Peacock bursts onto the terrace like a caffeinated fever dream, his brunch robe a riot of gold brocade and feathers, waving a coupe glass sloshing with something red like a sceptre.
“Rise, my hungover court!” he booms. “These cocktails are your salvation!”
I lurch towards the violently crimson concoction, praying its really espresso in drag, and nearly collide with Lily’s grandmother, who is already watching me like I’m her favourite prime-time soap.
“You look flushed,” she purrs, waggling her eyebrows like she’s about to narrate the next episode ofDownton Abbey: After Dark. “Get much sleep, dear?”
I choke, cheeks blazing like a Tudor bonfire. “Oh, I had a wild night, me versus historical fashion and my own poor life choices. Spoiler: they both won.”
She cackles, delighted, and I silently pray she hasn’t heard a single whisper about the garden kiss.
My knight in shining armour, or at least, shining blond hair, sidles up with the smugness of a man holding good gossip.
“Easy on the Queen of Scots, milady,” Karl grins, his annoyingly perfect hair gleaming like he’s in a shampoo advert. He nods to my glass. “We can’t afford another dairy disaster.”
I snort. Sir Karl of Smug Hair, my unexpected saviour. Bless him for trying to lighten the mood, but my smile falters the second I see her.
Helen. Draped in silk. Laughing like she knows exactly where the cameras are. Of course she’s flawless, probably had herhangover surgically removed. She’s chatting to someone, no, flirting, and my stomach does a triple axel.
Is that Tyler?
No. Can’t be. Please don’t be.
Before I can spiral further, a shadow falls over me.
I glance up, and there he is.
Tyler. Looking like he bathed in actual moonlight. Hair mussed just so. Smirk calibrated for maximum damage.
“Morning, my lady chaos,” he says, voice like velvet. “Do you always wake up looking like you survived a scandal… or caused one?”
My pulse stage-dives without checking for a landing.
“Sod off, Tyler. As always, you look like you were moisturised by angels,” I snap. “Frankly, sir, it’s fucking rude!”
He chuckles. My brain immediately queues a Hollywood-style montage of our cheesiest moments, the traitor.
Our eyes lock. The world hushes.
“My lords and ladies, your boats await!” Peacock announces with far too much enthusiasm, arms flung wide like he’s opening a Broadway show. “Channel your inner Boleyn, it’s time for our Regal Rowboat Portrait Series!”
I whirl towards Karl, full panic mode. “I’m stealing you! Be my boat buddy before anyone else claims you.”
He barely manages a blink before Peacock swoops in, clipboard in hand, like a very sparkly avenging angel.
“Ah-ah!” he sing-songs, plucking Karl neatly out of reach. “Assigned partners only, darling. No swapping.”
“What the hell, Peacock!” The nickname slips out before I can stop it, and I slap a hand over my mouth.
Peacock just smirks, entirely too pleased with himself. “Trust the process, my little shipwreck. Fate knows best.”
Karl mouths a helpless apology over his shoulder as Peacock steers him away like he’s directing a scandalous village panto.
And just like that, I’m standing next to Tyler.
Perfect.
Now I’m trapped in a floating photo op with the man who kissed me like a promise… and forgot to mention the woman who thinks they’re just on a break.
