“Closer, darlings,” he trills. “The Pavane was not a dance for strangers. We want longing! We want tension! We want Elizabethan eye-fu… Well, you get the idea.”
Oh good. Nothing says ‘romance’ like being ordered to slow-dance with the human equivalent of a bad idea.
Tyler doesn’t even hesitate. His palm presses more firmly against my back, guiding me forward until there’s almost no air left between us.
Heat rolls off him in waves. I can feel the steady rise and fall of his chest, the flex of muscle under his shirt. And then… his breath.
Right at the base of my neck.
A warm exhale that sends my entire spine into mutiny, lighting me up from the inside out.
I swallow hard and fight the urge to shiver. Barely.
I don’t dare look up.
Don’t do it.
Do not look at him.
But of course, I do.
He’s already looking down at me, and for once there’s no smirk waiting to meet me. No lazy grin.
Just heat.
Watching.
Like he’s waiting for something to happen.
We both move to speak at the same time, the sound of our voices colliding in the tiny space between us. He stops.
Nods once, slow. “You first.”
“I just…” I hesitate. “I was a bitch this morning. Sorry.”
His brows lift, but he doesn’t say anything.
“I’m still not saying you’re a saint or anything, but… thank you. For the coffee. It was nice. And I guess you didn’t deserve the verbal flamethrower.”
He just watches me, face unreadable, like he’s waiting to see what else I’ll admit.
I shift, uncomfortable. “What were you going to say?”
For half a second, something in his expression changes, softens. A flicker of something real, something vulnerable. Then it’s gone, locked away behind that stupid grin.
He leans in, close enough that I hold my breath.
“You’re standing on my BFG feet again, milady.”
I freeze. My stomach swoops. I don’t know why I expected anything else.
I step off his foot with all the dignity I can muster, glare heavy with warning, and spin away.
“Excuse me,” I announce brightly, sweeping past Peacock, who makes an encouraging littleooohnoise like he’s front row at a melodrama. “I need to go powder my nose. Or throw myself in the moat. You know, whatever people did before therapy was invented.”
And I don’t just walk out.
I strut. Chin high, skirts swishing, like the ghost of Anne Boleyn herself is marching me out in solidarity.
