CHAPTER 19
Edward
No time to dwell on that disaster of a speech. Duty calls, as it always does—the monotonous circuit of the church hall, a grim parade of dipped heads and murmured platitudes I’m obliged to endure.
“What the hell is she doing here?” Charlie mutters, the instant his fiancée, Julia, vanishes down the corridor with Mother.
I barely turn my head. “Charlie,” I say, keeping my voice even, “try, for once in your life, to behave like the gentleman you were raised to be. She’s here for Sophia.”
As the words leave my mouth, my eyes slide—against my better judgment—to Daisy.
She’s propped against a stone column, shifting unsteadily in those ridiculous heels. Her smile’s polite, plastered on for show, but her fingers drum a restless beat on the pillar, like she’s counting down the minutes until she can make her escape.
“This is bloody disrespectful,” Charlie hisses. “Showing up to my great-uncle’s funeral.”
“Most people would consider attending a funeral to support one’s dearest friend the very definition of respect.”
“Oh, come off it,” he scoffs. “This isn’t about Sophia. She’s still hung up on me.”
Daisy shifts, like she can sense the conversation, her head tilting slightly. For a fleeting moment, her gaze finds mine. Just as quickly, she looks away. My jaw tightens.
Charlie has always operated under the staggeringly deluded belief that any woman in possession of a pulse must be hopelessly infatuated with him. The infuriating part? He’s rarely wrong.
Part of me wonders if Daisy still harbors feelings for him. Despite the years that have passed. Despite the regrettable business with my nephew. Despite Charlie’s graceless handling of their ending.
He was her first love, after all.
“Yeah.” He chuckles, low and cocky. “Bet she reckons she’s still in with a chance. Shame, really. I do regret not being able to tap that anymore. She is bloody stunning.”
He glances at me expectantly, like we’re adolescents trading locker room gossip.
“Try,” I say, voice dropping to a steely edge that makes him twitch, “to summon the barest scrap of dignity and speak about women with respect. They are not objects to be tapped. ”
“She knew the score. Oh, come on. What did she expect? For us to settle down? For her to be the mother of my child?”
I turn to face him properly, feeling every inch the long-suffering elder brother. “Sometimes, Charlie, you really are an ass.”
“You’re very uptight,” he mutters, defensive now. “You’re the one who told me to break it off.”
“And you’re the one who proved me spectacularly right,” I reply, exasperation settling into something heavier. “I suggested ending things before Daisy became too serious—not treating her like disposable entertainment. Though I realize the distinction between being a gentleman and being an absolute cad might be too nuanced for your comprehension.”
“Jesus. Talk about a mood. Is this because you fumbled the speech, or is Mum back on her matchmaking crusade?”
I let out a tired breath. “As well as you being an ass, both of those things may be contributing factors.”
Mum has been relentless today, parading every remotely eligible woman past me like it’s some kind of macabre debutante ball. As if a funeral isn’t trying enough without her not-so-subtle remarks about grandchildren and biological clocks.
It’s been a weird fucking day.
I’ve delivered countless lectures—hospitals, universities, even bloody television—and not once have I stumbled over my words like a schoolboy. Not once.
Until today.
Infuriating.
Three people have already come over, all soft voices and pity, muttering how tough it must’ve been up there, first funeral since Millie passed. They’re not wrong. It is difficult. Two years, and I’m still living like a monk in mourning.
But that’s not why I lost my composure today.
Charlie claps a hand to my shoulder. “I’m grabbing a drink. You should too—loosen up. Bernard’d want you to get some action, you know.” He nods at the crowd. “Have a bit of fun. Half these women are here for you, I reckon.”
I let out a grunt—half annoyance, half exhaustion—as he swaggers off, leaving me to survey the crowd of mourners.
Voices drift by, all blurred noise. Terrible shame. So sudden.
But my focus keeps dragging back to Daisy.
She’s a walking calamity, stuffed into a dress that’s frankly too distracting for its own good and teetering on heels that have me half-tempted to call in a bloody orthopedic specialist before she does herself an injury.
My jaw tightens, frustration coiling taut in my chest.
And then there’s that matter.
The niggling suspicion that’s been eating at me since the glamping trip. I’m almost certain she went into my tent. Found my iPad. Unlocked, of course—because I’m an idiot—and laid bare exactly what, or rather who , I’d been watching.
