Page 12

"Get it together, Lili," I whispered to the mirror. "He's Daphne's brother. Herbrother."
But my traitorous brain kept replaying every second of that encounter. The way his pupils had dilated when he saw me. The weight of his body hovering over mine. That moment when time seemed to suspend itself and all that existed was the space between our lips—a space he'd been closing with deliberate, agonizing slowness.
I gripped the sink edge so hard my knuckles went white.
This was bad. This was catastrophically, monumentally bad.
I was Daphne's guest, for crying out loud. She'd saved me from that nightmare hotel situation, given me a roof over my head when I had nowhere else to go. I couldn't repay that kindness by lusting after her brother like some sort of—
A knock at my door made me jump out of my skin.
"Miss Lili?" A crisp British accent I didn't recognize. "Mrs. Worthington requests your presence for breakfast in the morning room. Nine-thirty sharp."
I glanced at the clock. Nine-fifteen. Fantastic.
"I'll be right there!" I called, my voice cracking slightly.
I threw on the first respectable dress I could find—a vintage-inspired navy number with tiny white polka dots that Mama had insisted I pack "for meeting fancy people." My hair refused to cooperate no matter how much I wrestled with it, so I gave up and twisted it into a messy bun, securing it with a pencil since I couldn't find any proper hair ties.
I recalled getting lost the previous night before, I swung open the door and thankfully requested the staff to guide me to breakfast.
The morning room, it turned out, was precisely what it sounded like—a sun-drenched space with windows facing east, decorated in cheerful yellows and whites that should have been welcoming but somehow felt like a stage set for a play I didn't know the lines to.
Edward was already there.
He sat ramrod straight at the head of the table, reading what looked like the Financial Times with the same focused intensity most people reserved for holy scriptures. He'd traded his rumpled shirt from last night for a crisp, white button-down, and navy tie, looking every inch the powerful lawyer.
The only hint that he wasn't completely composed was the way his left hand gripped his coffee cup—tight enough that I worried he might shatter the delicate porcelain.
I hesitated in the doorway, suddenly wishing I'd faked a stomach bug.
"Good morning," Edward said without looking up from his paper. His voice carried that same careful politeness from our introduction, as if nothing had happened between us. As if I hadn't been sprawled across his bed like a pin-up calendar.
"Morning," I managed, sliding into the seat furthest from him. The table could have seated the entire cast of Dallas, but somehow the distance felt like nothing. "Daphne still doing her morning yoga pretzel impressions?"
"She'll be back for lunch." He turned a page with precise movements. "Mrs. Worthington thought you might prefer a proper English breakfast to start your day."
As if summoned, a middle-aged woman in a gray uniform appeared with a steaming plate that could have fed half of Texas. Eggs, bacon, sausages, grilled tomatoes, mushrooms, black pudding, and beans. Enough cholesterol to stop a horse's heart.
"This is... substantial," I said, picking up a fork.
"I imagine breakfast in Texas is quite different." Edward's eyes flicked up to meet mine over the newspaper.
There was something in his tone—not quite condescending, but close enough to prickle.
I lifted my chin. "Honey, you haven't lived until you've had my Mama's biscuits swimming in gravy. Makes this look like health food."
A ghost of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth before vanishing. "Indeed."
We lapsed into silence, broken only by the gentle clink of cutlery and the rustle of newspaper pages. I tried to focus on my food, but every sip of his coffee, every small movement, seemed magnified in the charged air between us. When he reached for the marmalade, our eyes met again, and I nearly choked on a piece of bacon.
"Are you quite alright?" His concern sounded genuine, but there was something else there too—awareness, maybe?
"Fine," I squeaked, grabbing my tea. "Just went down the wrong way."
He studied me for a moment longer than necessary before returning to his paper. I caught myself staring at his hands—long, elegant fingers wrapped around his cup, the way his thumb traced absently along the rim. Did he know he was doing that? Did he know what it was doing to my already overactive imagination?
This is ridiculous.I was a grown woman, not some teenager with a crush on the school heartthrob. I needed to act like it.