CHAPTER 17
Daisy
My phone’s blaring ringtone yanks me out of sleep. I grope around blindly, managing to knock over a water bottle and what feels like my vibrator.
My fingers finally close around the offending device. I yank it off the charger, squinting through one eye as I shove the screen an inch from my face.
7:00 a.m.
What sick, twisted fuck is calling me after I just finished an eight-hour shift at BritShop?
My brain’s still untangling itself from a dream about Edward. Sometimes it’s the tent porn special—half wet dream, half guilty thrill. Other times, it’s a nightmare where he yanks me out of a wardrobe, teaming up with super rats and a donkey to finish me off. Because at the very least, he knows I went into his tent.
I blink at the caller ID. Sophia.
If this is another bridesmaid dress crisis, I swear to god , I will tie her to a chair with one of those satin bows she’s making us wear and force her to watch every unhinged TikTok tutorial she’s sent us on “perfecting the bridal look” until her eyes bleed.
Eggplant or mauve? Neither, Sophia. Fucking neither.
All fucking week, it’s been like this. Ever since we got back from glamping.
I swipe to answer. “Someone better be dead,” I growl into the receiver.
But instead of Sophia’s usual chirpy, wedding-obsessed ramblings, I’m met with . . . full-blown wailing.
Oh shit. This isn’t about eggplant sashes. This is serious.
“Soph?” I bolt upright, nearly headbutting the headboard. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s . . . Great Uncle Bernard!” she chokes out between hiccupping sobs. “He’s . . . he’s dead.” A loud, honking nose-blow blasts through the speaker.
“Oh thank god,” I blurt, my sleep-deprived mouth sprinting ahead of my brain.
The line goes dead silent. I glance at the screen to make sure the call didn’t drop.
“No! I mean—” My voice rockets three octaves. “I thought you meant someone else! Like your mum, or Giles, or—I don’t know—that you had terminal cancer!” The words spill out in a verbal landslide. “Not that this isn’t awful. It’s awful. Totally devastating.”
Her wailing kicks back up, so loud I yank the phone from my ear. Fair. I deserve every decibel. Between sobs, Sophia launches into a tear-soaked ramble: how no one saw this coming, how he was the life of every family party, how he had so much energy.
I press a hand to my forehead, as if I can physically hold back the thoughts fighting to break free.
The man was ninety-three years old. Kept alive solely by whiskey, wildly inappropriate jokes, and—I’d bet my life savings if I had any—Viagra. The real shocker isn’t that he’s dead; it’s that he didn’t croak mid-thrust into a stack of vintage Playboys years ago.
Obviously, I do not say this out loud. I’m not a complete monster.
Instead, I let out a series of appropriately sympathetic noises—“oh,” “hmm,” “nooo.”
I’m definitely going to hell, but come on .
Sure, Sir Bernard Cavendish was a neurosurgery legend in the ’70s, saved countless lives, blah blah blah. But lately? His main hobby was being a creepy old perv, cornering me at family gatherings to rave about the “impressive thrust” of pressure washers while waggling his eyebrows.
“How did it happen?” I ask, forcing my voice into something somber.
“A heart attack,” she sobs. “In front of the TV at three in the morning. All alone, poor thing.”
I bite my tongue hard to stop myself asking which channel.
Because I really, really don’t need to know if Great Uncle Bernard’s final earthly vision was of me prancing around in that Union Jack mini.
“That’s . . . awful,” I manage. “Really awful. I’m so sorry, sweetie.”
“The funeral’s in three days.” Sophia sniffs. “I’ll send you the details.”
Fuck. I . . . have to attend?
“Oh . . . Hmmm.”
“Daisy?”
“Oh nothing! Just send me the details,” I say, already bracing for the effort it will take to fake devastation over the passing of a man whose last major scientific study was the gravitational pull of my cleavage.
“Thank you. I need one of your hugs.”
Now I feel like a total cow. Sophia loved that old lech, and here she is, dissolving into hiccupping sobs, while my brain’s already spiraling somewhere else entirely: how the hell am I going to afford another last-minute train ticket home?
Those things aren’t cheap, and my bank account’s already battered from the endless wedding obligation conga line. And now, apparently, I’ve got funeral expenses to add to the mix.
Speaking of which, what the hell am I supposed to wear?
The black dress from Sophia’s engagement party? Absolutely not. That thing practically screams seduction. Might as well slap on red lipstick and a Funeral Floozy sign across my tits. I mentally rummage through my closet for anything remotely mournful. It’s a wasteland. Looks like Zara’s getting my money again.
This is all my own stupid fault.
