibility too. It’s called enjoying life.”
I inhale slowly, summoning patience. “I relax in my own ways.”
“Reading medical journals doesn’t count.”
“You’ll have more fun without me cramping your style,” I say, aiming for finality.
“That’s not true, Doctor Grump.” Her voice softens. “Come on.”
I hesitate. My eyes catch hers in the firelight, the glow flickering across her face. “Fine. One drink.”
She hands me a beer, looking far too pleased with herself, as if coaxing me into accepting it has been some great victory. Perhaps it has.
I mutter something vaguely noncommittal and take a large sip.
“There’s nothing to do,” Imogen whines, sinking further into her chair with all the grace of a petulant child. For someone so objectively attractive, she has an uncanny ability to irritate the hell out of me.
“That’s the beauty of glamping,” Daisy says, her face lighting up with enthusiasm. “There’s nothing to do. It’s all about soaking in the outdoors, reflecting, chilling by the fire. We can tell stories, talk about our hopes and dreams.”
“Our hopes and dreams?” Hugo looks mildly horrified. “I’m an accountant.”
“And I flog garden tools to creepy weirdos at one a.m.” She lets out a dramatic sigh. “We’ve all got dreams!”
Her laugh rolls through the group like a wave. I glance away, determined to ignore the way the sound tugs at the corners of my mouth.
“Okay, how about some games?” she suggests.
“Games?” Imogen’s voice hits a pitch that could scatter wildlife. She glances around, like she’s expecting a roulette table to pop out of the bushes. “What kind?”
Daisy’s grin stretches wider, and I instantly don’t trust it. “Truth or dare. Or strip poker.”
Hugo perks up, leaning forward. “That might even make a few of my dreams come true.” He delivers what he presumably believes is a charming wink.
My jaw clenches. “We are not playing strip poker, Daisy Wilson.”
“Ooh.” She sits up straighter. “My full name. I feel like I’m being told off.”
“You are,” I reply. “Behave yourself.”
“We’re all adults, Eddie.”
“That’s debatable. And I don’t answer to Eddie. I didn’t slog through years of medical training to sound like I’m hosting a kids’ show.”
“I like Eddie. It’s cute. Dr. Eddie.”
“No Dr. Eddie ,” I grit out. Besides the fact that I have never in my professional life answered to ‘Eddie,’ the correct title for a surgeon in the UK is actually ‘Mr.’ But I've grown weary of that particular correction. “And I can assure you there will be absolutely no ‘strip anything’ whatsoever.”
“Fine.” She holds up her hands in mock surrender. “Wouldn’t want to scandalize anyone.”
I turn my attention to the fire pit, fixing my gaze on the glowing embers as if they hold the secret to keeping my composure intact. This is going to be a long night.
“Lighten up, Eddie.” Sophia giggles. “This feels just like when we were fifteen.” She turns to the group, smirking conspiratorially. “He’s always been overprotective and stern with us. And so bloody grumpy!”
“Someone had to prevent catastrophe with you two,” I reply. “A spectacular fail on that front, obviously.”
Given the current evidence, I should have been significantly more protective. And considerably grumpier.
“Okay,” Daisy cuts in. “If Eddie”—she shoots me a pointed look that does nothing to improve my mood—“doesn’t like the idea of strip poker, let’s consider some very serious, very proper games. How about Two Truths and a Lie? It’s a classic.”
Marvelous. Because what this evening needs is Daisy Wilson revealing more truths.
As it stands, I know too much. Like how she looks in my bed, how she feels wrapped around me, and, most disturbingly, how that mouth forms the word Daddy . . .
Sophia, predictably, lights up at the suggestion, leaning into Daisy’s orbit like she always does. “Oh, I love that game!”
Imogen sighs, barely concealing her disdain. “Isn’t that a bit . . . juvenile?”
“That’s the point,” Daisy says. “Come on, it’ll be fun.”
“Fine,” Imogen pouts. “But only because we’re literally stranded in the wilderness with nothing else to do.”
I bite my tongue. I’m not sure a camping park in Devon counts as the wilderness.
“I’ll start!” Daisy says. “Let’s see . . . I’ve been skydiving, I used to nick donuts from Greggs, and I once stole Edward’s car.”
