Romantic, if you ignore the probable freight-train snoring and the fact that my tights are still cinched together at the ankles, leaving me effectively bound by hosiery.
What isn’t romantic? The banging on my door.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
I groan, one eye cracking open, my brain, useless traitor that it is, slowly reminding me this isn’t a dream. This is a nightmare. The wedding. The corset.
“WHAT?” I yell, instantly regretting it as my own voice ricochets off the high Tudor ceiling.
“Wakey, wakey! Eggs and bakey!”
The voice is male. Loud. Way too chipper for this ungodly hour. And unmistakably his.
“Go. Away.”
I fling a pillow at the door, silently cursing whoever invented castles, weddings, and mornings.
“Open up, milady. Your earl has come to your rescue.”
“Unless you’re here to tell me the wedding’s been cancelled and we can all go home, kindly fuck off.”
“No such luck, princess. Is the door unlocked? I’m coming in.”
“Wait, no! Don’t…”
Too late. The door swings open and in he strolls, infuriatingly bright-eyed, boots polished, doublet straight, looking like he’s about to lead a parade, just in time to catch me wrapped in nothing but a sheet, the world’s least seductive burrito.
His eyes sweep the scene, and I know exactly what he’s noticed. I kick the tights off in a flurry of limbs and regret, clutching the sheet tighter.
Tyler just smiles, leaning against the doorframe like he has all the time in the world.
“Well,” he drawls, the corner of his mouth curving. “If I’d known this was the dress code, I’d have knocked sooner.”
“Shut your eyes!” I shriek, yanking the sheet tighter until I’m one panic-breath away from mummification.
“Not a chance. Besides, you want what’s in my hands.”
I make the mistake of glancing at said hands. Big, tanned, annoyingly competent-looking hands.
“No, Ido notwant your hands,” I snap, far too quickly.
He smirks.
“Relax. I didn’t say my hands. I said what’sinthem.”
Only then do I notice the mug, steam curling lazily into the air.
“Coffee?”
I eye the mug. I eye him. I weigh my dignity against the need for survival.
Survival wins.
“Holy crap. Gimme.”
I edge closer, sheet barely holding on, past the point of caring that I’m one slip away from accidental indecency. Coffee first. Modesty later.
He places the coffee on the side table with deliberate precision, like he knows I’m seconds from lunging for it.
