Chapter 4
Bread, Butter and Buttocks
Hayley
Iweave through the crowd and practically sprint for Reception. I need my bed. I need it now.
The East Wing is colder, quieter, all ancient stone and flickering wall lamps. The kind of place that feels less romantic country house and more opening scene of a bad horror film.
“Hayley Price,” I pant at the receptionist, who looks one lukewarm cup of Earl Grey away from faking her own death.
She hands me a heavy iron key tied with, naturally, a delicate lace ribbon. Because apparently even the furniture here is contractually obliged to stay in character.
I’m just about to make my escape when…
“Ah, so this is where you ran off to in such a hurry.”
I close my eyes. Nope.
Nope, nope, nope.
I turn slowly, like maybe if I move at glacial speed he’ll vanish out of sheer boredom.
No such luck.
Tyler is leaning against the far wall, key in hand, ribbon dangling from his knuckles, looking like a fantasy cover model who wandered out of someone’s very hormonal daydream.
“I was just getting my key,” I say, way too defensive for a woman holding a piece of metal with ribbon on it.
“Same.” He shrugs, glances at his tag. “Room 7.”
I check mine.
Room 6. Of course. Of fucking course.
Because obviously fate looked at today, the boob escape, the seafood porn, the toilet paper tail, and thought, you know what this disaster needs?
Shared plumbing.
Tyler smirks, the kind of smirk that should come with a hazard warning and its own evacuation plan.
“Sleep well,” he says, tipping an imaginary hat with unnecessary theatrical flair before strolling towards the staircase as if destiny itself were rolling out a red carpet.
I glare at my oversized bag. Then at the stairs.
I take two determined steps. My dress, now serving as both parachute and ankle manacle, grips tighter than a toddler with separation anxiety and I lurch sideways, narrowly avoiding a face-plant into a decorative suit of armour, which I immediately call a very rude name.
Tyler, halfway up the first flight, pauses. Sees me. Sees the struggle.
With a sigh heavy enough to register on the Richter scale, he stalks back down, grabs the bag like it’s filled with feathers, and slings it onto his shoulder.
“Seriously,” I huff, stumbling after him, tripping over my hem again, “this dress is trying to assassinate me.”
“Yes, and it’s winning, isn’t it?” He chuckles without breaking stride.
“And that dinner was a lie.”
“Excuse me?”
“It was just leaves. And a gelatinous fish blob. I need actual carbs before I start hallucinating bread rolls.”
He laughs again under his breath but keeps climbing, annoyingly steady while I’m clinging to the banister like I’m scaling Everest.
“Just once,” I mutter, “I’d like to attend a wedding where I’m not in a stupid costume, underfed, and one breath away from a full-body wedgie.”
We reach the second floor.
Tyler deposits my bag neatly outside Room 6 like a reluctant bellboy. “There. Delivered safely to your chamber,” he says, complete with an obnoxious bow.
“You’re a strange sort of arsehole,” I mutter, fumbling for my key and immediately trying to jam the wrong end into the lock.
“I try my best.”
He smirks, because of course he does, then turns and heads back down the stairs, retreating, tight arse and all, a view so spectacular it should be listed as a miracle by the Vatican.
Honestly, why is it that every man with a face sculpted by angels has the personality of a minor demon? Like there’s some universal law: hot equals arsehole. And Tyler Ashford? Definitely Exhibit A.
I blink after him. Probably off to find the nearest bar and a more willing bridesmaid.
“Goodnight then,” I add, far too late, shoving my door open and stumbling inside.
The room smells faintly of old wood polish and lavender, the kind of scent that screams historic charm but really just makes you think someone probably died here. Heavy curtains hang over leaded windows, and the bed is a four-poster monstrosity with a canopy so ridiculous it belongs in a pantomime.
Then I spot it. My only hope. A roll-top bath. In the actual bedroom.
Just sitting there, glinting under the chandelier like a porcelain siren calling me toward alcohol and very bad decisions.
I groan and face-plant onto the bed like someone unplugged me from the mains of human energy. Motionless. Flattened. Defeated. A few minutes later, there’s a knock at the door.
I groan into the mattress. “IT’S OPEN!”
If it’s another actor here to offer me tepid tea and a polite death glare, I’m throwing myself out the window. More likely it’s Lily, sweeping in dramatically to monologue her happiness like a Bronte heroine.
The door creaks open. Footsteps. Then his voice, low, smug, and unbearably entertained:
“On the bed already for me?”
I turn my head just enough to glare through a veil of crushed pillow.
Tyler is leaning against the doorframe, looking far too pleased with himself, the lamplight catching on the sharp angles of his jaw and the kind of tousled dark hair that somehow makes him look even more annoyingly attractive.
And in this light, I finally see it properly, the full Ryan Gosling-level handsomeness. Strong features. Ridiculously blue eyes. The kind of smile that probably got girls suspended from sixth form for inappropriate daydreaming.
Exactly my type.
Unfortunately.
But that’s not even the sexiest part right now.
No, the sexiest part is this: he’s not empty-handed.
In one hand, a plate piled like a Renaissance banquet with thick slices of rustic bread, and butter slabs big enough to frighten a cardiologist.
In the other, a glass of whisky large enough to fell a small horse.
“I believe someone was carb-deprived,” he says casually.
I blink. Then blink again.
“Is… is that bread and cheese?”
He grins. “Don’t say I never do anything nice for you.”
Suspicious, I push myself upright on the bed, arms wobbling like Bambi on ice.
“Why are you being nice?” I narrow my eyes at him.
“A peace offering. You looked five minutes away from either passing out or starting a small, carb-related riot. Plus…” his smirk tilts, “…if you faint tomorrow, I’ll be forced to rescue you. In front of witnesses. Again.”
The reminder of earlier, my accidental floor dive and subsequent boob escape, makes me groan into my hands.
“Fair point,” I mumble.
Tyler steps forward, placing the plate and glass carefully on the bedside table like he’s laying tribute at the feet of a hangry empress.
I don’t wait for further discussion. I lunge for the bread with the desperation of a Victorian orphan. Smiling faintly, he turns to leave.
At the door, he glances back over his shoulder. “Sleep well, Hayley,” he says, voice softer than I expected.
Then he’s gone, the door swinging shut behind him.
I’m left alone with bread hanging from my mouth, a whisky at my side, and a suspiciously thundering heart.
It’s just the carbs.
Definitely just the carbs.