CHAPTER 25
Daisy
“Now, we come to the crown jewel of tonight’s garden collection—” I grunt, wrestling with what has to be the world’s most uncooperative garden kneeler. The bloody thing keeps folding and unfolding like it’s got a mind of its own.
“This innovative multi-position kneeler converts from bench to padding with just one smooth motion—” The device snaps shut, nearly amputating my fingers.
“Watch how easily this transforms into a kneeling position—”
I flip the kneeler over, trying to maintain some dignity as my Union Jack skirt decides to stage its own Brexit from my thighs. “Perfect for those long, lonely weeding sessions.”
Lonely?
Not sure I meant to say that.
I grip the handles, preparing to demonstrate what the manual refers to as a “graceful descent.”
There is nothing graceful about what happens next.
My body does a sort of lurching drunk squat, my knees buckle, and I’m caught between standing and kneeling.
“ These ergonomic handles provide support as you”—I wobble, barely stopping myself from toppling forward onto the astroturf. For the love of god, let this segment end—“effortlessly lower yourself to soil level.”
Now I’m stuck in what is, quite frankly, a compromising position—kneeling, gripping the handles for dear life, while also trying to keep my knees together.
God, I hate this job sometimes.
Stupid bloody chair.
Stupid, silly Daisy, thinking that Edward Cavendish—walking, talking, tailored-navy-suit-wearing perfection—would ever give a second chance to someone who spends her evenings losing fights with homicidal garden furniture. He clearly overcame his moment of insanity.
No, Edward is currently in bed. Having grown-up, sophisticated doctor-sex while I wrestle with garden furniture under the fluorescent lights of a shopping channel studio.
I bet she didn’t act like a complete idiot when he invited her over for dinner. Bet she just smiled elegantly and said something classy like That sounds lovely, Edward instead of flinging accusations.
I also bet she’s in that big, manly bed, curled up against his broad chest, tangled in those expensive sheets.
Ugh.
Lucky bitch.
“The cushioning provides comfort for extended periods of—”
Something shifts in my peripheral vision. A murmur from the edge of the set.
I look up, and my heart skips a beat.
Edward.
He’s standing there. Rolled-up sleeves. Top buttons undone. Hair a bit messy, like he’s been running his hands through it all night.
What is he doing here?
He hasn’t seriously come all this way just to reject me twice, has he?
Then I see it—the look.
That intensity in his eyes, the way his gaze fixes on me. It’s a look that sends heat licking up my spine, makes my fingers tighten involuntarily on the stupid handles of this ridiculous garden kneeler.
Oh.
Ohhh.
He’s not here to reject me.
My skin prickles with awareness. My whole body goes still, except for the little shiver that rolls down me.
If Edward Cavendish has dragged himself to BritShop at this ungodly hour, the least I can do is give him a proper show.
I inhale, steadying myself. Then, I turn back to the camera, planting the brightest, most dazzling smile on my face.
“Extended periods of gardening ,” I finish smoothly, voice steady despite the absolute mayhem happening inside me. “Now, let me demonstrate just how flexible this model can be . . .”
I can’t help myself. I’m essentially performing a private show for Edward, except it’s live television at one a.m.—albeit Channel 192, which barely counts. Somehow, I manage to keep a straight face while demonstrating our Premium Extending Pole Saw.
Before this job, I thought garden tools were just trowels and those prongy rake-things.
Oh, how naive I was.
Because this bad boy? This is a long-ass pole perfect for trimming hard-to-reach branches and, as I’ve just discovered, making distinguished surgeons hot under the collar.
I beam at Camera One, the absolute picture of innocence.
“The extending capabilities are truly impressive . . .”
To be a good product demonstrator, you need Spidey senses—watch the camera, read the crew’s signals, and, in this case, covertly observe the hot surgeon slowly unraveling in the wings.
“The shaft,” I continue, my voice smooth as butter, “can extend to a truly remarkable length . . .”
I pause deliberately, savoring how his hand moves to his face like he’s suppressing either laughter or an aneurysm. “Perfect for those hard-to-reach places.”
“And,” I add, flipping the mechanism with a flourish, “notice how easily it slides in and out.”
Edward’s ears have turned a delightful shade of pink. His jaw appears to be attempting to fuse itself shut.
The irony? This isn’t even our most suggestive product. Wait until he experiences my demonstration of the Vibrating Soil Aerator . That one practically sells itself.
