He sits up, places the box on the edge of the bath, and says simply, “For tonight.”
I narrow my eyes. He just grins, and damn it, the grin is unfair.
“I figured you were about as prepared for this ball as I am for my tax return, and probably forgot it was masked. Also…” A beat, softer, “I owe you. For the hedge-spiral-slash-duck debacle.”
A laugh bursts out of me before I can stop it. God help me, I think he’s trying. And worse, it’s kind of working.
I eye the box. Then him. Then the box again.
“How do you even have this? Not even Amazon Prime delivers this fast.”
He winks. “Always so perceptive, princess.”
I fold my arms, eyeing him warily. “You do realise you’re still in my bath?”
He stretches, slow and lazy, before spreading his arms like he’s doing a bloody calendar shoot. “I do. And I must say… it’s incredibly comfortable. Spacious. Plenty of room for…”
“GET. OUT.”
He raises his hands in mock surrender and stands, smooth and annoyingly athletic. Broad shoulders, rolled sleeves, white shirt clinging in ways that should be illegal.
Athletic arsehat. That would’ve taken me at least a minute and a pulled hamstring.
He straightens, adjusts his cuffs like nothing happened, then smirks as he heads for the door.
“Rogues these days,” he mutters, pausing just long enough to look back at me.
I cross my arms and glare.
“Used to be you could charm a woman with a well-timed bath ambush. These days? Courtship’s fucking exhausting.”
The rollers are out.
My face is on.
But the bath intruder is still playing on a mental loop like a very annoying, very sexy pop-up ad.
My dress is…mostly on.
I’ve managed everything except the final zip, which is currently wedged somewhere in the vicinity of my bra strap. I’ve tried coat-hanger acrobatics, tactical squishing, and something that could technically be classified as yoga, but the damn thing won’t budge.
I refuse to be defeated.
“Come on, you little bastard,” I mutter, wrestling the zip and blowing an escaping curl out of my face.
The knock comes just as I let out a particularly undignified grunt.
I freeze, hand still wedged behind my back. “Who is it?”
“Tyler.”
Of course. Because why would it be Lily? She’s probably getting trussed up in a lace masterpiece right now, glowing like bridal royalty and preparing to glide downstairs in full ‘here comes the bride’ glory. Checking on the chaotic bridesmaid, who’s currently losing a wrestling match with her dress, is very much not on her to-do list.
“You actually knocked this time,” I call, still catching my breath from what might as well have been a marathon.
“Trying a new approach.”
“Don’t come in!” I shout, still grappling with the zip. “I’m not…ready.”
