Page 167 of Dare to Love Me

It’s pathetic.

But my traitorous nervous system has already committed to this spiral, and there’s fuck all I can do about it.

Dark hair? Broad shoulders? Heart spike. Reality check. Heart drop. Rinse and repeat until Daisy is reduced to a skittish mess.

I am actively scanning the room for a man who never even considered I might be here.

But wait—I’m just at a work thing, right? And so is he. So what if they happen to be the same work thing?

It’s hardly a big deal.

I shouldn’t feel so anxious.

Mike’s hand rests lightly against my lower back as he guides us toward the bar. “Bloody hell,” he mutters, scanning the scene. “They’ve gone all out, haven’t they?”

I let out a weird, sharp laugh—pure nerves. Nothing funny about it.

He squints at me, smirking. “Must say, Wilson, you’re very jittery this evening. Is it nerves at being in my devastatingly handsome company?” His smirk deepens. “Because you know I’m a sure thing—no need to impress me.”

I roll my eyes, forcing a smirk. “Yes, I know you’re a sure thing. And no, I’m not jittery. I’m fine.”

Massive fucking lie.

“Hmm.” His eyebrows climb. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you had a line in the bathroom and didn’t share the fun.”

I snort. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’ve just had a long week and am a bit out of it.”

“Well then, that calls for shots.” He steers me toward the bar. “Besides, I don’t trust a room full of people who looklike they don’t know how to have fun. We’re going to need reinforcements.”

My fingers won’t stop trembling as I fiddle with my dress strap, broadcasting my anxiety to the world.

The crowd is exactly what I expected—men in black tie, women in tasteful evening gowns. I stand out in my dress—tight, daring, no bra to be found. Men are looking at me.

I let out a jagged breath. This was the plan, wasn’t it? If Edward is here, then I’m going to make sure he notices only me.

Come on, Daisy, grow some lady balls, for crying out loud.

Mike leans in close as he flags down the tequila, flashing that cheeky grin of his. “Gotta say, I was over the moon when you roped me into this little date night.”

“It’s not a date,” I shoot back.

He slaps a hand to his chest, mock-wounded. “Ouch, Wilson. Straight to the heart.”

The bartender slides our shots across, and I grab the salt, exhaling hard. “Let’s just drink, yeah?”

“Fine by me,” he says, raising his glass. “To us—the only two in this room who look like they actually know how to have fun.”

I nod, but it’s half-hearted. My eyes are darting around, scanning the crowd like some desperate detective. Because those eyes—those deep, gorgeous blue ones I’d know anywhere? They’re nowhere.

Edward isn’t here.

Two hours into this endless night, and I’ve lost track of how many times I’ve looped this damn conference hall. Probably a dozen, if Mike’s increasingly dramatic sighs are any clue.

My heels are actively assaulting my feet, my g-string’s wedged so far up my ass it’s practically flossing my brain, and my palms are so clammy I’m half tempted to wipe them on the next posh git who brushes past.

I’m dead certain now: if Edward were here, I’d have spotted him.

There are hundreds of people packed into this space, but I’ve been circling for so long I’m recognizing faces now—the guy with the bad comb-over by the bar, the woman in peacock blue who keeps checking her phone. And then there’s this poor sod with a smear of canapé—salmon mousse, I reckon—stuck to his forehead, everyone sidestepping him too politely to say a word, leaving him blissfully unaware he’s a walking buffet.