Of course she does.
I flick my gaze back to Tyler, who’s still watching me, or maybe watching Karl.
Whatever the reason, I feel the heat rise in my chest.
I smile up at Karl. “Mind if I pull in a little closer? Just… for balance.”
He smiles back. “By all means.”
And I step into his arms, pretending it’s for stability.
Pretending I don’t see Tyler’s jaw clench.
Pretending this isn’t the pettiest waltz in English wedding history.
Karl’s hand rests lightly at my back as the music draws to a close.
“Well,” he says, resigned, “I suppose I’d better return you to your date.”
I arch a brow. “Is that what he is?”
Karl’s smile softens. “Feels like it. And for what it’s worth… even the best partnerships deserve a dramatic finale.”
Something in his tone makes my chest tighten, like he’s not just talking about tonight, but about Tyler and me.
I manage a small smile as we cross the room, which is to say, I try not to trip over my own feet while pretending I haven’t just seen my romantic prospects torpedoed by a peroxide-blonde ex with elite-level smirking credentials.
As we reach the mead table, Karl stops and turns to Tyler with a mock bow. “My Lord, I believe I have something that belongs to you.”
Tyler’s eyes flick to Karl, then land on me, and for a second, there’s no smirk, no sarcasm, just something almost resembling genuine concern.
“I didn’t think you’d come back,” he says quietly.
The words hang there, heavier than I expect.
Then, as if realising he’s let too much slip, he clears his throat, straightens his shoulders, and adds with a mock flourish, “I was about to stage a dramatic sonnet about abandonment.”
I manage a smirk. “Good thing Karl saved you from your tragic debut. He said the walking red flag should be returned to its rightful owner.”
Karl chokes on a laugh, clearly enjoying himself far too much. Tyler just arches a brow, gaze sliding over me in a way that makes my stomach flip.
Before Tyler can respond, she pounces.“I’m Helen,” she purrs, stepping forward, hand extended like we’re about to starta televised debate. Or announce rival mascara launches.“You must be Hayley.”
Her tone drips with the kind of fake politeness you can drown in if you’re not careful.
“Yes,” I reply, taking her hand. Her shake is firm. Predictably cool. The kind of handshake that saysI run marathons before breakfast and never get deodorant marks on my clothes.
“Tyler’s been telling me all about you and your… escapades.” She smiles, all perfect teeth and calculation. “Very impressive. I wasn’t sure who they’d cast as the jester of the weekend, but now I don’t need to guess.”
Ouch.
Tyler’s jaw tightens. He shoots her a look that says plenty, and clears his throat. “Helen’s an old friend.”
“We’re much more than friends, darling,” she says lightly, like she’s dropping a bomb over afternoon tea.
My ears are ringing.
And I know, Iknow, the smart thing to do is snap back. Hit her with a line so sharp it’ll leave claw marks. A verbal mic-drop that would get a standing ovation from Derek the Judgemental Hedge.
