“Yeah.” She giggles. “Used to be the golden boy, university, sports, perfect everything, until he told his father to shove the family fortune where the sun doesn’t shine and went off to start some business thing instead.”
“What kind of business thing?”
Lily shrugs. “I don’t know. Something very male and mysterious. Boats? Poker? Motorcycles? Illegal swords?”
I blink at her.
She shrugs again. “Ben says he’s fine. Just… not very Ashford anymore.” Her smile turns sly. “You’ll survive. You might even have fun.”
I glance back at Tyler, who chooses that exact moment to look up and catch me staring.
He raises an eyebrow.
Not a full smile, just a sly lift, like he can already tell I’m plotting his demise.
I snap my head back around so fast I nearly give myself whiplash.
“Well,” I mutter. “I see no possible way this could go wrong.”
Lily just beams and practically skips away, humming the wedding march under her breath, as if she hasn’t just dropped a casual landmine in my lap.
And me?
I’m stuck with Mr. Broody Black Sheep for the rest of the weekend.
Fucking awesome.
Chapter 3
Shellfish Behaviour
Hayley
Imake a strategic escape before dinner, otherwise known asOperation: Pee Without a Crowbar and a Prayer. The toilets are across the courtyard in a side building that almost certainly doubled as a plague ward back in the day. Inside, it’s all rustic wood and exposed beams, like a medieval escape room designed by Gwyneth Paltrow, but absolutely not prepared for a size-sixteen arse trussed up in full velvet cosplay.
I eye the dress situation in the mirror.
Right. This is going to be a problem.
After several failed attempts at hitching up the period-drama parachute, I come to a horrifying realisation: the only way to pee is to face the loo like I’m about to slow-dance with it.
Which is how I end up straddling a porcelain toilet, starring in some bizarre Henry VIII meetsMagic Mikecrossover nobody ordered.
Dignity: absolutely deceased.
By the time I’m done, I’m sweating, emotionally scarred, and convinced I may never get out of this dress without the fire brigade and a pair of industrial scissors.
I emerge from the cubicle only to realise the entire party has been seated while I was re-enacting the fall of the British Empire in a toilet stall.
I hurry back across the courtyard, cheeks burning, praying I can sneak to my seat unnoticed.
No such luck.
Everyone is sitting.
There are candles. Music.
And one very smug earl watching my every step.