I stride over, irritation warring with a different kind of heat in my veins.
She clocks me coming, her eyes widening just a fraction, a flicker of something like panic darting across them. Good. Let her squirm. Let her feel even a fraction of the disruption she’s caused—not just today with the speech, but for weeks now, in ways I can’t even begin to articulate.
“H-hey,” she stammers, peeling herself off the column she’s been leaning against.
“Daisy,” I say, planting a hand against the stone beside her head.
My gaze drops to those ridiculous shoes. “Those heels seem a particularly ill-advised choice for standing upright, let alone walking on cobblestones.”
Her lips quirk as she follows my gaze down to the culprits. “Cheers for the concern, Doc. I’ll be sure to consult you next time I’m shoe shopping.”
At least it’s not Daddy . I’ll take Doc and call it a win.
“Consider it preventative care. I’d rather not have to patch you up after an inevitable fall.”
“Thanks,” she mutters, her tone dripping with mock gratitude. “Great speech, by the way. Very . . . moving.”
“Evidently.” I lift a brow, cool and pointed. “I couldn’t help but notice how moved you were. In fact, the entire congregation witnessed your . . . emotional response. Apparently, my heartfelt tribute to one of British medicine’s greatest had—how shall I put it?—unforeseen comedic value for you.”
Her cheeks flare pink. “What? No! It was very . . . touching. Beautiful, even.”
She’d sell that line better if she could maintain eye contact for more than three seconds.
“You were laughing, Daisy Wilson,” I say, her full name falling from my lips with the weight of a schoolmaster catching a pupil red-handed.
“I was not ,” she shoots back, straightening up as much as those heels allow—which still leaves her staring up at me from somewhere below my chin. “I can’t believe you’d even suggest such a thing. At your own uncle’s funeral, of all places.”
My lips twitch despite myself. “Your thoughts were written all over your face during my eulogy.”
“That’s nonsense.” She sniffs, crossing her arms in what I suppose is meant to pass for authority. All it does is pull that dress tighter across her chest.
The truth is, Daisy has the worst poker face I’ve ever encountered.
The other truth is that she looks devastatingly beautiful in that dress. It clings to every curve with an audacity that feels deliberately provocative in this setting. Bernard would have been beside himself with delight at her presence—at her sheer nerve to appear like this, drawing every eye in the room.
The thought alone makes my mood darken.
I drag my eyes back to her flushed cheeks, shoving down thoughts I’ve no business entertaining. “Go on, then—enlighten me. What, precisely, did you find so amusing about my tribute?”
She huffs, puffing herself up like she’s got the moral high ground. “I wasn’t laughing at you . I was just . . . thinking about a funny story Bernard told me once. That’s all.”
“Is that right?” I let the words drip with sarcasm. “Well, don’t keep me in suspense—share this side-splitting tale that had you disrupting his send-off. I’m all ears.”
“It’s not something I care to repeat.”
“How uncharacteristically restrained of you.”
Her eyes flash. “Well, I’m so sorry if my private thoughts offended you during your speech. Sorry for thinking.”
I take a step closer, letting my voice drop to a murmur. “Word of advice? You might want to work on hiding your intrusive thoughts. Especially the inappropriate ones.”
Her breath hitches. For a heartbeat, that bravado slips, and something like nerves flickers across her face.
Then she rallies, squaring her shoulders. “You can’t possibly know what I’m thinking. Half the time, I don’t even know what I’m thinking.”
“That is painfully obvious.”
She scowls. “And anyway, what even is an ‘intrusive thought’? Aren’t they all just . . . thoughts? Just random noise bouncing around in our brains?”
“There’s a difference,” I say, slipping into lecture mode despite myself—stood here at my uncle’s funeral, sparring with the one woman who seems hell-bent on throwing me off-kilter. “An intrusive thought is unwelcome. It arrives uninvited and refuses to leave. A regular thought is one you consciously entertain—‘I should pick up milk on the way home,’ for instance.”
The faintest smirk tugs at my mouth. “And an analytical thought? That’s when your mind methodically solves a problem. Say, calculating the number of pleasantries required before it becomes socially permissible to make a discreet exit from this funeral.”
Her mouth falls open, indignation flashing across her face. “I wasn’t doing that.”