Simon signals for wrap-up, but for once, I’m reluctant to finish. Watching Edward Cavendish wage war with his own composure while I extol the virtues of long shafts and smooth extensions might be the most fun I’ve had at work in months.
I close out the segment, all bright smiles and perfect professionalism, chatting with the crew about post-show feedback.
The whole time, I feel him watching me.
When I’m finally free, I stride over to him, smiling innocently. “Enjoy the show?”
“It was . . . informative,” he says, his mouth twitching.
“Informative? That’s the best you’ve got?” I tilt my head, mock-offended. “I just gave an award-worthy performance on the Premium Extending Pole Saw, Edward, and all you can come up with is informative ?”
“There are other words I could use about watching you, but they wouldn’t be particularly . . . gentlemanly.”
My heart stutters but I mask it with a grin. “Oh? Do share with the class, Dr. Cavendish.”
Flirty banter feels so much safer than asking the actual, burning question: What the hell is Edward doing in the studio?
“I’ll refrain,” he says, his eyes glinting. “But your innuendos? Impressive. Quick off the mark. I don’t know how you kept a straight face.”
“Practice,” I say lightly. “Surely this is past your bedtime, Doc.”
“Very much so,” he replies. “But it’s worth the sleep deprivation. In the interest of honesty, I could watch you demonstrate rat poison and be enthralled.”
Oh.
Oh.
My breath catches. Any clever response dies in my throat.
The air between us crackles with the same electric charge that preceded The Church Incident.
“So . . .what are you doing here?”
“I came to see you. We have unfinished business.”
“Unfinished business,” I repeat, fighting to sound unimpressed. Fighting to sound like my entire body isn’t suddenly electric with anticipation. “What kind of business?”
His lips curve. Just enough to make my pulse stutter. “Critical business.”
I narrow my eyes, attempting to sound casual. Failing spectacularly. “Did you come straight from your date?”
“Lucia is a colleague. Just a good friend.”
Right.
“She’s beautiful,” I say, because, well, she is .
“She is,” he agrees, “but I didn’t come here to discuss her.”
“She’s beautiful and a doctor,” I press, because I’ve apparently decided to cockblock myself. “You two have so much in common.”
“All of those facts are objectively true,” he says, stepping closer. “But entirely irrelevant to the matter at hand.”
The air between us thrums with something I don’t dare name.
“I find myself standing in front of you at midnight,” he continues, “because, as stated, we have critical unfinished business.”
“Well then,” I say, “enlighten me about this critical business, Dr. Cavendish.”
“Perhaps my way of asking you out was untimely and clumsy. And, quite frankly, your method wasn’t much better. But it’s something I very much want to happen, and considering you turned up at my hospital, I suspect you feel the same.”
My heart is hammering so hard it’s probably visible through my BritShop top. “This method is clumsy and untimely too, you know. What are we even doing here? Stalking each other at our workplaces now?”
“It would appear so. Your security protocols are concerningly lax here, by the way. Given your . . . dedicated following.”
I snort. “I’m not famous. Carrie probably let you in because you’re handsome.”
“Right. So was Ted Bundy apparently.”
“Why do I feel like I’m being scolded already?”
“I’m not scolding. Merely highlighting the glaring lack of security here. Now, regarding our critical business—I’d like to resolve it.”
Oh, we’re back to that.
My heart flutters. I bite my lip. “What exactly are you proposing? Planning to whisk me away mid-infomercial? Because Simon will suffer an actual medical emergency if I abandon the telescopic pruner demonstration. I have thirty minutes left.”
He chuckles. “I’ll wait. If I’m allowed. Watch you finish your shift. Then give you a lift home.”
The grin that spreads across my face is entirely involuntary, a gooey warmth pooling in my chest despite my best efforts to act indifferent.
“Okay. Make yourself at home, Dr. Cavendish. And prepare to be dazzled.”
“I’m sure by the end of this,” he deadpans, “I’ll have purchased the full garden tool display.”
I smile up at him, already mentally calculating how long it’ll take to get to my flat. And how much self-control I’ll need to survive the ride because my clit is throbbing loud enough for Camera Two to pick up as background noise.
Ladies and gentlemen of the BritShop audience, I am absolutely going to scale this man like one of the trees I just demonstrated pruning equipment for.
Thoroughly.
Repeatedly.
Fact.