CHAPTER 30
Daisy
My stomach is still a tangle of nerves as I press the buzzer outside Edward’s front door—an imposing slab of wood that must be at least one and a half times my height.
I smooth down my knee-length knitted skirt. It’s so tight, I’m certain it’s cutting off circulation to several vital organs. I’ve paired it with a fitted white top. The overall effect? Posh librarian who has sex toys hidden in her desk drawer at work.
The door swings open, and—
Oh.
Edward stands there in a navy cashmere jumper and jeans. My ovaries practically curtsey.
His gaze drags over me. “You look beautiful, Daisy.”
“Thanks,” I reply, breezy, as if I didn’t spend two hours in front of the mirror to elicit this exact reaction. “You’re not too bad yourself.”
His lips twitch.
“Please, allow me to take your coat.” His voice is edged with something rougher than simple politeness. His fingers linger as he slides the fabric from my shoulders.
I flick my hair over one shoulder, and yep —that’s the look that got me into trouble in the church. And, if I play my cards right, the one that’s going to get me into trouble again .
What he doesn’t know is that underneath this librarian outfit, I’m wearing crotchless knickers—because apparently, I cope with stress by being absolutely shameless.
I’m a walking contradiction. Tweed meets temptation. Trying desperately to belong in his world while being unapologetically myself.
“It’s weird being back here for, uh, very different reasons,” I blurt.
Edward groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Perhaps we could avoid references to your previous . . . visit.”
I cringe. “Right. Sorry.”
A beat of silence stretches between us. The kind of silence where I should just shut up.
But, obviously, I do the opposite.
“Does it . . . bother you? That I have history with your brother and, um, nephew?”
His jaw tenses slightly. “Let’s just focus on us this evening,” he says evenly. “On the present.”
Oh, okay.
I nod, swallowing as he steps closer.
His fingers graze under my chin—the ghost of a touch—but my breath catches. My heart forgets its job entirely.
I issue myself a stern warning. Do not fuck this dinner up, Daisy.
He leads me down his enormous hallway—lined with art I was far too distracted to notice last time—and into his kitchen.
The scents filling the air are incredible .
Except—he still hasn’t kissed me.
That little detail sends a flicker of panic through my chest.
“This smells lovely. Did you cook?”
He runs a hand through his hair, looking almost—sheepish? “I did. Please, take a seat while I fetch you a drink.”
He clears his throat, tugs at the neck of his jumper, then opens the wine fridge. “What would you like to drink? I have a Chablis Premier Cru, or a Puligny-Montrachet. I also have a Gaja Barbaresco if you’d prefer that.”
I blink.
Sir. I am the woman who demonstrates hosepipes on television.
I can’t even remember the first two wines he rattled off.
“Gaja, please,” I say, play-acting confidence. For all I know, I could be committing to a glass of prune juice.
He nods, retrieves a bottle from his very fancy, very adult wine rack, and pours. The formality of it all is making me even more nervous.
“I’m sorry, Daisy,” he says, a little stiffly. “I’m rusty at this. I haven’t dated in a long time.”
I raise a brow. “You literally save lives for a living. Dating should be the easy part.”
He exhales sharply, a humorless huff. “The human heart is far more complex outside the operating theater, I’m finding.”
My breath catches.
Oh.
My fingers trace the rim of my glass, trying to act like that sentence didn’t just send a little shiver up my spine. “Well, I haven’t dated many surgeons, so I suppose we’ll just have to be rusty together.”
He stares at me. “I find myself rather hoping you won’t be dating any other . . . surgeons. ”
The way he says it—pointed—we both know he really means men .
I want to scream: Say it. Tell me you don’t want me with anyone else.
“Lucky for you,” I murmur, “no other top-class surgeons have caught my eye recently.”
His Adam’s apple bobs.
I lean in, slow enough to feel the weight of the air between us, thick and humming.
“Don’t look so serious,” I whisper. “Dating is supposed to be fun. What’s your idea of fun, Edward?”
“You.”
The single word lands between us.
My breath stutters, caught somewhere between a laugh and a gasp.
Then—
BEEP .
The oven timer is my cockblock.
