Page 141 of Dare to Love Me

It’s just a stupid argument. We’re fine.

But still, something gnaws at me.

Edward isn’t Charlie—I know that.

But maybe he has his own way of making me a dirty little secret.

CHAPTER 34

Daisy

I’m standing in frontof a dramatic painting of a girl clutching a suitcase in London in the 18th century. There’s an older woman eyeing her up. To the side, a grubby man in a hat is visibly leering, while a mangy dog sniffs at her skirts

I shift on my feet, trying to look cultured.

I am absolutely a chav.

Edward, meanwhile, is thriving.

“The depth of symbolism here is extraordinary,” he murmurs, as if he’s forgotten who he’s talking to. “Look at the way the fabric gathers, the stark contrast between light and shadow. Exquisite, isn’t it?”

I nod solemnly, trying to summon the intellectual energy of Amal Clooney. What would she say?

Something clever about . . . light?

“Mm-hmm” is my brilliant contribution.

Edward is still talking, saying words like “composition” and “historical context.” I wonder if Amal ever stands in galleries thinking about what she’s going to have for dinner? Because I’m currently invested in whether we should get chips on the way home.

His gaze sharpens, narrowing slightly. “Daisy, I’m boring you.”

Fuck.

“What? You areNOT,” I say instantly.

His lips twitch.

I scan the room like my life depends on it. “I adore some of these pieces.”

“Is that so? Which is your favorite?”

I point to a painting in the far corner—a naked bloke who’s sprawled across the canvas like he’s auditioning forLove Island: Renaissance Edition. All golden curls and come-hither eyes, with his bum positioned at what can only be described as maximum dramatic impact. “Him. I like him.”

Edward looks over, then back at me, his expression somewhere between amused and unsurprised. “Really? And what, exactly, do you like about that painting?”

Channel Amal. Something about composition or perspective or . . .

“The artist’s masterful grasp of . . . anatomical . . . things. The way he’s captured the, um, classical form.” My brain betrays me. “Also his bum looks like two perfectly risen soufflés and I haven’t had lunch.”

Edward makes this strangled sound, like he’s physically wrestling a laugh back down his throat.

“Your artistic analysis is . . . in-depth.” He plants an amused kiss on my forehead. “Come on, let’s get you fed.”

“No,” I protest, determined to prove I can be cultured for more than thirty consecutive seconds. “I want you to enjoy this. We’veonly been here—” I check my phone and internally scream. “Fifty minutes.”

Fuck me.

Edward huffs a laugh that’s way too knowing.