I’m a big believer in karma. The whole “what goes around comes around” thing, as taught by Hinduism, Buddhism, and basically every self-help book ever written.
Positive actions lead to positive outcomes. Negative actions? Well, they lead to this: ongoing exposure to both Charlie and Edward Cavendish, each bringing his own unique flavor of emotional exhaustion.
Clearly, I’m reaping the cosmic consequences of being a terrible bridesmaid.
Because let’s be real—I’ve been harboring some secret uncharitable thoughts about Sophia. Like how she’s treating this wedding as if it’s the most important event in human history.
I know she’s stressed. I know she’s not sleeping.
But instead of being a supportive friend, I’ve been sitting here thinking, Jesus fucking Christ, Sophia. They’re motherfucking flowers. Pick a color and move on.
Instead of stepping up, I’ve been radiating toxic energy. My vibe is rancid.
And now, the universe has decided to take notice of my bad attitude and punish me in the most creative, sadistic way possible. How the hell am I supposed to look Edward in the eye knowing he’s in possession of that terrifyingly massive penis?
Rest in peace, Uncle Bernard, may the angels take pity on your whiskey-soaked soul. And may they all wear industrial-grade chastity belts for their own goddamn safety.
Edward
It’s telling that I feel more at ease at my great uncle’s funeral than I do at my sister’s glamping weekend. Then again, I suppose I have more in common with a room full of retired surgeons than a pack of excitable twenty-somethings.
The drawing room is heaving with mourners—surgical pioneers, hospital directors, academics. The great and the good of British medicine have turned out in force to honor one of their own. Most of Bernard’s true contemporaries, of course, are long gone, outlived by him, as he liked to point out with a smug grin.
I navigate the crowd, shaking hands. While I have a lot in common with these people—mostly men—there’s something about large social crowds, whether it’s a funeral or a party, that always drains me.
“Just a terrible loss,” murmurs Sir James Wright, his hand trembling as he grips his whiskey. At ninety-three, he’s probably fighting the unnerving thought that he could be next on the Reaper’s list.
But funerals are a reminder that the reaper does not discriminate against age alone.
“Yes,” I reply quietly. “It’s hit my mother particularly hard.”
“Your uncle will not be forgotten,” he says, eyes misty. “First man to perform keyhole surgery in Great Britain. Changed the bloody landscape of surgery in our little island forever. What a thing to have on your tombstone.”
“Indeed. So much legacy, in fact, that we had trouble fitting it all on the tombstone.”
The old man barks out a laugh, nearly spilling his drink.
But it’s not hyperbole. As a boy, I idolized Bernard. To me, he was a superhero—his stories of operating-room heroics more gripping than any comic book.
He wasn’t just my great-uncle; he was a living legend. His name is immortalized in textbooks. His innovations, discussed reverently by my Cambridge professors, serve as the very foundation of modern British surgery. Every time I perform a laparoscopic procedure, I’m walking in his shadow.
But legacies are tricky things. They inspire, yes. But they also weigh heavily—especially when the man behind the legend turns out to be painfully human.
Which is precisely why it can never become public knowledge that one of the pioneers of British medicine met his end with a bottle of lubricant in one hand and a television remote in the other.
Across the room, I spot Mrs. Hayes hovering near the doorway, looking like she’s seconds away from handing in her resignation. Understandable, really. Discovering one’s employer deceased is distressing enough without the . . . additional complexities of the situation.
“If you’ll excuse me, Sir,” I say, touching his shoulder briefly. “There’s a rather urgent matter requiring my attention.”
I navigate through the assembled mourners toward Mrs. Hayes, who looks a little green around the gills as I approach.
“Mrs. Hayes,” I say when I reach her. “Might I have a word? In private.”
She nods. “Of course, sir.”
I lead her to Father’s study, the one room in the house where discretion is guaranteed.
Mrs. Hayes clutches her handbag like it might shield her from further trauma. Her expression suggests she’s seen things no housekeeper’s training manual could prepare her for.
“I wanted to extend my deepest sympathies for what you encountered,” I say.
Though I suspect no amount of sympathy will erase the image of the old geezer found dead in his final moments of . . . entertainment.
The servants called me first, not emergency services. A decision for which I’m simultaneously grateful and eternally haunted. The image of him, and that damned television program still playing . . .
“Not a problem,” she mutters grimly. “Just . . . tragic how he’s gone.”
“Indeed.”
I retrieve an envelope from the desk drawer, sliding it across the polished surface. The contents should ensure both her discretion and perhaps a much-needed holiday somewhere far from here. “A token of appreciation for your handling of this uniquely delicate situation.”