“Why are two of those about you being a thief?” Hugo asks, looking far too impressed.
“Maybe I have a dark side.” Daisy’s grin widens. “Or maybe I don’t. You’ll just have to work it out.”
The group starts debating, but I’m watching Daisy, whose smirk is daring me to ruin her fun.
“Stealing Edward’s car is obviously the lie,” Imogen declares with absolute certainty. “She can’t be that reckless.”
I resist the urge to laugh outright.
“I don’t know why anyone would choose donuts for their life of crime,” Bernice muses.
“She’s never been skydiving,” I say, crossing my arms. “She’s scared of heights. And she absolutely owes at least three different branches of Greggs money.”
Daisy clutches her chest in mock betrayal. “Spoilsport. You ruined it.”
“So . . . you actually stole Edward’s car?” Hugo looks delighted.
“Yes, she did,” I confirm, the memory still fresh enough to make my eye twitch. “She stole my brand-new Aston Martin. At fifteen. With Sophia as her equally criminal accomplice.”
“Borrowed,” Daisy says. “We were going to bring it back.”
“After you drove it through a hedge?”
“That was all Sophia’s fault! She kept checking her hair in the mirror instead of looking at the road—”
“Me?” Sophia giggles. “You’re the one who was slouched like some wannabe gangster!”
“Quite the criminal masterminds,” I say dryly. “Two teenagers sharing a driver’s seat, thinking no one would notice my car was missing. Needless to say, they didn’t get very far.”
Daisy sighs, looking wistful. “The end of the lane.”
Sophia snickers into her wine. “God, I’ve never seen him so angry.”
“Rightfully so.” I shake my head. “I was bloody furious. And also rather concerned about the welfare of my baby sister, her reckless friend, and yes, my expensive car.”
Daisy pouts. “I just wanted to learn how to drive, and no one would teach me.”
“Because you were fifteen. Though if you recall, I did give you a lesson at eighteen.”
“You made me cry. You were very mean.”
“I was teaching you proper driving techniques. If you insist on not following basic traffic laws and treating my gear shift like a lever in an arcade game—”
“I was nervous ,” Daisy cuts in, rolling her eyes. “You kept saying words like ‘clutch control’ and ‘mirror positioning,’ and I didn’t even know what those meant.”
“Well, you would’ve if you’d been listening.”
“I’m sorry, but can we rewind to the donut thing?” Bernice interjects, her face a picture of confusion. “Why were you stealing pastries?”
“For the thrill,” Daisy replies matter-of-factly, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “I’m not that person anymore, though. I’ve repented.”
“How, exactly, have you repented?” I ask, unable to suppress my amusement.
“I’m very polite to the Greggs staff now,” she says, solemn as a saint. “And I always pay for the meal deal.”
“From pastry thief to paying customer. A touching redemption arc. I assume they’ve taken down your wanted poster from behind the counter.”
She smirks, sticking out her tongue in response. “They actually gave me a loyalty card. I’m a big veggie sausage roll consumer.”
“How generous of them to reward your decision to finally stop pilfering their inventory.”
“You two, stop bickering!” Sophia giggles. “Daisy was like an extension of our family, as you can clearly see. Edward’s other little sister.”
Daisy and I exchange a glance that carries the weight of everything Sophia will never understand. Her fingers curl around her beer bottle, her usual bravado momentarily dimming.
If only my dear, oblivious sister knew how off the mark she was.
Daisy Wilson, an extension of the family? Hardly. My mother barely tolerated her at the best of times—she was little more than the housekeeper’s daughter, a convenient playmate for Sophia when we were children to keep Sophia out of her way.
“I wouldn’t say that,” I say curtly, taking a slow sip of beer.
My eyes flick to Daisy again, this time lingering a moment too long. One thing is painfully clear:
I do not see Daisy Wilson as a little sister.
I drag my eyes away, back to my drink, willing myself to focus on anything else.
I’m no closer to figuring out what to do about her than I was when she was stealing pastries and cars.
Though handcuffs still seem like a viable option.
I rinse off quickly, hot water stinging my tired muscles, washing away the remnants of a long, intense work week. Wrapping a towel around my waist, I step out of the shower. My head feels heavy, a dull ache from far too little sleep. Staying up late last night was a mistake—first enduring the group’s endless chatter around the fire, then painstakingly finishing my paper in the faint glow of my laptop. And, of course, Daisy and Hugo were the last ones to go to bed. Her laughter had floated outside my tent, light and maddening, long into the early hours.
