CHAPTER 29
Daisy
I’m practically floating around Victoria’s Secret, with Lizzie trailing behind me, rolling her eyes.
I can’t help it, though—I haven’t stopped grinning all week, not since my very thorough romp with Edward last weekend. I’m riding the kind of high that only comes from being properly seen to by a man who not only found my clitoris but also knows how to operate it. With a god-given talent.
The kind of high that makes you forget you’ve just spent forty actual British pounds on what is, objectively, three strategically placed triangles of lace.
I mean, really .
This is the exact brand of reckless financial decision-making that got Britain into trouble in the first place.
Do I care? Not in the slightest.
Tonight, he’s cooking for me. At his place. A proper date. Or a date- in , I suppose. Either way, it feels like an event worthy of overpriced lingerie.
It’s impossible not to compare this blissful shopping spree to the actual, waking nightmare that has been every single bridesmaid-related outing with Sophia. Sweet, lovely Sophia, who has now gone full-blown Bridezilla.
She’s taking everything too far. Too fucking far.
Every tiny detail is a crisis of national importance. The wrong napkins? A diplomatic disaster. The shade of pink? You’d think we were selecting a new flag for the United Nations. And the bridal party’s group chat? A disaster zone.
I can’t do anything right with this maid of honor business. Everything I suggest is wrong. Everything I do is wrong.
We’ve been friends since we were four—back when she thought I was exotic because I ate fish fingers and she had no idea what Tesco was. But lately, with all this wedding madness, it’s like she’s forgotten I’m not one of her posh friends who can drop everything for another fucking fitting.
I want to be happy for her. I am happy for her. But Jesus Christ, something has got to give.
If Sophia finds out I’ve slept with Edward? She’ll lose her mind. Though to be fair, she’s currently losing it over whether the bridesmaids should wear their hair up or down, so perhaps she won’t even notice.
I pluck another lacy number from the rack.
Lizzie eyes my already overflowing basket as I drop it in. “You sure you need that too?”
“Of course I don’t need it. Since when has need factored into buying fancy lingerie?”
I flash her a mischievous grin and—just to drive the point home—toss a pair of crotchless knickers into the basket.
“I don’t like that look in your eyes. It says I am absolutely getting carried away with this man. ”
I wave a dismissive hand. “Carried away? Me? Don’t be ridiculous. I’m simply enjoying being courted.” I flutter my eyelashes at her. “Did I tell you he’s courting me?”
“Only about every three minutes.”
She watches me as I hold up a black lace bodysuit that costs more than my weekly food shop.
“Just . . . be careful, yeah?” Lizzie says, her voice softer now. “You haven’t even heard from him much this week, apart from a few brief messages.”
“Yes, but his messages were very thoughtful. He asked about my dietary requirements for tonight.”
She clutches her chest in mock reverence. “Oh wow. How swoon-worthy.”
I roll my eyes. “He’s a surgeon . He’s busy saving lives . What exactly do I need to be careful about? The man’s got the stamina of a thoroughbred and the manners of Mr. Darcy.”
“And the mother of Satan. Have you thought about what happens when Mrs. C finds out you’re shagging her firstborn?”
My stomach does an uncomfortable flip that has nothing to do with last night’s curry. “He’s a grown man. It’s not like he needs Mummy’s permission to date the shopping channel girl.”
Lizzie does not look convinced. She snatches a thong from my hands and sticks it back on the rack with an air of finality. “The point is, Edward might be different from Charlie, but his world isn’t. Are you ready for that?”
“It’s one date, Lizzie. It’s just sex.”
“If it was just sex, you wouldn’t be floating around all week and spending a fortune on underwear. I’m just scared you’re going to get hurt.”
“I know, I know.”
We turn a corner and are confronted with a rack of lacy knickers emblazoned with the Union Jack.
Lizzie smirks at me.
I gasp. “Those are the ones you bought me!”
“The very same,” she says, deeply proud of herself. “You just can’t escape it, can you?”
I snort, reaching out to flick the offensive garment.
“Do you think we’ll still be doing this when we’re seventy?” Lizzie muses. “Like, will we be flogging walk-in baths while needing one ourselves?”
“If we are, I’d hope they’d let us wear age-appropriate skirts by then. Imagine trying to sell a foot spa while your own feet are in compression socks.”
She grins. “But you do like it, don’t you?”
“Yeah,” I admit with a shrug. “Even with Simon being a dickhead and half the products being absolute shite, I do. Couldn’t see myself doing anything proper , like BBC News.”
I drop my voice into my best news anchor impression. “‘This is Daisy with today’s headlines. But first, a word on this revolutionary potato peeler.’”
Lizzie cackles. “Oh god, you’d slip an F-bomb during a segment about the chancellor’s budget.”
I wince. “Would definitely need to read Politics for Dummies first.” A flicker of shame creeps in—I don’t even know who the chancellor is, let alone what he does. And I don’t even want to admit that out loud to Lizzie, who once, very nicely , checked out a suspected hemorrhoid for me.
“Better get on that,” she says, still chuckling. “Before tonight.”
I blink. “What do you mean?”
“Gemma said Liam and Edward have long, drawn-out finance debates over dinner. Apparently, economics, policy, investment strategy—it’s all Edward talks about.”
My stomach clenches. “Oh, fuck.”
Lizzie catches my look and softens. “I’m sure he’s not like that all the time.”
“Yeah,” I say, waving it off. “We don’t need to have some deep philosophical debate every time we’re together.”
“Exactly!” she says, nodding like she’s cheering me on. “That’s not why he’s with you.”
I shoot her a sideways glance. “Lizzie, that’s not helping.”
“No, no, I mean—you’re fun and charming, and you don’t want to sit through some boring finance chat over dinner. That’s a good thing!”
I force a smile. “Yeah. Sure.”
I pretend to inspect my basket so I don’t have to meet her eyes.
I swallow hard.
The butterflies in my stomach twist into something heavier. Now, it’s not excitement for tonight—it’s panic.
I suddenly have a very strong urge to google basic finance terms and how to sound intelligent without actually knowing anything .