“I heard some rather violent grunting last night, followed by a thud and then radio silence. Thought maybe you’d either passed out or murdered your corset in cold blood.”
I lift the mug with trembling hands and inhale the steam like it’s oxygen.
“You know what? You’re still a dick. But this…” I cradle the mug to my chest, “…is appreciated.”
Rather than doing the sane, decent thing and leaving, Tyler makes himself comfortable. He drops into the chair beside my bed, legs crossed, elbow slung lazily on the armrest, perfectly at home, as though we’re about to have a cosy fireside chat instead of me sitting here half-naked clutching a mug of coffee for dear life.
“Er… what are you doing?” I say, tightening the sheet. “You can leave now, you know.”
“Thought I’d stay a minute,” he says, infuriatingly casual. “Seems we got off on the wrong foot. And since we’re meant to be star-crossed lovers this weekend, I figured I’d…”
“What?” I cut in. “Ignore every rule of social etiquette and stage a scandal by lurking in a half-naked woman’s bedroom?”
His grin is pure trouble. “Exactly. Method acting.” Then he softens, just a fraction. “Or I could try to, you know… actually get to know you.”
“Perfect. Let’s schedule that for a time when I’m wearing actual clothes and not emotionally tethered to a duvet.”
“Hmm,” he says, gaze dipping to the sheet, “some of the best conversations I’ve had with women happen when they’re emotionally tethered to a duvet.”
Figures.
Men like him probably collect duvet confessions for sport. I can practically see the highlight reel, endless women tangled in sheets, laughing at his stupid jokes, whispering secrets into that smug jawline.
Except… something about the way his mouth quirks now doesn’t look smug. Not really. For a split second, he looks, almost, curious. Like he’s waiting to see what I’ll do next.
I try not to picture us joining the montage, legs overlapping, coffee breath and something dangerously close to intimacy.
My brain, apparently has its own agenda.
I shake it off. Nope. Not going there. Not even for caffeine.
“Wow,” I deadpan. “Is that before or after you tell them you’re ‘not like other guys’?”
His mouth curves. “You’re quick.”
“And you’re a certified douche canoe.”
He doesn’t rise to the bait. Just tilts his head, studying me. “Maybe. Or maybe I’m actually curious.”
“About what?”
There’s a beat of silence, long enough for my pulse to trip over itself.
“You,” he says at last. “You’re… entertaining.”
I blink.
“Wow. Be still my heart.” I take a sip of coffee and mutter, “Truly the compliment every woman dreams of.” I glance at my mug. “You didn’t poison it, did you?”
“I did consider it.” He shrugs, utterly calm. “But then I remembered that would leave me alone for the rest of the weekend. And frankly, your chaos is still the most interesting thing on offer in this pantomime.”
Ouch.
It shouldn’t sting, but it does.Entertaining. Like I’m a sideshow. Something to keep the crowd amused until the main act shows up. I’ve spent years laughing off that label, the girl who trips over her own feet, the punchline, the comic relief. It’s easier to lean into it than admit it hurts.
“So glad my rapid descent to social pariah status is providing you with quality entertainment,” I say, dry as dust.
He leans forward slightly, elbows on knees, head tilted like he’s about to say something that actually matters. I don’t let him.
