The mirror fogs in solidarity, as though even it wants plausible deniability for what’s about to happen, which, frankly, is more than I’ll have once these rollers are in.
My cheeks are flushed from a shower that flirted with third-degree burns, and the sight of me mid-roller insertion is less ‘effortless glow-up’ and more ‘Nora Batty shacked up with a Care Bear during a heatwave.’
I pin the final roller with a sigh and take a step back, surveying the chaos like I’ve just finished a particularly unhinged art installation.
“This,” I tell my reflection grimly, “is why Derek the Hedge wouldn’t frolic towards me if I came with free fertiliser.”
The reflection just blinks back at me, all judgy and smug, wearing the same look my mum gives me when I try to claim leggings are trousers.
I towel off my face, swipe under my arms again, still stress-sweaty, of course, then shove a couple of bits of toilet paper under there like I’m seventeen again hiding in the PE changing rooms and praying for divine intervention.
Accepting that this situation calls for industrial-strength containment, I stomp barefoot across the rug to my suitcase, muttering prayers to the gods of shapewear.
I’m bent double, head practically in my knickers bag, arse in the air digging for my emergency Spanx, less sexy temptress, more desperate downward dog on Pornhub, when I freeze.
Because there is a man.
In my bath.
Fully clothed.
Lounging like this is his personal boudoir shoot and I’m the uninvited photographer.
“Holy fuck!” I screech, nearly taking myself out on the suitcase zip as I whip around. I clutch the towel tighter, a towel that suddenly feels about as protective as a cocktail napkin, and glare at him like I can set him on fire with my eyes.
“Have you lost your mind?”
Tyler doesn’t even flinch. Just lifts one arm to rest behind his smug, beautiful head and casually raises the other, holding a black box. “I knocked. You didn’t answer. So, I let myself in.”
“That’s called breaking and entering, you psycho!”
He shrugs. “It’s not breaking if the doors open. And it’s not entering if I’m a roguish earl honourably courting his reluctant lady. Besides…” His mouth quirks, “…our role card does say ‘secret trysts,’ Hayley. I’m just being historically accurate.”
I stare at him, dumbfounded, rollers bobbing like they’re offended on my behalf.
“You can’t just appear while I look like…this!” I wave at my rollers, my towel, my entire existence.
He smirks, giving me a slow once-over. “On the contrary, milady, I think this look might be my favourite so far. Even better than the twigs. Very… avant-garde.”
I grab the nearest pillow and hurl it at his far too handsome head.
He doesn’t duck. Just lets it hit him square in the chest, grinning like I’ve thrown him a love note instead of soft furnishings.
I follow his line of sight.
Oh. Fuck. He’s seen the toilet roll.
How can this be happening again?
The bastard actually tilts his head like David Attenborough has just discovered a new species in the wild
“Are you… leaking? Or is that some kind of Tudor insulation?”
“It’s stress absorption!” I snap, yanking the paper out and flinging it across the room. “It’s practical. Olympians probably do it.”
“Right.” He fights a grin. “Gold medal, then. Very innovative.”
“What. Do. You. Want?” I growl, snatching my dressing gown from the bed and yanking it on like armour.
