Page 80 of Dare to Love Me

“And those condolences justhappento come with eligible daughters? How generous of them.”

I ignore her smug expression and nod at her glass. “I’m fairly certain wine isn’t standard for reflecting in church.”

Her grin widens, unrepentant as she gives the glass a theatrical swirl. “Depends on what you’re reflecting on. Besides, I didn’t spot any ‘no booze’ signs. I thought your god was supposed to be all-forgiving.”

“Mygod?” I echo, amused.

She flaps a hand toward the altar. “You know—all this. You’re religious, aren’t you?”

“Not particularly. Medical training doesn’t leave much room for blind faith. I assume, given the way you’ve just handed him over to me, you’re not, either.”

“No,” she says, though there’s a hesitation. “But I believe in . . . spirituality. Something bigger than ourselves. Like energy in the trees. Nature. Us.”

“Sounds like you’d make an impressive Wiccan,” I say dryly. “Worshipping the moon and hugging trees.”

Her face tightens, lips pressing into that familiar line that tells me I’ve overstepped. “I’m not having this conversation with you just so you can make it sound stupid. Again.”

Perhaps I’m pushing too far on this one.

I soften my tone. “All right. What started all this, then? This . . . spiritual journey of yours.”

The defensiveness in her eyes dims, giving way to something unguarded. “When Mum was sick we both got into it. Reiki, mostly. And it doesn’t matter if it’s real or not—it made usfeelbetter. And there’s something real in that, yeah?” She glances at me, eyes sharp, daring me to challenge her. “And I don’t need you coming along and tearing it to pieces.”

Her words land with unexpected force, and something twists in my chest—guilt, unwelcome but deserved.

Christ, you really can be an absolute bastard sometimes.

“I’m sorry,” I say, the apology coming out stiff. “I didn’t mean to upset you—not at the glamping, not now.”

Her eyes narrow, and she studies me as though deciding whether to accept the apology. “Good,” she says, her voice clipped. “You deserve a scolding.”

I lift my hands in mock surrender. “Noted. And, deserved.”

“Yes, it was.”

“Look, I genuinely am sorry.”

“Fine,” she mutters.

“It’s fine,” I echo, catching the edge in her voice. “But I suspect you’ve got more to say. Would you like to continue your scolding?”

Her chin juts out, defiant. “Yes, actually.”

“Well then,” I say, unable to suppress a flicker of amusement. “By all means—proceed with your worst.”

She doesn’t even pause.

“You can be such a smug, know-it-all jerk sometimes. You look at me like I’m some sort of idiot. Sure, sometimes you swoop in and do something sweet, like saving me from my glamping catastrophe—but most of the time, I feel like I’m just Silly Daisy to you. A bloodyjoke.”

Though I can’t say her words are all that surprising, they still land with the weight of a well-aimed punch.

I shift in the pew, turning to face her fully. “Daisy. I don’t think that. I know I can be arrogant—more often than I’d like—but I’ve never looked down on you. Where the hell is this coming from?”

She turns too, squaring her shoulders, locking eyes with me. “Oh, please. Don’t pretend you don’t think I’m a bad influence on Sophia.”

“Sometimes, I do,” I admit, seeing no point sugarcoating it. “You lead her astray occasionally—”

Her eyes narrow.