“Entertaining,” I repeat, heat creeping through my voice. “That’s what this is to you? I’m a novelty act? Something to watch when you’re bored?”
The air between us shifts. His smile falls.
He doesn’t answer right away. Just watches me, jaw tight, shoulders tense, like he’s deciding whether to stay or walk.
“You don’t know me,” he says quietly.
The softness in his voice makes my stomach twist, which only pisses me off more. Because now it feels like there’s something underneath all that smugness, and I don’t know what to do with that.
“I don’t need to know you,” I fire back. “You’re a walking cliché. Broody. Hot. Definitely emotionally unavailable. I betyou ghosted at least two women this year because they used too many exclamation marks in their texts.”
He’s silent for a beat too long. The mood curdles.
“You know what?” he says finally, standing. “You’re right. I’m a dick. But at least I’m the dick who brought you coffee. Where are all your friends, Hayley? Who else is here, making sure you don’t starve before brunch?”
That one lands. Hard.
He crosses the room, shoulders still tight, one hand on the door handle.
“See you at the dance lesson, milady,” he says, without looking back.
And then he’s gone.
The door clicks shut, leaving me with half a coffee, half a regret, and the emotional equivalent of getting dumped by someone I’m not technically dating.
Chapter 7
BFG Toes and Nipple Woes
Hayley
Today’s outfit is a day gown, basically a less-death-trappy version of yesterday’s monstrosity. Loose sleeves, a higher neckline, and mercifully no boning. I’m dressed in six minutes flat.
Progress.
I didn’t see Tyler at breakfast, which is probably why I made it through my sausage without stabbing someone in the eye with a fork.
Now I’m in the Music Room, where couples are lining up likeTudor Speed DatingmeetsStrictly Come Dancing, but with more ruffs and less consent, and every single one of them looksunreasonablyexcited about this mandatory historical foreplay.
The doors fly open and in struts Peacock Pants, wedding coordinator, ringmaster, professional chaos coordinator, in a pair of cerulean trousers so tight they probably need their own NDA.
“Darlings!” he cries, throwing his arms wide as though he’s just stepped onto the West End stage. “Welcome to the most sensual hour of your lives, until the open bar later, obviously.”
Kill me now.
I scan the room for my brooding earl.
No sign of him.
Predictable.
Optional my arse. Everyone’s here, except my assigned partner.
Typical.
Just as I’m mentally composing a scathing speech to deliver to an empty chair, the doors swing open with the subtlety of a soap opera plot twist.
And there he is.
