Ben laughs. “Yeah, well,hewas. He said you told him he looked like candlelight and then passed out eating cheese.”
“Oh my God, it really was me!” I bury my face in my hands.
“He said it was the best ten minutes of his year.” Ben smirks. “Which frankly makes me question his social calendar. But he was different when he talked about you, Hales. Not his usual… you know?”
I peek at him through my fingers. “Not his usual hump-’em-and-dump-’em self?”
Ben shrugs, smiling. “Your words, not mine. But yeah. Different.”
I go quiet.
The wind stirs the trees, carrying in the faint, off-key chorus of someone in the marquee butchering “I Wanna Dance with Somebody.”
I stare at the ground like it might hold the answer.
“I don’t think he’s messing you about, Hayley,” Ben says after a beat, his voice softer now. “He’s just… scared. Probably more than he wants to admit.”
I bite the inside of my cheek, the words sitting heavy between us.
Ben drains the last of his drink and sets the glass down with a soft clink.
“But if you think, even for a second, that he doesn’t see you,reallysee you…” He waits until I glance up at him, “…then you’re wrong.”
He straightens his cuffs, easy, measured.
“And he’s a moron if he lets you leave tonight without saying so himself.”
Then he’s gone, back into the lantern-lit garden, disappearing the way grooms always do: gracefully, with perfect timing.
And I’m left on the wall, clutching a half-finished champagne and the distinct weight of a truth I didn’t know I needed.
I barely have time to spiral properly before I hear a theatrical sigh, see a familiar swish of velvet, and Peacock sweeps into view like a disappointed drama teacher.
He rounds the corner in full post-ceremony glory, satin waistcoat, glittering loafers, and what appears to be a cravat fashioned from repurposed bunting.
He stops, eyes twinkling. “Darling. There you are.”
It’s pure Peacock. Crisp. British. Completely put on.
I try to straighten up, suddenly self-conscious, but he waves a hand and drops onto the wall beside me with the languid grace of a very expensive, very dramatic cat.
“I didn’t mean to eavesdrop,” he says, and this time the accent shifts, the act loosening.
“That was some A+ emotional exposition from our groom.”
I groan. “Please don’t give me notes.”
“Too late. Five stars for vulnerability. Bonus points for dramatic timing.”
I huff a laugh, but the nervous energy is still there, fizzing under my skin. I look down at my hands.
“I don’t know,” I mutter. “Maybe it was just the script. The wedding. The weekend. All of it.”
Peacock makes a noise that’s part gasp, part scandalised sigh.
“Scripts are for amateurs,” he says. “Real people improvise.”
I glance at him, ready with a quip, and then I actuallylookat him.
