CHAPTER 16
Edward
As I sit by the firepit, half listening to a group of twenty-somethings passionately debate whether a wedding website is “pretentious” or “practical,” a grim realization settles over me: I am, without question, an irredeemable bastard.
Not because I’m tuning out as they argue the merits of digital RSVPs—though if I have to endure another round of this drivel, I might genuinely consider skewering myself with a marshmallow stick.
It’s because of her.
The chaos. The human hurricane in a Union Jack skirt.
I’m destined for damnation because I just . . . fucking hell, I just masturbated in a tent like a teenager on his first overnight school trip. While my sister’s bridal party awaited a hog roast meters away.
I’ve only known her as an adult for what—five years? She went from wild little terror to full-on sex siren, and the shift was highly disconcerting. Now, her sexuality’s everywhere, impossible to ignore. It’s in the way she moves, the way she looks at you, the way she breathes. That white bikini at the lake. Those shorts this morning. It’s relentless.
She has that rare, timeless sort of beauty—the kind that belonged to actresses in the golden age of cinema. The dark hair, the pale skin, those hazel eyes—it’s the kind of face that would’ve packed cinemas in any era.
And then there’s her mouth.
A mouth made for pleasure.
I should feel ashamed.
I do feel ashamed.
Though, evidently, not ashamed enough to keep my hands above the waistband.
What’s worse? The fact that I just jerked off in a tent fantasizing about being inside Daisy Wilson, or that I’m already calculating the optimal timing for round two?
Weighing the likelihood of everyone turning in early, considering ambient noise levels . . . Christ, I’m applying surgical planning to orchestrate a wank.
No. This ends here. No more inappropriate thoughts, and absolutely no more ill-advised outdoor masturbation sessions.
She’s off-limits. Absolutely forbidden. That particular peach will remain unplucked—no matter how . . . damn, I need to stop even thinking in these metaphors.
It’s been over two years since I was intimate with a woman. It’s no wonder my brain is starting to wander into places it shouldn’t.
Millie and I had become more like housemates than spouses by the end. We were well-matched in all the ways that counted: similar educations, shared goals, and a unified approach to life. There was humor, warmth, and genuine affection. She knew me better than anyone ever has or likely ever will.
It wasn’t the all-consuming blaze of young love, but it was solid. Reliable.
And I let that reliability lull me. I sank too deeply into its comfort. Allowed the spark to fade because I was so at ease in our routine.
My greatest regret isn’t just losing her—it’s that I let us drift into something so damn quiet before the end.
I thought I might be ready again—with Lucia. Brilliant, formidable Lucia. But hospital politics are a minefield, and I have no intention of becoming surgical-lounge gossip. More than that, I respect her too much to risk what we have.
So I buried myself in work. Years of pouring every ounce of myself into being the consummate professional.
And then Daisy Wilson waltzes in and blows all that work to smithereens.
It took her less than twenty-four hours to reduce me to some Neanderthal version of myself—grunting, brain barely functioning, mentally dragging my knuckles across the floor like I’ve discovered fire . . . and yoga shorts.
And just when I thought I’d survived that full-scale assault on my self-control, she turned up in that bloody white bikini—the one that single-handedly robbed me of my own sodding name, let alone any semblance of rational thought.
I haven’t been this sexually frustrated since boarding school.
The ladies have now abandoned the riveting discussion of wedding websites for something even more ridiculous—if that’s possible—just as the sun begins to dip on our second evening of glamping.
“I’ve got a good one!” Bernice announces. “Would you rather marry a duke with halitosis who owns a castle in Wales, or a barista with perfect teeth who makes an exceptional flat white but lives in Croydon?”
God give me strength.
I suppress the overwhelming urge to groan and instead drain the remainder of my drink. If I were with Liam, we’d be dissecting the nuances of the upcoming election or something equally sane, instead of debating inane hypotheticals that make me question the evolutionary purpose of my prefrontal cortex.
