My stomach twists. What does he even want from me? Why does he look at me like that if Helen is still in the picture? Is this just sport for him?
Not ideal.
Especially not when Helen glides past, her smile already rehearsed.
“Try not to stand up in the boat, Hayley,” Helen purrs from the dock. “Not all of us were born with balance.”
Gracefully drowning her is I guess illegal, I remind myself as I clamber into the rowboat, doing my best not to give the terrace a period-costume peepshow.
Tyler’s already inside, wrestling the oars and the boat lurches hard enough to make my stomach drop.
Water sprays up, misting my dress. It’s fucking freezing. Of course.
“You’ve doomed us both, my lord,” I groan, clutching the edge. “This is why I don’t trust men with oars. They always think size is the problem when it’s really technique.”
His head snaps around, startled, and then that grin. The one that makes me want to kiss himandthrow him in the lake.
“You’re critiquing my technique? You’re the one capsizing us with your sass.”
Another splash, this one soaking my skirt completely.
I glare at him, clutching the sodden fabric.
“My dress isdrenched,” I hiss. “I look like the tragic heroine who dies in Act III, Tyler. If I get pneumonia and waste away, this is on you.”
From the dock, Peacock twirls dramatically, feathers flying like he’s summoning rain.
“Longing, not laundering, you aquatic amateurs!” he bellows. “I asked for romance, not river baptism!”
We sit there for a second, dripping, glaring, breathing hard.
And then something shifts.
The look on Tyler’s face, part outrage, part delight, is so ridiculous I can’t hold it in.
A laugh escapes me.
He blinks, startled, then starts laughing too, real, unguarded, head-tipped-back laughter.
And just like that, the tension cracks like ice.
For a brief moment, it’s just us, the lake, and this ridiculous, floating confessional booth.
As the laughter fades, the boat drifts further into the lake, away from the others. The chaos of the terrace dissolves into soft ripples and birdsong, the shouts of Peacock and co. now just faint echoes bouncing off the water.
To my surprise, Tyler actually starts to get the hang of the rowing, his strokes evening out, the boat gliding with something dangerously close to grace. The sun’s crept higher, casting a warm shimmer across the lake, and the breeze has lost its bite. It’s… nice. Annoyingly so. The kind of weather you’d write about in an obnoxiously perfect postcard.Wish you were here, etc.
He adjusts his grip on the oars, then sets them down with practiced care. Reaches into his doublet and pulls out a hip flask, because of course he’s that guy. He passes it to me, and when our fingers brush, a spark jolts up my spine like I’ve been tasered by Cupid.
I take a sip. The hair-of-the-dog burn is way too welcome. Gin, obviously, posh wanker.
When I meet his gaze, the words tumble out before I can stop them.
“You kissed me like I meant something,” I say, voice low. “But you were still tangled up in her. Why didn’t you tell me?”
His brows knit. “Helen?”
“Yes. Helen.” Her name tastes like acid. “She told me. Last night. That you only broke up six months ago.”
