Page 60 of Dare to Love Me

God give me strength.

I suppress the overwhelming urge to groan and instead drain the remainder of my drink. If I were with Liam, we’d be dissecting the nuances of the upcoming election or something equally sane, instead of debating inane hypotheticals that make me question the evolutionary purpose of my prefrontal cortex.

“Hang on—are we calling Croydon a dealbreaker now?” Daisy laughs. “I’m pretty sure my postcode is the least of my dating concerns. I’ll take the barista.”

“Yeah, but which one’s hotter?” Sophia giggles.

“Someone put me out of my misery,” Giles mutters beside me. Finally, someone speaking sense.

“Edward?” Imogen turns to me. “You’ve been awfully quiet. You must think we’re completely mad with all these silly games.”

I muster a grim smile. “Hypothetical marriage scenarios aren’t my area of expertise. Though,purelyfrom a medical standpoint, halitosis is often indicative of underlying health issues a castle in Wales won’t remedy. And selecting a partner based on their coffee-making abilities suggests, frankly, troubling levels of caffeine dependency.”

“And,” I continue, because apparently, I’m incapable of leaving it there, “the premise lacks crucial data points. Are we assuming the duke’s halitosis is treatable, or is it chronic? Has the barista’s dental perfection been verified by a licensed orthodontist, or are we just trusting whatever nonsense they’ve slapped on their Tinder profile? And, crucially”—I glance around at their expectant faces—“haveanyof you been to Croydon recently? It’s undergone significant urban renewal. Property values are on the rise.”

There’s a beat of silence, during which I hope—pray—that I’ve finally killed this ridiculous game.

But no. The group erupts into laughter.

I’m not sure whether I’m being funny or if this is simply what happens when you force a surgeon to engage in social activities against his better judgment.

“Edward,” Sophia says, swatting my arm, “you’re overthinking this just atad. It’s supposed to be fun.”

“Itisa little immature,” Imogen agrees, as she gives me what I assume she believes to be a seductive smile. As if I’ve just delivered a Shakespearean sonnet instead of questioning the dental qualifications of an imaginary barista.

I suspect she’s misinterpreting my exasperation as flirtation. It’s not the first time this weekend.

“It’s not exactly my usual type of game,” I say, managing a tight-lipped smile. “And . . . it’s been a long week.”

“Oh, of course!” Imogen leans in closer, her voice syrupy. “I can’t imagine how exhausting it must be, holding lives in your hands like that. The responsibility, the pressure—it’s just . . .” She trails off, staring at me like she expects me to whip out a scalpel and perform emergency surgery right here by the fire.

Her expression is full of some cinematic fantasy version of me: the gallant surgeon, saving lives by day, sweeping women off their feet by night.

Reality, of course, is less glamorous. The most romantic thing I’ve done all week was help a pensioner unload her groceries.

“It takes an entire team,” I say. “My most complicated case this week involved three nurses, two anesthetists, and one particularly tenacious administrator who seemed to believe budget meetings were more important than the actual surgery taking place.”

“You’re too modest!” Imogen says. “The importance of what you do—it must be overwhelming.”

Beside her, Daisy rolls her eyes.

Our gazes lock.

She looks away first, color creeping up her neck, then turns back to Imogen with such deliberate focus, one might think eye contact with me hadphysicallyburned her.

She’s been . . . different tonight. More flustered than usual, perhaps from the wine. Or perhaps . . .

No. That’s my own guilty conscience projecting.

There’s no way she could look at me andknow.

No way she couldpossiblyknow that I’ve been thinking about her in ways Ishould not be thinking.

That I’ve been behaving like a bloody degenerate.

“I don’t want to inflate his ego even more,” Giles cuts in with a grin, mercifully interrupting my train of thought. “But yeah, seeing Edward in action . . . it’s something else. If I’m half the surgeon he is, I’ll count myself lucky.”

“You’ll surpass me soon enough,” I say, clapping his shoulder lightly. “But I appreciate the vote of confidence.”