“Hang on—are we calling Croydon a dealbreaker now?” Daisy laughs. “I’m pretty sure my postcode is the least of my dating concerns. I’ll take the barista.”
“Yeah, but which one’s hotter?” Sophia giggles.
“Someone put me out of my misery,” Giles mutters beside me. Finally, someone speaking sense.
“Edward?” Imogen turns to me. “You’ve been awfully quiet. You must think we’re completely mad with all these silly games.”
I muster a grim smile. “Hypothetical marriage scenarios aren’t my area of expertise. Though, purely from a medical standpoint, halitosis is often indicative of underlying health issues a castle in Wales won’t remedy. And selecting a partner based on their coffee-making abilities suggests, frankly, troubling levels of caffeine dependency.”
“And,” I continue, because apparently, I’m incapable of leaving it there, “the premise lacks crucial data points. Are we assuming the duke’s halitosis is treatable, or is it chronic? Has the barista’s dental perfection been verified by a licensed orthodontist, or are we just trusting whatever nonsense they’ve slapped on their Tinder profile? And, crucially”—I glance around at their expectant faces—“have any of you been to Croydon recently? It’s undergone significant urban renewal. Property values are on the rise.”
There’s a beat of silence, during which I hope— pray —that I’ve finally killed this ridiculous game.
But no. The group erupts into laughter.
I’m not sure whether I’m being funny or if this is simply what happens when you force a surgeon to engage in social activities against his better judgment.
“Edward,” Sophia says, swatting my arm, “you’re overthinking this just a tad . It’s supposed to be fun.”
“It is a little immature,” Imogen agrees, as she gives me what I assume she believes to be a seductive smile. As if I’ve just delivered a Shakespearean sonnet instead of questioning the dental qualifications of an imaginary barista.
I suspect she’s misinterpreting my exasperation as flirtation. It’s not the first time this weekend.
“It’s not exactly my usual type of game,” I say, managing a tight-lipped smile. “And . . . it’s been a long week.”
“Oh, of course!” Imogen leans in closer, her voice syrupy. “I can’t imagine how exhausting it must be, holding lives in your hands like that. The responsibility, the pressure—it’s just . . .” She trails off, staring at me like she expects me to whip out a scalpel and perform emergency surgery right here by the fire.
Her expression is full of some cinematic fantasy version of me: the gallant surgeon, saving lives by day, sweeping women off their feet by night.
Reality, of course, is less glamorous. The most romantic thing I’ve done all week was help a pensioner unload her groceries.
“It takes an entire team,” I say. “My most complicated case this week involved three nurses, two anesthetists, and one particularly tenacious administrator who seemed to believe budget meetings were more important than the actual surgery taking place.”
“You’re too modest!” Imogen says. “The importance of what you do—it must be overwhelming.”
Beside her, Daisy rolls her eyes.
Our gazes lock.
She looks away first, color creeping up her neck, then turns back to Imogen with such deliberate focus, one might think eye contact with me had physically burned her.
She’s been . . . different tonight. More flustered than usual, perhaps from the wine. Or perhaps . . .
No. That’s my own guilty conscience projecting.
There’s no way she could look at me and know .
No way she could possibly know that I’ve been thinking about her in ways I should not be thinking .
That I’ve been behaving like a bloody degenerate.
“I don’t want to inflate his ego even more,” Giles cuts in with a grin, mercifully interrupting my train of thought. “But yeah, seeing Edward in action . . . it’s something else. If I’m half the surgeon he is, I’ll count myself lucky.”
“You’ll surpass me soon enough,” I say, clapping his shoulder lightly. “But I appreciate the vote of confidence.”
“You’re both bloody amazing,” Sophia slurs, waving her wineglass dangerously close to disaster. “Real-life superheroes.”
“Superman with a scalpel,” Daisy says softly. I can’t tell if she’s mocking me. “It is impressive, what you do.”
