Tyler, halfway up the first flight, pauses. Sees me. Sees the struggle.
With a sigh heavy enough to register on the Richter scale, he stalks back down, grabs the bag like it’s filled with feathers, and slings it onto his shoulder.
“Seriously,” I huff, stumbling after him, tripping over my hem again, “this dress is trying to assassinate me.”
“Yes, and it’s winning, isn’t it?” He chuckles without breaking stride.
“And that dinner was a lie.”
“Excuse me?”
“It was just leaves. And a gelatinous fish blob. I need actual carbs before I start hallucinating bread rolls.”
He laughs again under his breath but keeps climbing, annoyingly steady while I’m clinging to the banister like I’m scaling Everest.
“Just once,” I mutter, “I’d like to attend a wedding where I’m not in a stupid costume, underfed, and one breath away from a full-body wedgie.”
We reach the second floor.
Tyler deposits my bag neatly outside Room 6 like a reluctant bellboy. “There. Delivered safely to your chamber,” he says, complete with an obnoxious bow.
“You’re a strange sort of arsehole,” I mutter, fumbling for my key and immediately trying to jam the wrong end into the lock.
“I try my best.”
He smirks, because of course he does, then turns and heads back down the stairs, retreating, tight arse and all, a view so spectacular it should be listed as a miracle by the Vatican.
Honestly, why is it that every man with a face sculpted by angels has the personality of a minor demon? Like there’s some universal law: hot equals arsehole. And Tyler Ashford? Definitely Exhibit A.
I blink after him. Probably off to find the nearest bar and a more willing bridesmaid.
“Goodnight then,” I add, far too late, shoving my door open and stumbling inside.
The room smells faintly of old wood polish and lavender, the kind of scent that screams historic charm but really just makes you think someone probably died here. Heavy curtains hang over leaded windows, and the bed is a four-poster monstrosity with a canopy so ridiculous it belongs in a pantomime.
Then I spot it. My only hope. A roll-top bath. In the actual bedroom.
Just sitting there, glinting under the chandelier like a porcelain siren calling me toward alcohol and very bad decisions.
I groan and face-plant onto the bed like someone unplugged me from the mains of human energy. Motionless. Flattened. Defeated. A few minutes later, there’s a knock at the door.
I groan into the mattress. “IT’S OPEN!”
If it’s another actor here to offer me tepid tea and a polite death glare, I’m throwing myself out the window. More likely it’s Lily, sweeping in dramatically to monologue her happiness like a Brontë heroine.
The door creaks open. Footsteps. Then his voice, low, smug, and unbearably entertained:
“On the bed already for me?”
I turn my head just enough to glare through a veil of crushed pillow.
Tyler is leaning against the doorframe, looking far too pleased with himself, the lamplight catching on the sharp angles of his jaw and the kind of tousled dark hair that somehow makes him look even more annoyingly attractive.
And in this light, I finally see it properly, the full Ryan Gosling-level handsomeness. Strong features. Ridiculously blue eyes. The kind of smile that probably got girls suspended from sixth form for inappropriate daydreaming.
Exactly my type.
Unfortunately.
