I slide into the only empty chair left, right next to Tyler, of course, and attempt to act like nothing happened.
Until I catch him staring at me with a smirk that’s practically audible.
“What?” I snap under my breath.
He tilts his head.
Not the boob again. Not a split seam. Not…
“You’ve got…”
He gestures vaguely at my backside.
“…a bit of toilet paper. Sticking out. Like a tail.”
I freeze.
Oh my God.
No.
Not again.
I twist to check, and sure enough, a strip of loo roll is caught in the back of my dress.
Tyler plucks it free with the delicacy of someone handling a priceless artefact, clearly revelling in the honour of humiliating me.
“Good news,” he drawls. “You’re officially the most memorable thing about this wedding.”
I grit my teeth.
“Fuck off, Ashford.”
He just smirks, infuriatingly calm.
And then, because the universe clearly hates me, he leans in.
Close enough that I feel his breath at my ear when he murmurs, “Now, now. That’s not very polite, is it… milady?”
I sit bolt upright, cheeks blazing.
Tyler just settles back in his chair, looking far too pleased with himself.
Before I can come up with a retort biting enough to wipe the smug off his face, the woman opposite clears her throat, loud, theatrical, like she’s Clare Balding about to announce Best in Show.
She’s dressed in a gown so aggressively pink it looks like she mugged a flamingo, clutching her character script with the desperation of a woman three glasses of Prosecco deep.
Which, to be fair, is about my level. The only difference being, I haven’t turned up dressed like Barbie’s divorced aunt.
And then she speaks, in that weird BBC-announcer voice nobody uses anymore unless they’re narrating a documentary about damp castles:
“Milord Ashford,” she trills, every syllable stretched within an inch of its life, “we are simply delighted to make your acquaintance!”
Beside her, a man squeezed into a brocade waistcoat beams proudly, all beer belly, red cheeks, and the sweaty dignity of a man whose plate has never met a salad.
“Indeed!” he booms. “Might I enquire as to your intentions with the Lady Hayley?”
Oh. My. God.
