Because for one horrifying second, I realise he’s not just hot.
He’s walking thirst-trap hot.
Unacceptable. At least the bastard has the manners to hold out his hand and help me off the floor. Solid. Steady. Not an ounce of sweat.
I barely have time to scrape together a shred of dignity before the human embodiment of a haemorrhoid struts over, plucks an envelope off the table with exaggerated flourish, and presents it like he’s already been cast inThe Crown.
“Your assignment,” he declares, voice dripping with theatre, “delivered personally, lest our dear Lady Hayley vanish toward the bar in pursuit of stronger spirits.”
Tyler cracks the seal and pulls out a single sheet of thick parchment. He unfolds it carefully, but I’ve already caught the front of the envelope, addressed to both of us in ridiculous swirling calligraphy.
His mouth twitches. Then, with an elegant, exaggerated bow, he hands it to me.
I stare down at the words, on paper that reminds me of that thing we used to do with lemon juice and ovens in primary school to make it look old:
Lady Hayley Price a wealthy heiress, desperate to escape an unwanted marriage arranged by her controlling family.
Earl Tyler Ashford a once-respected nobleman, disgraced by scandal and ruin, seeking redemption through a secret elopement with Lady Hayley.
Secret meetings must be arranged throughout the weekend to plot your “plans to flee.”
Bonus points if you are discovered in “accidental” public displays of affection.
Failure to remain in character may result in unfortunate accidents, i.e., public ridicule , dramatic fainting spells , or other socially fatal embarrassments.
Why is my first thought about the historical accuracy of the emojis? If Catherine Tate’s ‘Nan’ were here, she’d call this a fucking liberty. Tyler’s voice interrupts my tangent.
“Congratulations, Lady Hayley,” he drawls. “Disgrace, elopement, expectations… can’t say they didn’t match me to the right partner.” His gaze flicks, deliberately, to my chest. “Though from the looks of it, you’ve already nailed the public scandal part.”
I roll my eyes, but there’s a rough edge under his teasing, the kind that sounds a little too much like experience. It makes me wonder what exactly he’s running from.
“Alcohol. Now!”
Tyler doesn’t argue, just plucks two glasses from a passing tray and hands me one like he’s passing out consolation prizes onLove Island.
I down it in a single, graceless gulp. If anyone asks, I’m playing the role of dehydrated camel finally finding an oasis.
Glass still in hand, throat burning, I square my shoulders, fix him with my fiercest glare, and mutter, “Rule number one: don’t be a dick,” clinging to the last shreds of my dignity.
Tyler doesn’t even blink.
“Shame,” he says flatly. “According to our role card, that’s practically my defining trait.”
Before I can decide whether to punch him or lean into this absurd role card and propose marriage, he plucks another glass from the tray and presses it into my hand, like my personal supplier for bad decisions.
I take it without breaking eye contact, drain it, and mutter, “We’re going to need a hell of a lot more of these.”
He just smirks, knowing, infuriating. And before I can even talk myself into a third glass (which, disturbingly, is starting to sound like a solid plan), the overdressed tragedy clears his throat.
“Lords and Ladies,” the peacock plonker bellows, loud enough to rattle the windows, “please assemble for the Grand Entrance.”
I freeze.
Nope. Not ready. Not even close.
Everyone starts shuffling into two awkward lines, men on one side, women on the other, and it doesn’t take a genius to guess what’s coming next.
Tyler turns to me, offering his arm like he’s handing over a death warrant.
