A murmur goes around the room.
“To help prepare,” he adds cheerfully, “there will be an optional dance lesson at ten a.m. sharp in the Music Room.”
Optional.
Which, let’s be honest, means mandatory, especially if you’re me and your last attempt at choreography involved tequila and a broken heel.
“For those wishing to continue the evening, the library will be open for after-dinner drinks. If you prefer to retire early, room keys are available at Reception in the East Wing.”
He beams like this announcement alone deserves a standing ovation.
I waste no time. If I can get to bed without another scandal, I’ll call it a win.
Chapter 4
Bread, Butter and Buttocks
Hayley
Iweave through the crowd and practically sprint for Reception. I need my bed. I need it now.
The East Wing is colder, quieter, all ancient stone and flickering wall lamps. The kind of place that feels less romantic country house and more opening scene of a bad horror film.
“Hayley Price,” I pant at the receptionist, who looks one lukewarm cup of Earl Grey away from faking her own death.
She hands me a heavy iron key tied with, naturally, a delicate lace ribbon. Because apparently even the furniture here is contractually obliged to stay in character.
I’m just about to make my escape when…
“Ah, so this is where you ran off to in such a hurry.”
I close my eyes. Nope.
Nope, nope, nope.
I turn slowly, like maybe if I move at glacial speed he’ll vanish out of sheer boredom.
No such luck.
Tyler is leaning against the far wall, key in hand, ribbon dangling from his knuckles, looking like a fantasy cover model who wandered out of someone’s very hormonal daydream.
“I was just getting my key,” I say, way too defensive for a woman holding a piece of metal with ribbon on it.
“Same.” He shrugs, glances at his tag. “Room 7.”
I check mine.
Room 6. Of course. Of fucking course.
Because obviously fate looked at today, the boob escape, the seafood porn, the toilet paper tail, and thought, you know what this disaster needs?
Shared plumbing.
Tyler smirks, the kind of smirk that should come with a hazard warning and its own evacuation plan.
“Sleep well,” he says, tipping an imaginary hat with unnecessary theatrical flair before strolling towards the staircase as if destiny itself were rolling out a red carpet.
I glare at my oversized bag. Then at the stairs. I take two determined steps. My dress, now serving as both parachuteand ankle manacle, grips tighter than a toddler with separation anxiety and I lurch sideways, narrowly avoiding a face-plant into a decorative suit of armour, which I immediately call a very rude name.
