CHAPTER 24
Daisy
I’m standing outside the hospital, my heart hammering like I’ve just sprinted the London Marathon, which is insane because all I’ve done is pace back and forth.
Sophia said he’s working today. I’d casually wrangled that bit of info out of her. Hopefully, she didn’t pick up on how weird that was. If she did, she was polite enough not to say “You sound like a stalker, are you a stalker?”
I’ve already drafted a message to him. Twice. Deleted both.
I stare at my latest attempt, biting the inside of my cheek.
Hi. Are you free for a quick chat? I’m near the hospital.
Translation: I have, in fact, been loitering outside your workplace like a full-blown weirdo.
Before I can psych myself into hitting send—or throw my phone into traffic—I see him.
Or rather, them.
Edward strides out of the hospital, in a sexy, distinguished navy suit, but he’s not alone.
The woman from the funeral—the tall, elegant, effortlessly stunning woman—is walking beside him.
My stomach drops.
I should leave. I should turn around and text him later. Or never. Probably never.
Edward’s eyes catch mine. His face shifts—first surprised, then confused. At least he doesn’t look annoyed . That’s something.
I panic-wave.
He bends down, murmurs something to the posh goddess glued to his arm, then strides toward me. Oh god, he’s getting hotter with every step, all sharp jaw and brooding vibes. This is a disaster.
“Daisy,” he says when he reaches me. His tone is neutral. Not unkind. Not particularly warm, either. “Everything all right?”
“Yes!” I say. Too loud. Dear god, too loud. “I mean—yes. Top form, really. I just . . . I wanted to talk to you. About something.”
His brow lifts, waiting.
I take a deep breath, forcing myself to hold eye contact. Don’t mess it up.
“Mum told me what you did for her. The chemo. The private doctors. All of it. And I know you didn’t want me to know, but . . .” My throat tightens. I should have just sent a damn text. “Thank you. Really. It means a lot.”
Silence.
Edward’s face remains its usual masterpiece of non-expression.
Finally, he says, voice maddeningly even, “Your mum has done a lot for mine over the years. It was the least I could do.”
I nod, swallowing hard. “You didn’t have to.”
“It was the right thing to do. Your mum’s a very kind woman. Anyway . . .” His gaze flickers briefly over his shoulder to the goddess—oh sorry, his friend —who is still standing at a respectful distance, exuding an aura of patience.
I, meanwhile, feel like time’s slipping through my fingers. Or maybe it’s already gone.
I glance at him again. The sharp lines of his face. He looks . . . tired. Tired in a way that tugs at something in my chest.
“I feel like I owe you the world.” Jesus Christ, tone it down.
His jaw tightens. “You don’t owe me anything.”
“Oh, I definitely do. I shouldn’t have been rude to you.”
His frown deepens.
“After the funeral, I mean—”
“I know what you’re referring to,” he cuts in. “It’s fine. Forgotten.”
Ouch. Forgotten. I was never important enough to even hold a grudge against.
I nod stiffly, trying to shake off the sting. What was I expecting? That he’d sweep me into his arms, kiss me in front of his elegant, impossibly tall friend, and confess he’s been in love with me this whole time?
Idiot.
“Sorry,” he says, after a pause. “I have plans. You didn’t need to come in person, but I appreciate it.”
He doesn’t want to see me.
God, I made such a mistake outside that church. What was I even thinking?
I force a smile, though it feels brittle, like it might shatter under the weight of his indifference. “Right. Of course. Sorry to bother you.”
He nods, already halfway out of the conversation. “Okay, right, well, have a good—”
“I just wanted to say, also . . . you’re a really great guy.”
His brows lift slightly.
But I’m already in too deep, so I push through the cringe. “Honestly, you might be the best guy I know. You’re intimidating and grumpy and you sometimes make me feel like a complete idiot, but that’s mostly my fault, and—” I take a breath, because apparently, I’ve decided to embarrass myself fully before leaving. “Yeah. That’s it. Just. You’re a great guy.”
I want to evaporate into the pavement.
He lets out this small, almost reluctant huff of laughter, shaking his head. It’s barely anything. But it’s also everything because it makes my heart do something really, really dumb—like hope .
“Why did you ask me out?” I blurt before I can lose my nerve.
“I thought you’d already worked that out. You explained it rather eloquently outside the church.”
“I want to hear it from you.”
His jaw tenses. He looks like he’s debating whether to answer or just dramatically walk off instead.
“Daisy, the answer is simple. I asked you out because I wanted to.”
Then, after a beat, he adds, “Until you helpfully reminded me of the glaring fact I’d been conveniently ignoring—our total incompatibility.”
Ouch.
I shift my weight, trying to hide how much that stings.
“What if . . .” My voice comes out all high and squeaky, so I clear my throat and try again. “What if our incompatibility is actually our superpower ? You know, like opposites attracting?”
His mouth twitches. “Like oil and water? Puppies and vultures?”
I fumble for a better comparison, twisting the hem of my jacket between my fingers. “I was thinking more . . . mustard and mayonnaise.”
His brow lifts. “That sounds revolting.”
“Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it,” I shoot back, my stomach now fully tangled in knots. Before I can stop myself, I go all in. “You could . . . give me another chance? Go out with me?”
There it is. The words hang between us.
He blinks, like I’ve genuinely surprised him.
His eyes flick to the hospital entrance where she’s waiting—the elegant doctor, someone who could never be described as chaos.
Oh god.
“Not now!” I blurt. I cringe at myself but keep going, because apparently, I’ve decided to double down on this self-destruction. “I mean, not like, right now right now. I’m not suggesting I tag along on your date like some third wheel—because that would be insane. Just . . . maybe . . . some other time?”
For the briefest moment, his expression softens. Then, just as quickly, he straightens, slipping back into that careful, unreadable version of himself.
“I should go,” he says. “Let’s discuss this some other time.”
My heart sinks. Right. Sure. Definitely. Some other time.
“Will you be okay getting home? I can call you a cab.”
“No,” I say too quickly, willing myself not to cry. Ridiculous, Daisy . “I’m heading to work anyway. Fun Friday night, right? Working till one a.m.—an easy shift.”
I try to smile, but I can feel that it looks more like I just bit into a lemon.
He nods. For a second, I think he might say something to make this hurt less.
Instead, he turns and walks away, back to his doctor friend, who glances at me and smiles kindly.
That kind of soft, pitying smile people give when they realize you’re a complete idiot.