So, the last thing I expect, stepping out of the shower block, is to nearly collide with my own personal form of chaos.
That’s all I bloody need.
She’s on all fours in those criminally short shorts, ass elevated at an angle that makes my throat go embarrassingly dry.
I freeze.
At least she’s not sprawled across my bed this time, though this position isn’t much better for my sanity.
She appears oblivious to my presence, lost in whatever bizarre ritual she’s performing. I stop in my tracks, both fascinated and mildly horrified, as she lowers herself to the ground, her fingers tracing patterns in the grass like she’s attempting to communicate with it.
“What on earth are you doing?”
She lets out a startled squeal, scrambling upright. “Don’t do that! You scared the crap out of me.”
She presses a hand to her chest, catching her breath, before adding with absolute sincerity, “I was doing reiki. Connecting with the earth’s natural vibrations. The trees here have amazing energy. Very grounding.”
“The energy,” I repeat slowly, “outside the shower block. Next to the chemical toilets.”
God give me strength.
“They’re not chemical toilets!” she protests, indignant. “They’re fancy toilets. With fancy soaps and . . . other fancy things. Just because they don’t have bidets doesn’t mean you have to insult them.”
“I’m sure they won’t take it personally.”
She opens her mouth to retort, but hesitates—because her eyes flick downward.
And land on my bare chest. Her gaze lingers before she catches herself, snapping it away.
I tighten my grip on my towel, every muscle focused on maintaining this one piece of fabric between dignity and disaster.
“Anyway, it’s quiet here,” Daisy says, shrugging. “I didn’t think anyone else would be up. Plus, this patch of grass has incredible healing properties for your third eye chakra.”
I stare at her. Torn between disbelief and the urge to launch into an impromptu lecture on actual human anatomy. “Your what ?”
“Third eye chakra,” she repeats, voice patient, as if I’m the one speaking nonsense. She taps the center of her forehead. “It’s been blocked lately—probably all the negative energy at BritShop. But this grass,” she says, waving a hand at what is, unmistakably, just normal English grass, “is helping realign my spiritual DNA.”
I inhale slowly. “Spiritual DNA,” I repeat with the kind of flat disbelief I usually reserve for patients who diagnose themselves via TikTok and arrive at my office convinced their Ulcerative Colitis is actually caused by gluten-intolerant ancestors haunting their gut. “I’ve spent fifteen years studying human anatomy, completed a fellowship at Cambridge, and performed thousands of surgeries. I can assure you with absolute medical certainty that there is no organ called a ‘third eye chakra.’”
She narrows her eyes at me. “You’re very rude, Dr. Cavendish.”
“Last night I was the knight in shining armor.”
“You have your moments of humanity. Sometimes.” She tilts her head. “The rest of the time, you’re just cruel.”
“Not cruel. Just stating medical facts. There’s a difference between cruelty and scientific accuracy.”
She huffs, unimpressed. “Oh, you poor, closed-minded man. Just because you can’t see the energy doesn’t mean it isn’t there.” She pauses, her gaze trailing over me with zero subtlety. “Although I must say, you’re radiating quite a bit of intense energy right now.”
My grip tightens around my towel.
“What you’re observing,” I say through gritted teeth, “has nothing to do with chakras and everything to do with the fact that I’m standing here in a towel while you’re discussing pseudo-scientific nonsense at seven in the morning.”
“Ooh, your aura just went very red.”
“That’s not my aura, that’s my rapidly depleting patience.”
“No wonder you’re so uptight. Your energy centers are probably all constipated.”
“My energy centers,” I say, inhaling sharply, “are not constipated.”
“That’s exactly what someone with constipated chakras would say.” She shifts her weight, and her shorts ride up another impossible inch.
Good lord.
If my colleagues could see me now, arguing about spiritual constipation while wrestling the start of the most inconvenient erection of my life.
“Daisy, I deal in facts, not . . .” I gesture vaguely at the patch of grass she has apparently declared holy ground. “This. This is complete nonsense.”
Her expression falters, and I catch a flicker of hurt.
