Page 32 of Dare to Love Me

“Daisy!” Sophia jumps up, pulling me into a warm hug.

“I’m so sorry about last night,” I mumble into her shoulder. “I shouldn’t have bailed. It was rude.”

“It’s fine,” she says, but the slight tightness in her smile suggests it’s notentirelyfine.

“You feeling better?” Imogen asks, her tone hovering somewhere between concern and a subtle jab. “We were all so worried when you . . . disappeared.” The way she lingers ondisappearedmakes it sound like I’ve committed a heinous crime against bridesmaids everywhere.

“Yeah,” I say. “Probably just the train ride from London. I get a bit travel sick sometimes.”

Their polite smiles hit harder than if they’d just called me out on the flimsy lie.

“Isn’t this nice?” Sophia says brightly, clearly eager to move past it. “All the bridesmaids together.”

Imogen sets down her glossy bridal magazine. “We were just discussing plans for the hen party.”

“That sounds great.” I smile. “Like, uh, a nice meal and a nightclub after, or something?”

Imogen lets out a tinkling laugh. “Sophia’s only tying the knot once. I was imagining something a bit grander—like that gorgeous château in Provence where Daddy threw his sixtieth.”Her eyes go dreamy, like she’s already draped in silk, sipping the good stuff while a chiseled Frenchman hand-feeds her grapes. “Or there’s that spa in Iceland, carved into a glacier. Sunrise yoga on the ice, then mimosas in the hot springs. It’s utterly transcendent.”

I nod stiffly through the mental maths of how much aglacier retreatis going to cost me—and trying not to choke on the irony of hearing “transcendent” and “hen party” in the same sentence.

Is this what rich people do instead of chugging bad wine through penis straws in a sticky club?

Sophia laughs, but I see the telltaleHelp melook creeping into her eyes. “That sounds lovely,” she says diplomatically, “but honestly, I think I’d rather keep things a bit more low-key. Maybe stay closer to home? I’m already so nervous about everything, planning an overseas trip might push me over the edge.”

Relief floods through me, and I nod a little too eagerly. “How about a cozy country house for the weekend? Or a spa day nearby? Low-key, no fuss, no passports.”

Imogen’s face twitches—her Icelandic fantasy melting away—but she rallies fast. “Of course, darling. Whatever you want. I’ll come up with some ideas and take care of everything. You won’t have to worry about a thing. You’ve been such a sweetheart to me all these years—it’s the least I can do.”

Hang on.

Isn’t thatmyjob?

I’m the maid of honor here.

Sophia’s done so much formeover the years, more than I could ever repay on my measly BritShop salary.

When I first landed in London, she let me bunk at her Hampstead flat, no questions asked. She’s spoiled me with sweet, thoughtful gifts and dragged me to concerts I’d never have splurged on myself. And what’s my grand gesture inreturn? Scrapbooks stuffed with goofy pics and sloppy poems I drunkenly composed after one too many G&Ts. They’re heartfelt, sure, but they’re not exactly diamond-studded tokens of gratitude.

This was supposed to be my chance to prove how much she means to me, especially after I made a total ass of myself storming out of her engagement party last night.

“I can handle it,” I blurt out. “I mean, it’s my responsibility, right? Maid of honor and all that.” I dart a glance at Sophia, silently willing her to throw me a lifeline.Please believe in me, even if I don’t right now.

Imogen’s smile tightens. “Only if you’re sure.”

Oh, she wants my job. She’s not even hiding it.

“Absolutely,” I chirp, matching her energy, because if I back down now, I might as well hand over my maid-of-honor sash and let her start planning the ice-glacier-champagne-spiritual-awakening.

Sophia’s gaze bounces between us, her brow creasing slightly.

“I only want something low-key anyway,” she says. “And honestly, girls, Daisy always comes up with the most fun things to do. When we were growing up, she had us doing the most amazing things, and they were all so simple.”

That’s what happens when you’re broke: you get crafty with twigs, tape, and a questionable sense of adventure.

“Don’t worry, Soph. I’ve got this. Actually,” I add, an idea sparking out of sheer panic, “my flatmate Jamie is an events manager, and he’s always raving about these incredible weekend getaways. Something unique, off the beaten track.”

Imogen’s lips twitch—just for a split second, but I catch it. “Well, I’m sure it’ll be . . . fabulous,” she says.