His gaze meets mine.
Thou art the light that banished night,
The flame that thaws my soul’s lament,
He’s looking at me, not the page. His voice quieter now.
The only truth I ever knew,
My stomach flips. This is acting. Obviously. So why does it feel like my dress is getting tighter?
I glance down at my script and read my line, my voice a little too breathy:
Then take this heart, my long,lost love,
And vow it shall not break again…
Someone coughs pointedly. There’s a snigger. But I barely hear it.
Because Tyler’s hand finds mine.
Our eyes lock.
And for a brief, aching second, there is no room. No audience. No cheese tower. No bloody Bernard.
Just him. Just me.
His hand reaches for my face, his eyes drop to my lips. And then he leans in.
Oh shit.
Oh fuck.
He’s going to kiss me.
Tyler freaking Ashford is about to kiss me in front of an audience and a wheel of Camembert the size of a car tyre.
“Abort!” I whisper-shriek.
Too late.
I panic and step back, fast. My foot catches the hem of my dress. I flail and go down hard. Gasps ripple through the crowd. I twist, reaching for anything to stop myself. The room spins in horror as I realise what I have grabbed.
The top three tiers of the artisan cheese tower slide, no,topple, in slow motion.
The Brie hits first. Then the Manchego. Then the goat’s cheese explodes like a creamy grenade.
“Oh my God!” someone gasps.
Tyler’s hand flies to his mouth as he tries to suppress a laugh. Unsuccessfully.
Peacock screams and dives to catch a wheel of Wensleydale like it’s a newborn child.
The entire room erupts into chaos. Someone yells, “Save the Stilton!”
I’m rooted to the spot, covered in soft cheese and humiliation. Tyler leans down to where I’m now crouched in a puddle of Camembert and shame, one knee to the floor like he’s proposing through the dairy carnage.
He drops his voice, lips near my ear.
