Page 43 of Dare to Love Me

“Just not used to seeing you all casual,” she teases, twirling a loose thread on one of the blankets. “I’m so used to the tuxedos and tailored suits.”

“My glamping tuxedo is currently at the dry cleaners,” I reply dryly, settling into the seat across from her. The campfire crackles between us—a welcome buffer against the disconcerting effect she seems to have on my composure. “Along with my hiking three-piece and my wilderness bow tie collection.”

She lifts a brow, smirking at my remarks. All right, that was snarkier than usual for me.

The others start trickling out of their tents while Daisy leaps up—way too enthusiastically—to grab the cooler.

“Drinks, everyone!” she calls out, already in her element, playing bartender. If Daisy Wilson were an element, it’d be chaos—loud, wild, uncontainable.

She saunters over, beer in hand, flashing that grin that always means trouble’s coming. I shake my head before she even opens her mouth.

“Aren’t you drinking?” she asks, somehow turning it into an accusation.

“I’ve got work to finish tonight. A paper that needs my focus.”

“Seriously?” Sophia groans. “You’re working?”

“Afraid so. I’ve got a deadline.”

“Come on,” Daisy says, her smile widening as she nudges the bottle toward me. “What’s this world-changing paper they can’t wait a few days for?”

I exhale through my nose, already regretting the answer. “A submission for theBritish Journal of Surgery. ‘Optimizing Outcomes in Complex Laparoscopic Anterior Resection.’”

She blinks, hazel eyes widening like saucers. “Wow.” Then she laughs.

“What’s so amusing, Daisy?”

She shakes her head in mock disbelief, dark hair spilling over one shoulder. “This is what you do on a Friday night? While the rest of us are drinking wine, you’re optimizing . . . whatever you just said.”

“I have responsibilities.”

“You know, most people would consider relaxing by the fire a responsibility too. It’s called enjoying life.”

I inhale slowly, summoning patience. “I relax in my own ways.”

“Reading medical journals doesn’t count.”

“You’ll have more fun without me cramping your style,” I say, aiming for finality.

“That’s not true, Doctor Grump.” Her voice softens. “Come on.”

I hesitate. My eyes catch hers in the firelight, the glow flickering across her face. “Fine. One drink.”

She hands me a beer, looking far too pleased with herself, as if coaxing me into accepting it has been some great victory. Perhaps it has.

I mutter something vaguely noncommittal and take a large sip.

“There’s nothing to do,” Imogen whines, sinking further into her chair with all the grace of a petulant child. For someone soobjectively attractive, she has an uncanny ability to irritate the hell out of me.

“That’s the beauty of glamping,” Daisy says, her face lighting up with enthusiasm. “There’s nothing to do. It’s all about soaking in the outdoors, reflecting, chilling by the fire. We can tell stories, talk about our hopes and dreams.”

“Our hopes and dreams?” Hugo looks mildly horrified. “I’m an accountant.”

“And I flog garden tools to creepy weirdos at one a.m.” She lets out a dramatic sigh. “We’ve all got dreams!”

Her laugh rolls through the group like a wave. I glance away, determined to ignore the way the sound tugs at the corners of my mouth.

“Okay, how about some games?” she suggests.