CHAPTER 13
Edward
Perfect weather for a day on the lake. The Devon countryside stretches out before us, a picturesque reminder that I haven’t taken a proper holiday in years. Not since before Millie’s death, anyway.
But if I’d imagined my first proper Saturday away, it certainly wouldn’t have included watching Daisy Wilson flirt shamelessly with Hugo bloody Morrison while slaughtering a bottle of subpar rosé on a boat.
That white sundress of hers . . . Christ. The fabric catches every breeze like it’s been designed specifically for torment, alternating between clinging to her curves and billowing away in a manner that’s entirely too distracting.
My grip tightens on the oars, muscles flexing as I row with firm strokes. Anything to channel this . . . irritation into something useful.
Behind me, Imogen and Bernice are deep in some discussion about garden renovations—requiring no input from me. At least they understand the unspoken rules of proper lake etiquette: how to maintain a sense of quiet that doesn’t make me contemplate drowning anyone.
One particular boat, however, is practicing no such restraint.
I grit my teeth, focusing on the rhythm of the oars. In. Out. Push. Pull. Repeat.
“You’re going to tip us!” Daisy’s laughter slices through the air, far too loud, far too . . . provocative.
My grip tightens on the oars.
Hugo, grinning like the smug bastard he is, leans in under the pretext of demonstrating “proper rowing technique.” I highly doubt the man could navigate his own bathtub, let alone a boat.
My oars dig into the water with force, each stroke driving us closer to their boat.
“Hugo,” Daisy warns, laughing again— always bloody laughing —her voice dipping into that husky, maddening tone she probably doesn’t even realize she’s using. “I swear to god; I’ll haunt you forever. I’ll become a lake ghost.”
I adjust my grip, jaw tightening further as his hands move to cover hers on the oars.
She’s had at least two glasses of that godawful rosé, her cheeks flushed pink, dark hair slipping free from its clip, tumbling over one bare shoulder. The very picture of chaos in a white dress.
I dig the oars into the water, muscles tightening as I pull harder. The boat jerks forward, sending up a sharp splash that arcs over the side and lands against my arm.
“Edward, try not to soak us.” Imogen sighs, dabbing at her sleeve.
“Apologies,” I mutter, though my attention remains fixed on the nautical farce unfolding across the lake.
I glance at Sophia in the third boat, so clearly happy with Giles. At least there’s that.
Daisy squeals as their boat tilts again. She clutches Hugo’s arm, and in the commotion, her dress shifts just enough to reveal a white thong.
My grip on the oars tightens.
Hugo, predictably, looks like a man who’s just had his wildest adolescent fantasy realized. His tongue might as well be hanging out of his slack-jawed mouth.
It’s embarrassing.
I force my strokes into something resembling a controlled rhythm, though my knuckles remain white against the wood.
I am too old for this. Too old to be sitting here, pretending not to notice the way Daisy Wilson is turning this weekend into some impromptu wet sundress competition.
My jaw clenches as I try to block out the sound of her laughter.
When Giles asked me to serve as his best man, I was honored. A decade of guiding him through increasingly complex thoracic procedures has forged a bond of mutual respect and professional camaraderie. He’s the kind of steady, level-headed man Sophia needs.
But these endless wedding festivities? Jesus Christ. Engagement parties, now this—some lakeside retreat masquerading as bonding time. It’s excessive. It’s unnecessary. It’s . . . exhausting.
Sophia has gone completely overboard. Sometimes I wonder if she remembers she has a Cambridge business degree gathering dust while she plays society hostess. Life isn’t all champagne toasts and flower arrangements—though our mother seems more than happy to let her pretend otherwise.
Daisy compared herself to Sophia at the engagement party when we were on the patio, but the truth is, Daisy has never been anything like my sister. She’s always stood on her own two feet. Always worked. Always managed. She might be chaos incarnate, but she’s always been her own person.
Behind me, Imogen groans. “Those god-awful donkeys kept me up all night. I’m absolutely shattered.”
“I kept thinking it was getting closer to the tent. Like a horror film,” Bernice adds, shuddering.
“I’m sure the donkeys were desperately plotting to break into your tent,” I say, my voice dripping with sarcasm.
Silence.
They exchange looks, clearly taken aback by my tone.
I exhale sharply, rolling my shoulders. There’s a strange mood following me today—a sharp edge that’s lowered my already limited tolerance for nonsense.
“Hugo!” Daisy shrieks as their boat tilts dangerously to one side.
