Broad shoulders relaxed but powerful under that ridiculous costume. Late thirties, early forties maybe. Salt-and-pepper hair that looks deliberately messy. Tanned skin, far too tanned forUK weather, and a jawline that really has no business being wasted on a man this theatrical.
Oh God.
He’s… handsome.
Dangerously so.
I squeeze my Prosecco flute a little too hard. Definitely had too much to drink.
I tear my eyes away before he catches me. “Easy for you to say, some of us weren’t born with leading character energy.”
Something shifts.
He looks me dead in the eye and it’s like someone turned the stage lights off. The humour in his expression fades, his posture straightens, and for a heartbeat I see him.
Not Peacock, not the strutting, feathered chaos he plays for the world.
Just the man.
Eyes darker now, locked on mine like he’s daring me to look away first.
When he speaks, his voice is lower, smoother, stripped of its usual shine, intimate enough to make my pulse skip.
“It’s all an act, Hayley. None of it is real, not the feathers, the one-liners, or the larger-than-life drama king you’ve been putting up with all weekend. My confidence is just theatre.”
For once, I don’t have a joke, don’t have a deflection. I just… look at him.
And listen.
“But belief…” His gaze catches mine, steady and disarming. “Belief is showing up even when you think you’ll make a fool of yourself. Which, for the record, you haven’t.”
Peacock holds my gaze a few seconds longer, then exhales. And just like that, the moment vanishes in a puff of smoke.
A magician’s trick.
One second, he’s there, unguarded, impossible to look away from, and the next, gone.
He clears his throat, flicks an invisible speck from his waistcoat, and the showman is back, as if someone yelled “Places!” offstage.
Peacock bumps my shoulder with a grin that’s pure mischief.
“Hayley. If you don’t make a move on Tyler, I’ll have to serenade you with “Don’t Stop Believing,’and trust me, nobody wants that.”
I belly-laugh, the tension breaking. “God, please don’t.”
“Exactly. So go.” His grin softens, just slightly, but his words land with weight. “Chase the man. Steal the scene. Write your own damn ending.”
And that’s all it takes.
I launch off the wall, my heart jackhammering, and stride toward the castle, to chase my third-act climax.
Or set something spectacular on fire trying.
Chapter 23
Thank U, Next
Tyler
