But that’s not even the sexiest part right now.
No, the sexiest part is this: he’s not empty-handed.
In one hand, a plate piled like a Renaissance banquet with thick slices of rustic bread, and butter slabs big enough to frighten a cardiologist.
In the other, a glass of whisky large enough to fell a small horse.
“I believe someone was carb-deprived,” he says casually.
I blink. Then blink again.
“Is… is that bread and cheese?”
He grins. “Don’t say I never do anything nice for you.”
Suspicious, I push myself upright on the bed, arms wobbling like Bambi on ice.
“Whyareyou being nice?” I narrow my eyes at him.
“A peace offering. You looked five minutes away from either passing out or starting a small, carb-related riot. Plus…” his smirk tilts, “…if you faint tomorrow, I’ll be forced to rescue you. In front of witnesses. Again.”
The reminder of earlier, my accidental floor dive and subsequent boob escape, makes me groan into my hands.
“Fair point,” I mumble.
Tyler steps forward, placing the plate and glass carefully on the bedside table like he’s laying tribute at the feet of a hangry empress.
I don’t wait for further discussion. I lunge for the bread with the desperation of a Victorian orphan. Smiling faintly, he turns to leave.
At the door, he glances back over his shoulder. “Sleep well, Hayley,” he says, voice softer than I expected.
Then he’s gone, the door swinging shut behind him.
I’m left alone with bread hanging from my mouth, a whisky at my side, and a suspiciously thundering heart.
It’s just the carbs.
Definitely just the carbs.
Chapter 5
Prosecco = Blood Sport
Tyler
If you’d told me my first night here would involve a boob slip, an accidental cock brush, a splash of fish semen, and me wearing tights that could probably get me arrested in three countries, I would have left the invitation unanswered.
Yet here I am.
And I have clearly underestimated Hayley Price.
She’s a walking catastrophe. One minute face-planting into marble, the next launching verbal grenades with sniper precision. A chaos engine in heels, with a stare sharp enough to cut glass and a mouth that refuses to raise a white flag.
I should be annoyed.
I’m not.
I’ve spent the last hour trying not to smile, which is inconvenient, considering I’ve built an entire reputation on looking unamused by everything.
