Connor
I woke up on Thursday with the kind of knot in my stomach that had nothing to do with rugby and everything to do with the fact that Edward was planning to fly the helicopter to London today.
The bedroom was warm with July light cutting across the duvet in pale stripes, and the air smelled like vetiver and black pepper and vanilla because Davies had finally gotten the scent diffusers right for the master.
Edward was awake beside me, propped up on one elbow, scrolling through his phone with that look he gets when he's either reading the news or planning something I'm not going to like. "Morning, love," he said without looking up. "Big day."
"Don't start," I muttered into the pillow, because if he used that cheerful voice I was going to throw a pillow at him.
"Don't start what?" he asked, all innocence.
"Don't pretend this is a normal Thursday."