He exhales, scrubbing a hand through his hair. His jaw tightens as he turns toward the oven, his movements suddenly clipped, like he needs something to do with his hands.
I take a sip of my wine. “So!” I say, voice a little too high-pitched, like I’ve just been caught doing something illicit. “What’s on the menu?”
“Salt-Baked Heritage Celeriac Wellington,” he says over his shoulder. “An attempt, anyway.”
I blink . . . what?
He pulls it from the oven. The crust glistens under the kitchen lights, golden and flaky.
“You made that?” I ask, because surely there’s a Deliveroo bag hiding just out of sight.
“I did.” He places it on the counter, wiping his hands on a kitchen towel. “I wasn’t sure how it would turn out. I’ll admit I had a . . . practice run.”
I gape at him. “You did a trial run of a Wellington? For me? ”
He shrugs.
I stare at the Wellington. I stare at him.
Jesus Christ. This man.
Heat rises up my neck, a disorienting mix of admiration and panic. I feel undeserving of this level of effort. “Now I feel extra bad about what I said outside the church. About you asking me out and me goading you into taking me to the opera.”
“So you should. I bloody hate the opera. I only have a box for networking.”
I bite back a smile. “You’re . . . incredibly thoughtful, you know that? How did you even have time to do all this?”
He meets my gaze, steady and sure. “You can always make time.”
I swallow hard, my chest tightening around something I don’t quite know what to do with.
“Let’s eat in the dining area,” he says, lifting the tray.
I follow him, trying—failing—to shake the ridiculous warmth spreading through my chest.
Dinner is done. Plates pushed aside. The last dregs of wine swirling in our glasses. The dining table, designed to seat ten people, is comically oversized for just the two of us. Very grown-up. Smooth jazz hums from hidden speakers—a sound that makes me feel like I should be wearing diamonds instead of, well . . . nothing underneath this skirt.
The whole atmosphere is . . . refined. Elegant. Almost unnerving.
And yet, I feel relaxed.
Edward has loosened up too. But he has no idea my delicate bits are bare against his leather seat.
He’s always a gentleman, but as the evening’s gone on, I’ve started to really notice just how posh and educated he is. It’s not something he tries to be. It’s simply him. The way he phrases things. The books he references in passing. The effortless way he pronounces French wine labels I wouldn’t even attempt.
It’s a little terrifying.
Thankfully, we’ve managed to avoid politics. So far. Although if he does suddenly ask me what I think of the chancellor, at least I now know who he is and sort of what he does. Small victories.
Instead, we talk about our days. Our favorite spots in London.
His? Moody wine bars. Historic bookshops. Places where people discuss philosophy over glasses of Burgundy.
Mine? Rooftop beer gardens. The best late-night kebab spots. Places where someone cries or fights in the smoking area.
We even talk about Sophia’s wedding, a conversation filled with thinly veiled what the fuck is happening undercurrents. He doesn’t say it outright, but I can tell he thinks she’s taking it too far—pushed and prodded by Mrs. Cavendish, the ultimate puppet master.
“I put my foot down when it came to my own wedding,” he says, swirling his wine. “Do you remember it?” He glances at me. “Your mother went.”
“I do,” I say softly. “It looked like something out of a fairytale.”
His fingers tighten subtly around his glass. “I apologize for bringing up my late wife. I may not be particularly experienced at this, but even I know that’s probably not great date material.”
I reach across the table, covering his hand with mine. “Don’t be silly. Of course you can talk about her. She was a lovely woman. She was a big part of your life.” I hesitate, then add, “ Is , I guess,” suddenly unsure if I’ve just shoved my foot into my mouth.
He smiles sadly.
A beat of silence stretches between us before I ask, “Do you get lonely here without her?”
He stares down at the deep red swirl of wine in his glass. “After she died, I didn’t want anyone else in the house for a long time. It felt . . . disrespectful. And I didn’t think it would be fair to any future woman—because I’d inevitably compare her to my wife.”
I swallow hard. My fingers twitch against his before I pull back, wrapping them around my own glass instead.
“She is quite the woman to live up to,” I murmur, attempting a lightness I don’t feel. “If you are comparing me to Millie, I’m sorry to say I’ll fail the test.”