“Superman?” I frown. “Hardly.”
I’ve been fortunate—born into the right family, given access to the right schools, the right opportunities. I’ve never had to worry about much beyond maintaining academic excellence. The Cavendish name opened doors before I even learned how to knock. That answers for a lot.
“You’re saving lives,” Daisy presses. “Performing actual miracles while the rest of us are just proud of ourselves for getting out of bed in the morning.”
I shift, rubbing the back of my neck. For every life saved, there are cases that haunt you. The ones that don’t go as planned. “I cut people open for a living and spend more time staring at intestines than is remotely appropriate. If you’re looking for miracles, you might want to try Lourdes.” I arch an eyebrow. “Now, shall we move on?”
They laugh. Conversation successfully redirected.
Or so I think.
Because Daisy purses her lips in that way that always precedes trouble.
I sigh. Maybe not quite diverted.
“Can I ask you something?” she says, leaning forward, clearly over whatever momentary fluster she’d been dealing with before I mentioned intestines.
“Daisy, let’s not pretend this is an actual request for permission. You’re going to ask regardless of my response.”
“Fine.” She takes a slow sip of her beer, dragging out the moment just to test my patience. I already know I’m going to regret this.
“So,” she says, eyes glinting, “when you’re operating on attractive patients—because they’re essentially naked under those gowns—do you ever think, ‘Well, she’s lovely. Perhaps she’d fancy dinner once I’ve finished reorganizing her internal organs’?”
“Daisy!” Sophia gasps, failing miserably to stifle her laughter.
“What?” Daisy shrugs. “I’m just saying, it’s got to cross your mind. Surgeons are only human—well, some of them.”
I level her with a flat look. “That would be highly unprofessional. The hospital has very strict policies about fraternizing with patients.”
“So . . . that’s a no?”
I take a slow sip of my drink. “That’s a ‘this conversation is over.’”
“That’s not a no! You totally have! Very sus response, Dr. Cavendish. Very sus indeed.”
I set my glass down with a firm clink . “Eat your tofu.”
Her lips twitch. “Is that what you say to all the pretty patients? ‘Eat your tofu and call me in the morning’?”
“I’m not going to entertain that question.”
“Fine.” She leans back, tilting her head as if she’s debating just how far she can push this. “If that one’s too much for your delicate sensibilities, just answer me this: does your mind ever wander during surgery? Not even naughty thoughts—heaven forbid—but, I don’t know, dinner plans? Like, you’ve got five fingers in some bloke’s gallbladder and suddenly you’re thinking, ‘Hmm, I could murder a curry right about now.’”
I give her a look that should make her reconsider this nonsense. Should.
“Dinner, drinks, or anything else is irrelevant when I’m in theater. Nothing exists except the task at hand. I maintain absolute focus at all times.”
Her eyes flick down to my hands and then back to my face.
“That you do,” she murmurs.
Her lips press against her glass again.
I raise a brow. “Meaning?”
“Nothing,” she says, far too quickly. That breathy tone hasn’t left. “Just . . . I can imagine how focused you are. On whatever task you’re . . .” She pauses, a deliberate beat. “Handling. On whatever needs handling.”
A jolt shoots through my chest, hot and unwelcome.
She couldn’t possibly know what I did in the tent.
. . . Could she?
I don’t have the chance to dwell on that thought, because Imogen interrupts with a tittering laugh. “Oh, Daisy, leave poor Edward alone. I’m sure he’s got more than enough on his plate without you subjecting him to the Spanish Inquisition. Not everyone can wing it like you do and just land on their feet.”
Daisy’s spine straightens. It’s her tell—the way she squares herself when she’s gearing up for a fight.
“Wing it?” she asks, her voice even.
“Well, you’re the only one with a fun job, aren’t you?” Imogen’s tone is light, but there’s no mistaking the barb lurking beneath. “The rest of us are stuck in the ‘boring, serious stuff,’ you know—lawyers, accountants, or—” She glances at Sophia. “Investing in charity.”