“We’re going in, Daisy Duke! Accept your fate!” he crows, sounding far too pleased with himself.
My chest heaves with a breath.
The inevitable disaster unfolds exactly as expected. Hugo, displaying all the maturity of a schoolboy, rocks the boat harder while Daisy—naturally—encourages him.
The splash when they finally capsize is impressive.
Seconds later, they surface, sputtering and gasping for air—still bloody laughing.
“It’s cold!” Daisy shrieks, hands pushing her dark, dripping hair from her face. Her white sundress clings to her in a way that leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination. Completely transparent.
For fuck’s sake.
I grip the oars, jaw flexing. I know full well she can swim—I’ve seen her outpace Sophia in open water since they were teenagers—but still, some buried instinct kicks in, compelling me to steer us closer. For safety reasons, obviously.
Not because of the way Hugo’s hands are already on her waist.
Not because of the unwelcome thought that worms its way into my mind: Is she going to sleep with Hugo tonight?
If they keep me awake with their . . . activities, I swear on my medical license, someone will regret their choices.
“How’s the water?” Sophia calls from her boat, clearly enjoying the show.
Daisy treads water, brushing damp strands from her face, grinning. “Lovely!”
Her eyes go wide, and she lets out a scream. “Ahhhhhh! There’s a super rat! Bernice, you were right all along!”
She disappears beneath the surface in an exaggerated splash. A beat later, she surfaces, gasping. “It’s a whole colony of super rats! They’re swimming up from the bottom— ready to attack ! We’re doomed. DOOMED!”
“You better be joking!” Imogen shrieks, yanking her feet up onto the bench as if the rodents might materialize in our boat.
“It’s a mischief of rats. Not a colony. If we’re being precise,” I say before I can stop myself. “Not that it matters, because none of them are swimming toward us.”
Daisy turns, blinking at me, then rolls her eyes. Those eyes. Hazel-brown and bright and filled with mischief—the same eyes that had widened in shock, framed by that delicate heart-shaped face, when I’d walked into my own room and found her, uninvited, sprawled across my bed. A memory that, much to my irritation, has been haunting my sleep with alarming frequency.
“Appreciate the lecture on rodent sociology, Dr. Eddie,” she calls, her voice thick with amusement.
Hugo swims up behind her, his hands skimming the surface of the water near her waist like he’s waiting for permission to touch her.
Daisy reaches for the hem of that white sundress, peels it up and over her head in one smooth motion.
The soaked fabric clings to her as she pulls it away, revealing a white bikini that borders on indecent.
For fuck’s sake.
This is the second time I’ve seen this woman’s breasts. For the love of god, can she not just keep them contained around me? And why—why is there always a bloody family member present when it happens? First Spencer, now Sophia.
I can’t help myself. I stare at them.
My body reminds me that I haven’t sucked on a nipple in far too long, and now, apparently, that’s all I want to do.
Christ. Look away. Look literally anywhere else.
You’re a surgeon. You’ve seen thousands of bodies. This shouldn’t affect you. Focus on something else. Anything else.
She swims toward our boat, the dress trailing behind her like an afterthought.
Behind me, Imogen clears her throat.
“Edward,” she says, voice flat. “You’re splashing us again.”
“Here,” Daisy says, reaching our boat and holding up her sodden dress. One hand grips the side of the boat, water droplets running down her neck, disappearing between . . . Focus. “Can you hang on to this? I don’t trust Hugo not to steal it.”
“Edward?” She waves the dress, and I realize I’ve been staring.
“Give it here,” I manage, my voice embarrassingly rough.
I take the soaking fabric from her, trying—failing—not to notice the way the cold water has hardened her nipples against that scrap of a bikini.
“I can’t believe you lot aren’t getting in.” She sighs, rolling onto her back in the water with a slow, lazy movement that makes my blood run hot. “It’s absolutely divine.”
“Ugh, gross. No,” Imogen sneers. “It must be filthy.”
Not nearly as filthy as the thoughts I’m trying to drown.
“It’s really relaxing,” Daisy purrs, stretching her arms above her head.
Water cascades off her skin as she floats there, sunlight catching every droplet, making her glisten like some sort of water nymph designed specifically to test my sanity. Her breasts rise and fall with each breath, barely contained by that ridiculous excuse for swimwear.
She knows the effect she has on men. Daisy Wilson has a body made for sin, designed to destroy men’s carefully constructed control, and she’s always wielded her sexuality like a weapon. Those curves, that mouth, the way she looks up through her long lashes—it’s all calculated to leave chaos in her wake.
