Page 47 of Dare to Love Me

She huffs, unimpressed. “Oh, you poor, closed-minded man. Just because you can’t see the energy doesn’t mean it isn’t there.” She pauses, her gaze trailing over me with zero subtlety. “Although I must say, you’re radiating quite a bit of intense energy right now.”

My grip tightens around my towel.

“What you’re observing,” I say through gritted teeth, “has nothing to do with chakras and everything to do with the fact that I’m standing here in a towel while you’re discussing pseudo-scientific nonsense at seven in the morning.”

“Ooh, your aura just went very red.”

“That’s not my aura, that’s my rapidly depleting patience.”

“No wonder you’re so uptight. Your energy centers are probably all constipated.”

“My energy centers,” I say, inhaling sharply, “are not constipated.”

“That’s exactly what someone with constipated chakras would say.” She shifts her weight, and her shorts ride up another impossible inch.

Good lord.

If my colleagues could see me now, arguing about spiritual constipation while wrestling the start of the most inconvenient erection of my life.

“Daisy, I deal in facts, not . . .” I gesture vaguely at the patch of grass she has apparently declared holy ground. “This. This is complete nonsense.”

Her expression falters, and I catch a flicker of hurt.

A pang of guilt rises in me. I shove it down. I am not about to abandon scientific principles because Daisy Wilson has large, imploring eyes.

“You’re not going to convince me to swap science for fairy tales,” I say, adjusting my grip on the towel, “no matter how persuasive your ‘chakra alignment’ routine sounds.”

She rolls her eyes, though they can’t seem to decide where to land—my chest, my face, or . . . lower. “Grip that towel any tighter and you’ll shred it to pieces.”

Her smirk is infuriating. For once, I’d like to put Daisy Wilson in her place.

“Would you prefer I let go?”

I loosen my grip. Slightly. Just enough.

Her eyes widen, that smart mouth of hers suddenly . . . silent.

All that bravado dissolving like morning mist.

I chuckle. “Don’t answer that. I’m kidding.”

The flush on her cheeks betrays her, though she recovers quickly. “God, you’re so uptight,” she says, stretching with exaggerated nonchalance. “Don’t you ever want to just . . . let go? Take your shoes off, dance in the grass? Feel free?”

“I didn’t even want to dance at my own wedding. So no, I don’t feel any compelling urge to frolic barefoot through the fields. And I’m rather surprised you’re even vertical this morning, given your appreciation of that inferior rosé last night.”

She huffs, as if I’ve insulted her character as much as her choice of wine. “That just proves reiki works. I feel fine. What are you doing up so early anyway?”

“I went for a run.”

“Impressive. How far?”

“Five miles. I’m a creature of habit. It’s what I do every Saturday morning. Campsite or not.”

“Glampsite.Notcampsite.” Her lips curve into a sly grin, the mischief returning to her eyes. “And you write medical papers on Friday nights. Glampsite or not.”

My eyebrows twitch. The way she says it makes me sound like a boring old man.

Perhaps she has a point.