“You’re right,” Daisy replies smoothly. Not a flicker of the fire burning in her eyes shows in her voice. “It is fun. While all the respectable Brits are coming home from the pub and slipping into their pj’s, I’m putting on a patriotic skirt to demonstrate smart bidets and gardening tools at three in the morning. So much fun. Especially when I get those heartfelt letters from eighty-year-old men named Denis telling me I’ve brightened their day.”
The self-deprecation is her armor, I realize with an uncomfortable jolt. She’d rather wound herself than leave the opportunity to others.
“Daisy, stop it,” Sophia scolds.
I clench my jaw.
“I imagine live television comes with its own unique pressures,” I say. “One take, no margin for error. Not everyone’s got the fortitude to handle that kind of environment.”
“Oh yes, for the evening news perhaps—” Imogen begins.
“In fact,” I continue, cutting her off cleanly, “having witnessed Daisy handle certain . . . shall we say, unexpected situations on air, I’d argue her position demands exceptional crisis management abilities.”
Daisy’s head snaps toward me, her eyes narrowing in suspicion. “Are you taking the piss?”
“No.” My frown is automatic, though tinged with exasperation.
She studies me, her lips pressed together in a way that suggests skepticism. “Okay then. Thank you,” she says with obvious difficulty.
I want to tell her she doesn’t need to thank me. That anyone paying attention would recognize the truth in my assessment. Daisy may be chaos, but she’s good at what she does. Exceptional, even.
“You love your job, right?” I ask.
“Yes,” Daisy snaps, too quickly. “Despite the obvious indignities. I’d still rather be doing this than be trapped in some soulless office. Five minutes of corporate life was enough for me, thanks.”
“Then that’s all that matters.”
I glance at Imogen and level her with a look I usually reserve for overconfident junior doctors about to dig themselves into a hole. The sort of glare that strongly suggests further commentary on Daisy’s career choices would be inadvisable.
Before anyone can respond, a slurred voice cuts through the tension.
“Oi, Daisy Duke!”
Hugo stumbles out of his tent, dragging a hand through his hair. “Where’s that whiskey you were supposed to nick from Edward’s tent?”
Daisy’s entire body stiffens. “Uhh . . .”
Hugo squints between us, trying to focus with the painstaking effort of someone far too drunk to function. “Sorry, mate, hope you don’t mind. We were just gonna borrow a bottle . . .”
Daisy’s eyes widen in unmistakable panic. “I, um. I didn’t get it. I . . . forgot.”
My mind flickers back to earlier. My tent. The small, almost imperceptible shift of my iPad from where I’d left it on my bedding. At the time, I dismissed it—exhaustion, distraction. But now . . .
“You were in my tent?” My voice is carefully neutral, though my pulse kicks up.
“No,” she squeaks. Squeaks. “I forgot to get the whiskey.”
I stare at her, watching every tell unfold in real-time—the way she won’t quite meet my eyes, the nervous fidget of her fingers against her beer bottle, the slight flush creeping up her neck.
She’s lying.
And she’s doing an appalling job of it.
The question isn’t if she was in my tent. That much is obvious.
The real questions are when was she in there . . .
And, far more importantly, what exactly did she see.
Daisy
So maybe I dragged my hungover ass out of bed at an ungodly hour to do yoga near the toilets again. And maybe—just maybe —it’s not entirely because it offers stunning views of some trees.
Even though my head feels like a herd of elephants is doing Zumba up there, and those bloody donkeys spent all night aggressively hee-hawing in what I can only assume was an attempt at harmonizing—here I am. Attempting to twist myself into poses no one this hungover should even dream of.
Obviously, I’m here because I’m committed to my 30-day yoga challenge. That’s it. I can’t miss a day. Has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that Edward is leaving early, and I won’t see him for a while.