A pang of guilt rises in me. I shove it down. I am not about to abandon scientific principles because Daisy Wilson has large, imploring eyes.
“You’re not going to convince me to swap science for fairy tales,” I say, adjusting my grip on the towel, “no matter how persuasive your ‘chakra alignment’ routine sounds.”
She rolls her eyes, though they can’t seem to decide where to land—my chest, my face, or . . . lower. “Grip that towel any tighter and you’ll shred it to pieces.”
Her smirk is infuriating. For once, I’d like to put Daisy Wilson in her place.
“Would you prefer I let go?”
I loosen my grip. Slightly. Just enough.
Her eyes widen, that smart mouth of hers suddenly . . . silent.
All that bravado dissolving like morning mist.
I chuckle. “Don’t answer that. I’m kidding.”
The flush on her cheeks betrays her, though she recovers quickly. “God, you’re so uptight,” she says, stretching with exaggerated nonchalance. “Don’t you ever want to just . . . let go? Take your shoes off, dance in the grass? Feel free?”
“I didn’t even want to dance at my own wedding. So no, I don’t feel any compelling urge to frolic barefoot through the fields. And I’m rather surprised you’re even vertical this morning, given your appreciation of that inferior rosé last night.”
She huffs, as if I’ve insulted her character as much as her choice of wine. “That just proves reiki works. I feel fine. What are you doing up so early anyway?”
“I went for a run.”
“Impressive. How far?”
“Five miles. I’m a creature of habit. It’s what I do every Saturday morning. Campsite or not.”
“ Glampsite. Not campsite. ” Her lips curve into a sly grin, the mischief returning to her eyes. “And you write medical papers on Friday nights. Glampsite or not.”
My eyebrows twitch. The way she says it makes me sound like a boring old man.
Perhaps she has a point.
I am a man of habit. I work long hours. When I’m not in surgery, I research. Occasionally in Latin, if the source calls for it. I sail when I can. There’s nothing like the focus it demands—the way it clears the mind. I work out. I have a quiet drink with Liam, but only if he promises not to discuss politics. I guest lecture at Imperial College London. I read—usually history or philosophy. I play chess, though finding a worthy opponent is rare. I unwind with the BBC news. It’s a reliable ritual, a signal to my body that the day is done and it’s time to wind down.
And when my schedule allows—which is rare—I take holidays. Skiing in St. Moritz. A weekend in the Cotswolds. But these are indulgences, not necessities.
But as I stand here, staring at Daisy Wilson, her hair wild from the morning air—I’m reminded of one thing I haven’t done in far too long.
An activity that her presence makes increasingly difficult to ignore.
“You must have slept well if you managed to get up and run five miles,” she says.
“I slept about as well as one can,” I mutter, “when serenaded by a farmyard orchestra at dawn.”
She grins. “I think the donkey might have been getting some. Either him, or the super rats.”
I lift a brow, deadpan. “Ah. That explains the tiny capes and masks I found outside the tent.”
She giggles, a sound that’s far too chipper for this early in the morning.
I realize, with a mix of horror and resignation, that only Daisy Wilson could drag me into a conversation about randy donkeys and rats before breakfast.
“It would’ve been worse in the dorms,” she continues. “And speaking of nocturnal noises—you snore. I heard you through the wall. Proper foghorn situation. I thought it was the donkey at first.”
“The joys of camping,” I mutter. “Nothing quite like sharing our most intimate flaws. For the record, I have sleep apnea. Without a firm mattress, I’m essentially signing up for a night of gasping.”
“For the hundredth time—” She mutters “ Glamping ” under her breath, though her outrage is undermined by the way her lips keep threatening to curve upward. “Now I feel bad about the donkey comparison.”
“I’m fairly certain you’ve called me worse over the years.”
“Sometimes you deserve it,” she says quietly, and something in her tone makes me still. “I just wanted to enjoy my reiki. I didn’t need you telling me it’s pseudoscience or whatever. I believe people give off bad energy and good energy. I believe energy can make you feel good or make you feel ill. I didn’t need you making me feel like an idiot for it.”
With that, she grabs her shoes and walks away, leaving me standing there feeling like an utter bastard.
For god’s sake. It’s too early for this.
Or maybe it’s too early to admit she’s starting to get under my skin.