That I want to be better than the version of me she has in her head.
I’d been trying to figure out how to say it all morning: the run didn’t help, the shower didn’t help, and when she stood there looking at me like that, it was right there, ready to spill out.
But if I’d opened my mouth, I think too much would’ve come out, more than I’m ready to give away.
So, I did the only thing I know how to do.
I made a joke.
Turned the moment into something lighter, safer.
Because if I’d let myself tell her what I really wanted, what I’m starting to want, I’m not sure I’d have been able to stop.
Chapter 9
Drunk, Lost, and Judged by a Hedge
Hayley
The only thing worse than a Tudor-themed wedding weekend?
A Tudor-themed wedding weekend with an obstacle course.
The wedding party is gathered outside the entrance to the castle’s maze, standing in the kind of expectant semicircle usually reserved for primary school sports days and cult inductions.
Peacock Pants is waiting at the archway, looking like a man who’s survived three weeks of staged jousting, seventeen rounds of historical cocktails, and at least one drunk uncle trying to cop a feel by the hog roast. His shirt is still starched, but his expression says ‘over it.’
“Gather round, lovers!” he calls, waving a scroll like he’s about to host a royal lottery draw. “Your goal is to reach the centre, collect your token of love, and return before the other couples. And no, you may not sacrifice your partner to speed up your time…we had complaints about that last wedding.”
Token of love? What is this,The Bachelor: Tudor Edition? Next, they’ll have us kissing frogs in a rose ceremony.
I gulp my wine. Loudly. Which earns me a look from Peacock Pants, a mix between despair and admiration, like he can’t decide if I’m his problem guest or his spirit animal.
Tyler is nowhere to be seen, naturally. Probably off trying to bang the bridesmaid who didn’t show up looking like Catherine of Aragon the week Henry decided she was replaceable.
Meanwhile, the other guests are glowing. Not glowing as in ‘slightly flushed from wine,’ more like they’ve been mainlining unicorn cum all night in their smug couple bliss. They’re all tall and wholesome and weirdly enthusiastic about historical roleplay, one of them even brought a compass.
A fucking compass.
I, on the other hand, am armed with nothing but passive aggression and a third glass of wine, which I’m not relinquishing, no matter the death stares I’m getting from the model-perfect blonde parked next to Peacock Pants. She looks curated to within an inch of her life and is already giving me the kind of once-over usually reserved for dodgy relatives who show up uninvited.
“Where’s your earl?” she trills, tightening her grip on Peacock Pants’ arm like he’s her emotional buddy. “He’s quite a handful, isn’t he!”
Peacock Pants makes a noise that could be a laugh or could be a very quiet cry for help.
I smile sweetly and adjust my bodice, pretending not to notice that she looks like Jane Seymour reincarnated. I look like someone who ate Jane Seymour.
And then it happens.
A guy in a gold velvet doublet, tall, broad-shouldered, bright blond hair and an unfairly handsome face, catches my eye as I clutch my wine like it’s a holy relic.
“Rough day, milady?” he calls, grinning. “If you need a maze buddy, I’m your man, just don’t ask me to navigate.”
I snort and wave at him politely, but his laugh lingers in the air like a tiny rescue flare.
And just as I think maybe,maybethe day is looking up…
The model-perfect blonde swoops in out of nowhere, all cheekbones and silk, her laugh slicing through the chatter like a guillotine. She doesn’t even let him finish smiling at me before she drops Peacock Pants’ arm, links hers through Gold Doublet like she’s won a prize, and sweeps him away.
