Page 53 of Dare to Love Me

Then he climbed out of the water, and I nearly lost my mind.

Those thighs. Wet fabric clinging in all the right places, muscles flexing as he hauled himself onto the dock. I almost drowned from the sheer horniness of it all.

And let’s just say there’s serious evidence of something impressive going on down there, if you know what I mean.

If he’d quit scowling for half a minute, he might be devastatingly handsome.

When I get home, I’m going to have the kind of wank marathon that’ll break my vibrator.

I probably need another glass of rosé. Or the entire bottle. Anything to stop obsessing over the way those droplets of water werecascadingdown Edward’s abs like they were in a race to see which one could torment me the most.

I shouldn’t evenbethirsting after the eldest Cavendish. But apparently, my libido didn’t get the memo.

It’s the sternness. It’s doing unspeakable things to me. He definitely shags like he swims: precise, focused, makes a plan andexecutes.

Christ alive, I need to lie down. Face down.

This is just a stupid, hormone-fueled crush, obviously. I want what I can’t have.

I try to shake it off, stretching out in my deck chair. A sting shoots through my foot—blister, courtesy of the lake’s charming little bastard rocks.

Right on cue, the camp organizer from last night comes strolling past. “Afternoon, folks!” he says.

My lips press into a thin line. Oh, I remember this guy. The guy who refused to upgrade us from dorm beds. Ten minutes alonewith the eldest Cavendish, and voilà, we had tents. Because apparently, the world just bends over for Edward Cavendish. It’s insulting, honestly.

“We’re roasting a pig in the main tent,” he announces proudly.

Imogen visibly recoils, her nose wrinkling like someone just suggested she eat roadkill. “You mean, like . . . we’re allsharingone pig?”

From his camp chair, Giles lets out a booming laugh, shaking his head. “Yeah, Imogen, that’s exactly how it works. We’re all fighting over one pig. You don’t get your own private porker.” He unfolds himself and stretches. “Come on, I’m starving.”

I grimace, my stomach tightening at the mention of roasted anything. “I’m vegetarian,” I mutter, more to myself than anyone else.

My eyes drift toward the food tent, clinging to a shred of hope. Surely, they’ll have some sad little salad or at least a lonely piece of bread to keep me alive through the evening.

“Would you look at that bloody queue,” Giles mutters. “We’ll be scraping the bottom of the barrel by the time we get anywhere near that pig.”

He’s not wrong. The queue for roasted pig is already a full-on feeding frenzy, with the Manchester group—who I’m 80 percent sure snagged our communal tents—leading the charge like it’s a Black Friday sale on bacon.

Hugo peers into the cooler and lets out a sharp curse. “We’re nearly out of booze. Are we seriously doing dinner sober?”

“Edward’s got whiskey in his tent,” Sophia chimes in. “Good stuff too—some fancy batch from his mate Patrick’s distillery in Scotland. Someone should grab it.”

No one volunteers to grab it. They’re too busy legging it toward the pig tent in a feral stampede, driven by some primal lust for charred pork. Even Imogen—Miss “Ew, Communal Meat”herself—is sprinting over in her pristine trainers, dignity be damned.

That leaves . . . me. The lone vegetarian.

Posh or common, meat-eaters are all the same. The second someone mentions roasted animals, it’s every man—or woman—for themselves.

With a sigh, I turn toward Edward’s tent. He’s been AWOL for a while now—something about a work call, then a shower after the lake. Maybe he’s just avoiding us entirely.

I slow as I approach, the tent flap fluttering lightly in the breeze. Hesitating, I chew the inside of my cheek. Do I just . . . walk in? What’s the worst that could happen? After accidentally ending up naked in his bed, barging into his tent feels almost tame.

I nudge the flap aside and peek in. Yep, exactly as I’d pictured.

Where my own tent resembles a crime scene, Edward’s is a meticulous masterpiece. His bedroll is smoothed and tucked. His duffel bag is zipped tight, no errant socks or rogue shirts daring to spill out. Even his travel-sized toiletry kit looks smugly superior.

As I step inside, expensive cologne—woodsy and warm, with an undercurrent of something masculine—floods my senses. How does someone evensmellthis good in the middle of nowhere? The nerve of him.