“Of course not. Not on purpose, at least. Though if you were, I’d hardly hold it against you.”
I pause. “Still, credit where it’s due. Showing up for Sophia today? It’s appreciated. Even if you did manage to throw my eulogy off course with that rather . . . vivid display of emotion.”
“I didn’t mean to put you off,” she mumbles, her gaze dropping to the floor. And for once, she looks—dare I admit it?—genuinely contrite.
“I’m sure you didn’t. But you do have a particular talent for it. Somehow, you always manage to.”
“Yeah, well,” she says, her voice softening, “You really don’t want to know what I was thinking while I was watching you up there. Trust me—it was pretty intrusive. Definitely not funeral appropriate.”
I go still.
Her words land like a live wire, the charge between us shifting from playful jabs to something sharper.
My eyes narrow on her—the flush climbing her throat, the faint catch in her breath. “Daisy . . .”
Her gaze holds mine, daring me—to answer, to move, to do something.
Before I can stop myself, I lean in, reason losing out to instinct, closing the gap just enough to—
“Edward!”
The voice cuts through the moment.
What the hell was I about to do? Pin my sister’s best mate against a church hall column at a bloody funeral? Have some sort of . . . moment ?
I straighten, rolling my shoulders back, and smooth my jacket in a futile stab at composure.
“There you are, my boy,” Bernard’s friend, Doug, claps a hand on my shoulder, and I have to employ every ounce of self-control not to throttle him.
I muster a tight smile instead. “Here I am.”
Over his shoulder, I catch Daisy slipping out the door.
“Terribly sad,” Doug says, shaking his head. “I hadn’t visited Bernard in weeks. Now I regret it, of course.”
“Yes,” I reply, clipped, my eyes still trailing the doorway she vanished through.
“At least he’s with Gertie now, after fifty years! Can you imagine? I’m just thankful my Ruth’s still here. She’ll outlast me, mark my words.” He pauses, his face shifting into that familiar mix of pity and condolence I’ve come to loathe. “So sorry, Edward. You understand, of course. Your lovely wife . . . about the same age when she went, wasn’t she?”
For the first time in years, the mention of Millie doesn’t send the usual sharp pain through my chest. I’m too preoccupied with whatever possessed me moments ago with Daisy. “She was. Taken too soon.”
He nods solemnly.
“You know,” he says after a beat, “you’re so like Bernard in every way.”
“I hear that often. Following in his medical footsteps.”
“Oh no.” He waves a hand, cutting me off. “I don’t mean that. I mean as a man .”
I tilt my head, curiosity mixing with dread.
He smiles. “Oh yes. Just like Bernard. When he was your age, I mean. It’s uncanny, really. Not just in your career, but in your looks, your mannerisms, your total character. Even . . .” He hesitates, his expression sobering. “Even in your tragedies, it seems. So much loss, for both of you. He was never the same after Gertie died. Retreated into himself. Buried himself in his work.”
I nod stiffly, the comparison settling like lead in my stomach. “Yes. He did.”
The words thud against my chest. Just like Bernard.
Suddenly, that phrase unravels into something far bleaker.
Because I know how they found him—trousers round his ankles, lube in hand.
Good god.
The parallels hit like a cold slap—too vivid, too grim. Bernard and me, carved from the same mold. Same habits. Same solitude. And, disturbingly, the same pull toward Daisy Wilson’s maddening allure.
A quiet panic clamps down on me.
Bernard used to be respectable. Then his wife died and everything went to hell. The poor bastard spent years starved of intimacy, and look where that got him—dying alone, surrounded by tissues and lubricant.
The image is both grotesque and darkly comedic. And far too close for comfort.
It’s like staring down the barrel of my own bleak future, laid bare before me in some twisted Dickensian morality tale.
The Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come, except instead of pointing solemnly at a gravestone, he’s gesturing meaningfully at a shipment of lubricant and Daisy Wilson’s shopping channel, where sad, lonely men go to die while watching enthusiastic demonstrations at three in the morning.
I used to pity Bernard. Poor old sod never recovered from losing his wife. But now I’m wondering if it wasn’t just grief—if he didn’t surrender to the loneliness. If he let himself sink into that pit because climbing out was too bloody hard.
And that terrifies me more than I care to admit.