I nearly keeled over last night when Hugo exposed me. Nothing quite gets the adrenaline pumping like the possibility of your dirty little secret being revealed over toasted marshmallows. I can still feel the campfire’s heat on my face as I tried to play it cool.
Haven’t slept a wink. Just lying there, replaying The Tent Incident on a mental loop. The way he looked at that video while . . . taking matters into his own hands. Not just angry. Furious . Like he’d been personally offended by his own biological response to me.
I mean, come on. Who gets that mad about a wank? Like, mate, it’s supposed to be enjoyable. You’re having a moment with yourself. Let loose. Enjoy the solo performance. Have a fucking ball.
Footsteps crunch closer. Shit. Act natural.
I drop into a seated forward bend so fast I nearly snap in half, nose practically glued to my knees. Totally normal. Totally innocent.
Oh god. Here he comes.
Fuck.
I swallow hard, forcing my face into what I hope is a serene, enlightened expression and not a Zen goddess who definitely did not see you wanking smile.
This was a terrible idea. Maybe I’m still drunk.
“Daisy.” He’s slightly out of breath from his run, chest rising and falling in a distracting way. He lifts the hem of his T-shirt to wipe his face, flashing those sweat-glistened abs like a personal attack. Dirty move.
“Morning!” I chirp, tossing in a goofy little wave from my upside-down disaster of a pose.
“Sleep okay?” I manage to ask. I drop my gaze to my kneecaps, which are suddenly the most interesting thing in the world.
“Yeah. Fine.” He takes a long swig from his water bottle, his Adam’s apple bobbing.
“Time to go home now!” I squeak, my voice hitting new, dog-whistle heights. I snap up to standing. “Did you have a fun weekend?”
“It was . . . certainly different.” His eyes sweep over me, sharp and assessing. Then his brow furrows. “Daisy, is there anything we should talk about?”
My stomach plummets straight into my yoga pants.
I swallow hard, caught between not hungover enough for this and nowhere near sober enough to cope.
“Oh!” I say, a little too loudly. “You mean the upgrade you got us?” I beam. “Thank you so much!”
He stares at me, his jaw doing that little clenchy thing that’s really fucking hot.
“Okay,” he says stiffly, clearly wrestling with something. “I should . . . that is . . .” His normally articulate manner falters, and for a man who performs life-or-death surgery on a regular basis, he’s suddenly found it impossible to string together a coherent sentence.
He frowns, and for a second, he looks so genuinely worried that I almost feel sorry for him.
And here we are. Just two people standing awkwardly by some posh portaloos at dawn: One of us might have seen the other having a moment with himself, and the other is desperately trying to find a way to ask if they know anything about it.
The tension crackles between us. I swear I can feel it on my skin, raising goosebumps along the backs of my arms.
“Right,” he says at last, his tone clipped. “I’ll be saying goodbye then. I’m jumping in the shower then heading back to London.”
Another unnecessarily long gulp of water, then a curt nod as he turns toward the showers.
“Edward,” I blurt.
He stops. Turns back. His expression is a perfect mix of dread and resignation, like a man preparing for impact, for whatever madness is about to come flying out of my mouth.
I plaster on my cheekiest smile, despite every cell in my body screaming at me to shut the fuck up. “For what it’s worth . . . I’m flattered.”
He stares at me, the creases in his brow deepening as alarm creeps over his handsome features. “What are you talking about?” he asks slowly.
“What you said about my product demonstration skills, of course,” I say breezily, my eyes wide with mock sincerity. “Last night. I’m flattered you think so highly of my . . . technique.”
The words drop between us like a live grenade.
I wink. I actually wink, letting the suggestive moment linger.
Then I turn my back to him, crawl into a downward dog, and—like a human exclamation point—push my ass into the air.
There’s a strangled, choking sound behind me. A spluttering, as if Edward is attempting to inhale his entire water bottle.
Absolutely worth whatever karmic punishment is coming my way.