She peeks inside, her eyebrows rising in quiet appreciation. “Most generous, sir. You’ve always been good to us. This can’t have been easy for you either.”
“Think nothing of it.”
She folds the envelope away. “Don’t worry. This won’t leave this room.”
Ah, if only I could say the same.
Because while she may eventually forget, I’m cursed to carry the knowledge that Bernard, the legendary pioneer of laparoscopic surgery, met his end jerking off to Daisy Wilson.
The television was still tuned to her channel when Mrs. Hayes found him, though thankfully no one else has made that particular connection.
The irony is excruciating.
I nod my gratitude.
“Will that be all, sir?”
She’s already edging toward the door, desperate to put this day behind her.
“Yes, thank you,” I say, exhaling slowly. “And again . . . my sincere apologies for the circumstances.”
She pauses, one hand on the doorknob. “At my age, sir, you learn that death rarely comes with dignity.”
No, but there are certainly degrees of indignity, and I think even she would agree that being found cock-in-hand ranks exceptionally low on the scale.
The moment she leaves, I reach for the decanter on the desk, pouring myself a generous measure of the whiskey we’d been saving for a “special occasion.”
Well, this certainly qualifies.
I take a long sip, the burn sharp and welcome, and sink into my father’s old leather chair.
Great Uncle Bernard. Innovator of keyhole surgery. Medical legend. Found dead with his cock out by a housekeeper.
Funeral arrangements are challenging enough without adding scandal management to the equation.
A knock interrupts my musings. Liam and Patrick enter with their usual presumptive familiarity, and I’ve never been more grateful for the McLaren brothers’ timing. Particularly Liam, my oldest friend from school, but Patrick and I have become quite close as well.
“There you are,” Liam says, dropping into the nearest chair.
I loosen my tie and lean back like a man defeated by life. “It’s been a hell of a few days.”
“Sorry, mate,” Patrick offers.
“Bit rough you had to find him yourself.” Liam frowns. “Why didn’t they just call an ambulance?”
I let out a long breath. “He was found in a somewhat . . . compromising position.”
Their expressions morph from sympathy to something else entirely. I watch it happen in slow motion—the dawn of realization, followed by the inevitable twitching of lips.
“Don’t,” I warn, though I know it’s futile.
“You can’t leave it there.” Liam tries not to smirk. “I’ll sign whatever legal documents you need, but you have to tell us.”
I rarely discuss family matters, but after the week I’ve had . . .
“They called me because they found Bernard dead in front of the television, surrounded by . . .” I pinch the bridge of my nose, already regretting this. “An impressive collection of tissues and lubricant.”
Liam makes a noise like he’s being strangled, and Patrick, the bastard, bursts into outright laughter.
“Hang on.” Patrick sits up, horror battling with fascination on his face. “Are you actually telling me you can wank yourself to death at that age?”
“You get to a certain point,” I mutter, “and you can have a heart attack from anything .” I pause. “Though, given Bernard’s dedication to that particular pastime, I suppose the odds weren’t exactly in his favor.”
I eye the decanter. “Whiskey?”
“God, yes,” Liam says.
I pour two generous measures, sliding them across the desk. Some conversations require a stiff drink.
This one might demand the entire bottle.
“Good to see you both,” I say, then turn to Patrick. “How long are you down south?”
“Just a week,” he replies, flashing that familiar, trouble-making grin as he raises his glass.
“The hotel progressing?” I ask, knowing full well it’s been his obsession for months, the build on Skye throwing up more complications than he anticipated.
Patrick exhales. “Slower than I’d like. Apparently, building anything on Skye requires about sixteen different environmental surveys, a sacrifice to the weather gods, and probably a signed letter of permission from the local sheep. But we’ll get there.”
“Has Scotland claimed you permanently then?” I arch an eyebrow. “Or is there hope London might eventually reclaim its prodigal son?”
He smirks. “Hey, I’ve always been a wilderness man. Work drags me to London, but Skye’s got its charms. When it’s not trying to drown you or blow your house into the sea.”
Liam frowns. “Flying helicopters in those conditions—”
“Relax, Mother Hen.” Patrick winks. “Like old Bernard, if I go down, at least I’ll go doing something I love.”
I grimace into my whiskey.
“You need a holiday, Edward. Join Liam and Gemma when they visit.”
Liam scoffs. “You are not choppering Gemma, by the way. No way is my partner getting in a death trap with you.”
“Relax,” Patrick says smoothly, swirling his whiskey. “I’ll get you proper transport from Inverness.”
