CHAPTER 28
Daisy
I tilt my head up to look at him, my cheek still pressed against his chest, trying very hard not to dwell on the fact that this is, objectively, the most blissed-out I’ve ever felt post-sex. Not the usual “great shag, but where the hell are my knickers?” scramble, but something . . . deeper.
We’ve been lying here for . . . I have absolutely no idea. His arm is slung around me like he actually wants to be here, like post-coital cuddling isn’t a myth. And, annoyingly, it’s working. I can feel the butterflies waking up from hibernation in my chest, stretching their little wings.
I trail my fingers over his skin, absentmindedly tracing swirls and loops that feel almost profound—though I’m not sure if they’re saying please let me sit on your face again or please don’t hurt me.
Then, because I am me, I blurt out, “Have you really not been with anyone since Millie?”
“No,” he says simply.
I glance up at him, trying to play it cool. “I feel honored,” I murmur, still tracing nonsense on his skin.
“I’m the one who’s honored,” he says. And it’s the way he says it—soft, completely sincere—that makes my idiot heart do a somersault.
“Why not?” I ask, because apparently, I’m incapable of letting a romantic moment breathe.
He pauses as if thoughtfully considering his answer.
“I’ve never been one for one-night stands or flings,” he says. “And I wasn’t in a rush after Millie.”
I shift, propping myself up to get a better look at him, like really look at him. “Am I allowed to ask how many women you’ve been with? You can tell me to shut up, because I know that’s overstepping and absolutely none of my business.”
“Five.” No hesitation.
“ Five? ” I repeat, voice going higher than intended. “Like, the number after four? The same number of Greggs veggie sausage rolls I inhale when I’m hungover?”
A man who looks like that—jawline carved by Michelangelo—having the same body count as my shoe size?
Make it make sense.
He chuckles. “I was with Millie for years.”
“Still,” I argue, my brain performing some mental gymnastics to figure out how a full decade in a relationship only leaves room for four other people. “Not your entire adult life. A man who looks like you must’ve had a queue.”
“You flatter me. Two of the others were long-term relationships too.”
I bite my lip, suddenly feeling . . . vulnerable. “You don’t want to know my number?”
He shrugs. “You’ll tell me if you want. It bears no relevance.”
“It’s . . . more than five.”
Okay, it’s significantly more than five.
Like, I probably shouldn’t do the actual math if I want to maintain any dignity here.
Not because I was out here setting world records or anything, but because . . . well, I like sex. Time passes. Numbers add up.
“Unless your number includes a scandal with a prime minister or you’ve somehow seduced the archbishop,” he says, voice completely dry, “I hardly think the numbers bear discussion.”
I bite my lip to keep from laughing outright. Even when he’s talking about shagging , he sounds posh. Like he’s hosting a BBC Radio 4 panel instead of lying here, naked, while I doodle on his chest.
I think about my rather less distinguished lineup.
“Not quite. More like ‘Dave who fixed my boiler’ and ‘Stockbroker Prick Nick.’” I pause, considering. “Though, if we’re judging trends, I’d say my taste is improving significantly. Gone from plumbers and pretentious finance bros to . . . surgeons. That’s personal growth, right?”
His laugh rumbles beneath me, and he presses a kiss to my forehead. “That’s one way of looking at it.”
“For the record,” I add, “you had your own little lineup at your uncle’s funeral, you know.”
“A lineup?”
“Oh please. All those women, finding excuses to touch your bicep and tell you how devastated they were. It was like watching an old-money version of The Bachelor .”
He exhales a short laugh. “It was a funeral, Daisy.”
“Exactly. And Bernard would’ve loved it. All those gorgeous women showing up in his honor? He’s probably up there somewhere giving you a standing ovation for pulling that off. Probably told St. Peter to hold the pearly gates open a little longer so he could watch the show.”
“Yes, he would’ve enjoyed it.”
“Your uncle was a bit of a pervert.”
“Yes,” he says, unfazed. “Yes, he was.”
Well. At least we’re on the same page.
The memory of Bernard’s final moments pops into my head, and before I can stop myself, I ask, “Was it . . . my shopping channel? That he was watching when he . . . you know?”
Edward’s mouth twitches—not amused, exactly. Something closer to pained . “I’m afraid so. I’m sorry.”
“I knew it!” I groan, burying my face in his chest.
“Technically, if you think about it . . . manslaughter might apply. You gave the man a heart attack.”
I slap his chest and he grunts.
“That’s not funny,” I say.
“If you don’t laugh about these things, you’ll go mad.”
We smile at each other, and suddenly, the world outside my bedroom doesn’t exist. Like someone’s hit pause on reality, leaving just us in this ridiculous bubble where surgeons and BritShop presenters somehow make perfect sense together.
I tilt my head. “Edward, is this you sowing your wild oats? Because I wouldn’t blame you.”
He frowns. “That’s not my intention.”
“Oh? Then what is your intention?”
He pauses. “I’d like to take you out. To court you, as antiquated as that might sound.”
“To court me? Are we in a Jane Austen novel? Should I fetch my bonnet and parasol?”
“Cheeky mare,” he growls, which is an appalling choice of words because it only makes me want to be cheekier.
“Why on earth would you want to court me? I can’t say that word with a straight face.”
“How that’s not blindingly obvious to you is . . . baffling.” He sounds exasperated. “Because you’re beautiful. And witty. And entirely too charming for your own good.”
“I don’t have a serious career.”
“That’s simply not true.” His mouth twitches. “I happen to think selling bidets is a very serious career. You’re single-handedly revolutionizing bathroom hygiene in Britain.”
“You’re mocking me,” I huff, but I can’t quite hide the grin tugging at my mouth.
“I’m not.” He holds my gaze. “Okay, perhaps I’m teasing slightly. But Daisy . . . the way you see yourself is wildly at odds with reality.” His voice softens. “I think you’re extraordinary.”
I stare at him, my heart tripping over itself. “The world has told me what my value is,” I say quietly. “And I’ve said, fine, I’ll cash it in. Hence BritShop TV.”
His brows pull together.
“Your value isn’t something the world gets to decide,” he says in that commanding surgeon voice. “And if BritShop TV is what you’ve chosen, then you’ve made it better just by being part of it.”
I swallow hard, trying very hard not to grin like an absolute idiot who’s just won the hot-doctor lottery. This feeling bubbling up inside my chest is warm and terrifying and absolutely inconvenient.
“Well,” I say softly. “In that case, Edward Cavendish, I’d be delighted to be courted by you.”