Page 39 of Dare to Love Me

“Shit,” he says again, quieter this time. “I’m sorry, Daisy. Honestly. But . . . yeah.”

I hang up before I say something I can’t take back.

Sniffling, I trudge back toward the campsite entrance, kicking at clumps of grass like they’ve betrayed me personally.

“Daisy?”

That voice—deep, steady, unmistakable—stops me cold. Of course Edward Cavendish shows up now.

I swipe at my face in a futile attempt to hide the evidence of my breakdown, but let’s be honest—there’s no coming back from blotchy cheeks and snotty sniffles.

He’s still in his work shirt, the crisp white fabric slightly creased from what was obviously a long day. And yet, despite everything—my brain takes a moment to notice the way it stretches across his broad shoulders and how his sleeves are rolled up just enough to expose forearms that belong in . . . I don’t know,medical erotica?

“You wore a suit to a campground?” I blurt, my voice wobbly and weirdly accusatory.

One dark brow lifts. “No. I wore a suit to work, took my morning meetings, scrubbed in at dawn to perform an emergency bowel resection, removed a gallbladder and then an appendix, explained to a patient why they can’t actually keep their appendix as a souvenir, and as a result didn’t have time to change before arriving at this . . .” He glances at the campsite. “. . . charming retreat.”

Well, okay then.

His gaze drifts over me, taking in every blotchy inch of my face.

“What’s going on?” he asks, stepping closer. “The others said you’d been gone a while sorting accommodation.”

“I just . . .” I sniffle. “I messed up.”

His frown deepens. “How exactly?”

I stare at his shoes—fancy leather, now smudged with mud, another victim of my chaos. “I booked the wrong tents,” I mutter, mostly to the ground.

There’s a beat of silence.

“I see,” he says slowly. “And that warranted tears because . . . ?”

“It’s bad,” I huff. “Like, really bad.”

He studies me, his face blank. I brace myself for some cutting remark about my obvious incompetence.

Instead, he does something entirely unexpected.

His hand hovers for a brief second and then gently brushes a stray tear off my cheek with the pad of his thumb.

I still, caught somewhere between wanting to sink into the earth and leaning into the warmth of his touch.

“Oopsie Daisy has done it again,” I mumble, voice thick. “As your uncle Bernard would say.”

“Show me.”

With a sigh heavy enough to knock over a small donkey, I turn and trudge toward the dorm tent.

Edward follows, stopping just inside the entrance. He folds his arms, leaning against the frame as he takes it all in—the endless rows of single beds, the distinct school-trip horror of it all.

The silence is agonizing.

“It’s bad, right?” I ask, sneaking a nervous glance at him.

“No,” he says at last, his tone so dry I almost miss the sarcasm. “I can’t possibly imagine a more delightful sleeping arrangement. What man in his late thirties wouldn’t jump at the chance to spend the night crammed into a tent with his younger sister’s friends? It’s . . . fantastic.”

A laugh spills out of me—choked but grateful. His sarcasm stings just enough to make it funny, and somehow, that helps.