I glance at Liam. “How’s Gemma?”
“She’s . . . good.” Liam’s face softens in that telling way. He’s been almost superstitiously quiet about the pregnancy, as if discussing it might somehow tempt fate. The man actually shed a tear during our last celebratory drinks—a moment I fully intend to weaponize at a later date.
“I appreciate you both making the journey, given your commitments.”
“We know what he meant to you,” Patrick says. “How are you holding up?”
“I’m fine. I’ll miss him, obviously. But grief isn’t exactly a luxury I can afford right now. Too many loose ends to tie up.”
Liam studies me. I know what’s coming before he even says it.
“First funeral since Millie,” he says carefully. “You sure you’re okay?”
I nod, grip tightening on my glass. “I just need to focus on what needs doing. Ensure Bernard’s legacy is properly honored.”
Liam nods, sensing the no-fly zone around the subject. “Of course.”
I take a long sip of whiskey, the burn settling in my chest. A dry chuckle escapes me, more reflex than humor. “I need people to remember Bernard for his career. For being a damn genius. Not the way he chose to bow out.” I grimace. “That particular detail is going to my grave before Mum or Sophia get so much as a whisper of it.”
Liam smirks. “Well, at least he died doing what he loved. There are worse ways to go.”
I feel my jaw tighten. “That’s not even the worst part.”
“Oh?” Liam raises a brow.
I down half my whiskey in one go. “I’m fairly certain Bernard was watching Daisy Wilson on her shopping channel when he . . . you know.”
The silence that follows is deafening.
“Daisy . . .” Liam’s brain clearly stalls as he processes this. “As in Sophia’s friend? The one who works with Lizzie?”
“Yes,” I say, like the word physically pains me.
“I’m lost,” Patrick says, frowning. “What am I missing?”
“It means,” I say, running a hand over my face, “that Bernard died watching Daisy demonstrate whatever ridiculous product they were selling that night, with an impressive array of . . . supplies within reach.”
Patrick freezes mid-sip. Liam nearly chokes on his whiskey before dissolving into the kind of laughter that makes me seriously reconsider our friendship.
Bloody bastards.
I keep my face carefully blank, though internally I’m . . . less composed.
Because the truth is, the comparison between Bernard and me is landing far too close to home. The line between esteemed surgeon and lecherous old fool isn’t as distinct as I’d like to pretend. And lately, I’ve been toeing it.
“Christ,” Liam manages, wiping his eyes. “How old is Daisy?”
“Twenty-six,” I reply, bracing for the inevitable.
“Jesus. Sixty years younger than Bernard.”
“Sixty-seven, actually,” I correct. “Not that the extra seven years improve the situation.”
I stare into my whiskey, wishing it had better answers. “Bernard wasn’t exactly subtle about his interest. I had to have words with him. Repeatedly.”
The irony isn’t lost on me.
Patrick smirks, the look of a man who enjoys stirring the pot. “Might have to start watching this shopping channel. If it’s enough to put men in the grave, it’s got to be entertaining.” He pauses, and then, because he’s an ass, grins even wider. “Will she be at the funeral?”
“I wouldn’t waste your time,” I say, forcing an evenness into my tone that doesn’t quite mask the spike of irritation. “She’s . . . chaotic. Not your type. And she’s my sister’s best friend. It would be complicated.”
Patrick’s eyebrows lift. “Chaotic, you say? Sounds promising.”
“It’s not,” I snap. “It’s a headache. Trust me.”
Patrick raises his hands in mock surrender. “Consider me warned. Because of all those very logical reasons you just listed.”
Liam’s expression sharpens with that insufferable precision he’s perfected over the years. “She is quite striking though, isn’t she?”
“Right,” Patrick drawls, his tone thick with exaggerated seriousness. “So completely unsuitable. Not worth a second thought.”
I set my glass down, the sound sharp in the room. “Don’t think I don’t see exactly where you’re trying to steer this. And let me be perfectly clear—it’s not happening.”
Patrick scratches at his stubble. “Yeah, for you. You’re too old for her. I, on the other hand . . .”
“I have to agree with Patrick on this one,” Liam looks at me wearily. “You’re being remarkably defensive about someone who’s supposedly just your sister’s mate. And, let’s be honest . . .” He places his glass down with care. “A woman in her mid-twenties? That’s not your world anymore. Probably best not to entertain the thought.”
“For god’s sake,” I mutter, but there’s something about the way he says it that cuts a little too deep. “Nothing will ever happen.”
Which makes me feel even more like Bernard. Brilliant.
Patrick’s grin widens. “So . . . what channel did you say she’s on?”