“Daisy,” Hugo calls out, swimming closer. “Fancy making this more fun? A skinny-dip?”
“Absolutely fucking not,” I snap, and they both look up, startled.
The mere thought of her stripping down in this lake, that flimsy white bikini gone, bare skin slick with water—no.
She needs to keep that bikini exactly where it is.
“No one is skinny-dipping,” I bite out, eyes locked on her. “And you shouldn’t be swimming after that much wine. It’s hardly safe.”
Daisy tips her head back, eyes glinting. “Relax, Daddy.”
I go still.
She needs to stop calling me that.
“I’m sure if I get in trouble, one of you big strong men will save me,” she continues, floating effortlessly. “Anyway, I’m fine. Stop being such a killjoy.”
I focus on rowing. The lake suddenly feels the size of a bloody teacup.
Focus on something else. Your tax return.
Do not think about how easy it would be to haul her into this boat and teach her exactly why she shouldn’t call me daddy in that tone.
My body, however, has other ideas. My cock hardens against my will, straining against my shorts like I’m some hormone-driven teenager who’s never seen a woman before.
I shift against the wooden seat, grateful for what little concealment it provides. This is absolutely not happening. I’m a grown man, a successful surgeon. I do not get hard just because Daisy Wilson is in a bikini.
It’s too late. My body’s betrayal is mortifyingly obvious, straining against my shorts. One wrong movement and everyone will witness exactly how thoroughly Daisy Wilson dismantles my control. In front of my sister and her fiancé, no less. Christ.
“Edward,” Imogen says primly behind me, “you’re going to break those oars.”
They’re not the only thing in danger of breaking if certain parts of my anatomy don’t stand down immediately.
“Perhaps I do need a swim,” I say, voice tight with strain. Preferably somewhere in the Arctic.
I fumble with my shirt, peeling it off, rolling my shoulders.
“Edward!” Imogen gasps as the boat wobbles from my movements. “You’ve splashed water all over—” Her words cut off abruptly.
I glance up just in time to catch her, mouth slightly open, staring at my groin.
“You’ll live,” I snark back.
Without further thought—because thinking has become dangerous—I dive into the lake. The cold water shocks my system but does nothing to extinguish the fire burning under my skin.
I surface with a gasp, shaking the water from my eyes.
“You couldn’t resist after all,” Daisy shouts, swimming toward me.
“Something like that,” I mutter.
“The water’s nice, isn’t it?” She drifts closer still, her thigh brushing against mine as we tread water. My cock hardens further despite the cold water.
She lets out a little sigh.
This is what damnation feels like: trapped in a lake with Daisy Wilson.
She tilts her head, studying me, then giggles. “You look like you’re in pain. Bit chilly on the willy, is it?”
Christ.
“You really do have no filter, don’t you?” I mutter. “I’m going for a swim.”
I turn away from her and cut through the water like I’m being pursued by demons. Though there’s only one demon here—a five-foot-nothing temptress in a white bikini who seems hell-bent on unraveling every rule I’ve ever lived by.
Daisy makes me miss Millie—not in the way I expect, not with that sharp ache of grief, but with a quiet longing for what we had. Millie was warmth, stability. There was no chaos. Just quiet, uncomplicated companionship. My blood never ran hot in her presence, but I felt like myself. We fit together in quiet harmony, and I was content.
Daisy and I have nothing in common. Nothing.
I live by precision and proven facts—decades of medical research underpinning every decision I make. She believes in spiritual energy and achieving enlightenment by communing with the bloody lawn outside chemical toilets.
I’ve built my life on order, on control. My reputation rests on years of discipline. She barrels through life like a force of nature, making decisions based on whatever whim strikes her fancy. My life runs on carefully calibrated schedules; hers seems to operate on a combination of impulse and blind luck.
I wake at five a.m. for my daily run; she staggers home at dawn from whatever adventure caught her attention the previous night. I read medical journals; she reads tarot cards. I drive an Aston Martin; she drives me absolutely mad.
We’re fundamentally incompatible.
Which makes my reaction to her all the more infuriating.
The fact that I find her particular brand of chaos increasingly . . . compelling is a diagnosis I refuse to examine too closely.
If Sophia knew the direction of my thoughts, she’d never forgive me.
Daisy is absolutely forbidden. The one woman I cannot touch. As off-limits as a patient.
Or perhaps that’s precisely why she’s so dangerous. Daisy Wilson represents everything I can’t control, everything I shouldn’t want.