His eyes snap back to mine, something sharp flickering in them. “To compare you would be absurd.”
I let out a dry huff. “You weren’t supposed to agree so readily .”
I take a very large sip of wine to mask the sting.
“I’m saying it would be absurd because you’re not comparable. You’re different. Entirely.”
I freeze, setting my glass down.
“If anything,” he mutters, almost begrudgingly. “You shatter that stasis for me. That frozen place I was stuck in, where I kept everyone at arm’s length because it was easier.”
My breath catches. His gaze holds mine.
“You wrecked that for me. You’re my circuit breaker. For lack of a better word.”
My pulse thrums in my throat. “ Oh ,” I manage, because what do you even say to that? “Well, I’m glad I’m your . . . circuit breaker.”
The words hang between us, heavy with meaning, and the kind of terrifying potential that makes my stomach flip.
We both chuckle, but it’s that awkward kind of laugh—more of a flimsy cover-up for all the things neither of us knows how to deal with.
“As you can see, I’m not exactly the smoothest talker,” he says.
“No,” I agree, lips twitching. “But you are the most thoughtful.”
A small, self-conscious smile flickers at the corner of his mouth. “Millie wouldn’t want me ruining my date with morbid chat. She’d be chastising me for this, no doubt.” He pauses. “To answer your question—I manage well enough on my own. But . . . yes, sometimes, I get lonely.”
I glance around the dining room that feels way too big for one person.
“There are so many rooms here, you could get lost and never be found again. Maybe downsizing’s the answer. Or a cat. Or a flatmate. Although I imagine your screening process is much stricter than mine. I’ve had some properly feral ones.”
Edward arches a brow. “I don’t know whether you’re referring to flatmates or cats.”
“Both, actually.”
“I hope you’re not talking about your current one—Jamie, the events planner?”
“He’s all right,” I say, swirling my wine with the kind of elegance that only comes from years of spilling it on myself. “He leaves socks everywhere, and obviously, he doesn’t always have the best attention to detail when it comes to booking glamping tents. Still, he’s a good mate now. That’s just how it goes in your twenties, isn’t it? You live with random people, occasionally wonder if they might be serial killers, and hope for the best.”
Edward exhales a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “That’s deeply concerning.”
A flash of Sophia in her Hampstead kitchen flickers through my mind. “ Oh , except if you’re rich, obviously,” I amend, then wince. “I mean—”
“You’re right. Sophia’s never had to endure the unique experience of questionable flatmates. Neither did I, for that matter. And while I’m aware this may sound terribly privileged, financial wealth often comes at the expense of other equally valuable experiences. Those shared struggles, the late-night conversations with virtual strangers who become family . . .”
He pauses. “There are different forms of wealth—financial, yes, but also social capital, time abundance, physical wellbeing. Each valuable in its own right but rarely found in perfect balance.”
His eyes meet mine. “I suspect your flatmate experiences, dubious as they might be, have given you a wealth of stories. Character building.”
God, he’s so serious. Like everything’s a TED Talk.
I think about Jamie leaning over to let out a fart on the sofa last night and scrunch my nose. “You’re right. I guess it does build character.”
His eyes crinkle as he stands, planting a kiss on my head that makes my insides go wobbly. “Relax. I’ll fetch dessert.”
“I’m going to freshen up, if that’s okay?” Which is etiquette-speak for check if these crotchless knickers are still positioned in a way that will give you a heart attack when you find them.
“Main bathroom’s up the stairs, beside my bedroom.” His voice drops slightly. “Which you already know.”
I swallow, nodding as I turn toward the staircase.
Upstairs, I hesitate. The main bathroom is right there.
But his bedroom door is slightly ajar.
I peek inside.
It’s still as manly and intimidating as I remember, the sheer scale of the bed making my pulse quicken.
I bite my lip, heat prickling at my skin, already imagining sinking into those sheets again. The previous crimes? Long forgotten.
I look around the room and smirk.
Time to get this party started.
After all, I didn’t squeeze myself into these crotchless knickers just to appreciate his Wellington—no matter how perfectly tender it was.