Chapter 6
Sheet Happens
Saturday Morning
Hayley
Islept like the dead, probably because I’d waged a one-woman war against my bodice, fortified by the whisky Tyler brought me, before passing out on top of the covers in my knickers, like a Downton Abbey scandal waiting to be quietly dealt with.
Romantic, if you ignore the probable freight-train snoring and the fact that my tights are still cinched together at the ankles, leaving me effectively bound by hosiery.
What isn’t romantic? The banging on my door.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
I groan, one eye cracking open, my brain, useless traitor that it is, slowly reminding me this isn’t a dream. This is a nightmare. The wedding. The corset.
“WHAT?” I yell, instantly regretting it as my own voice ricochets off the high Tudor ceiling.
“Wakey, wakey! Eggs and bakey!”
The voice is male. Loud. Way too chipper for this ungodly hour. And unmistakably his.
“Go. Away.”
I fling a pillow at the door, silently cursing whoever invented castles, weddings, and mornings.
“Open up, milady. Your earl has come to your rescue.”
“Unless you’re here to tell me the wedding’s been cancelled and we can all go home, kindly fuck off.”
“No such luck, princess. Is the door unlocked? I’m coming in.”
“Wait, no! Don’t…”
Too late. The door swings open and in he strolls, infuriatingly bright-eyed, boots polished, doublet straight, looking like he’s about to lead a parade, just in time to catch me wrapped in nothing but a sheet, the world’s least seductive burrito.
His eyes sweep the scene, and I know exactly what he’s noticed. I kick the tights off in a flurry of limbs and regret, clutching the sheet tighter.
Tyler just smiles, leaning against the doorframe like he has all the time in the world.
“Well,” he drawls, the corner of his mouth curving. “If I’d known this was the dress code, I’d have knocked sooner.”
“Shut your eyes!” I shriek, yanking the sheet tighter until I’m one panic-breath away from mummification.
“Not a chance. Besides, you want what’s in my hands.”
I make the mistake of glancing at said hands. Big, tanned, annoyingly competent-looking hands.
“No, I do not want your hands,” I snap, far too quickly.
He smirks.
“Relax. I didn’t say my hands. I said what’s in them.”
Only then do I notice the mug, steam curling lazily into the air.
“Coffee?”
I eye the mug. I eye him. I weigh my dignity against the need for survival.
Survival wins.
“Holy crap. Gimme.”
I edge closer, sheet barely holding on, past the point of caring that I’m one slip away from accidental indecency. Coffee first. Modesty later.
He places the coffee on the side table with deliberate precision, like he knows I’m seconds from lunging for it.
“I heard some rather violent grunting last night, followed by a thud and then radio silence. Thought maybe you’d either passed out or murdered your corset in cold blood.”
I lift the mug with trembling hands and inhale the steam like it’s oxygen.
“You know what? You’re still a dick. But this…” I cradle the mug to my chest, “…is appreciated.”
Rather than doing the sane, decent thing and leaving, Tyler makes himself comfortable.
He drops into the chair beside my bed, legs crossed, elbow slung lazily on the armrest, perfectly at home, as though we’re about to have a cosy fireside chat instead of me sitting here half-naked clutching a mug of coffee for dear life.
“Er… what are you doing?” I say, tightening the sheet. “You can leave now, you know.”
“Thought I’d stay a minute,” he says, infuriatingly casual. “Seems we got off on the wrong foot. And since we’re meant to be star-crossed lovers this weekend, I figured I’d…”
“What?” I cut in. “Ignore every rule of social etiquette and stage a scandal by lurking in a half-naked woman’s bedroom?”
His grin is pure trouble. “Exactly. Method acting.” Then he softens, just a fraction. “Or I could try to, you know… actually get to know you.”
“Perfect. Let’s schedule that for a time when I’m wearing actual clothes and not emotionally tethered to a duvet.”
“Hmm,” he says, gaze dipping to the sheet, “some of the best conversations I’ve had with women happen when they’re emotionally tethered to a duvet.”
Figures.
Men like him probably collect duvet confessions for sport. I can practically see the highlight reel, endless women tangled in sheets, laughing at his stupid jokes, whispering secrets into that smug jawline.
Except… something about the way his mouth quirks now doesn’t look smug. Not really. For a split second, he looks, almost, curious. Like he’s waiting to see what I’ll do next.
I try not to picture us joining the montage, legs overlapping, coffee breath and something dangerously close to intimacy.
My brain, apparently has its own agenda.
I shake it off. Nope. Not going there. Not even for caffeine.
“Wow,” I deadpan. “Is that before or after you tell them you’re ‘not like other guys’?”
His mouth curves. “You’re quick.”
“And you’re a certified douche canoe.”
He doesn’t rise to the bait. Just tilts his head, studying me. “Maybe. Or maybe I’m actually curious.”
“About what?”
There’s a beat of silence, long enough for my pulse to trip over itself.
“You,” he says at last. “You’re… entertaining.”
I blink.
“Wow. Be still my heart.” I take a sip of coffee and mutter, “Truly the compliment every woman dreams of.” I glance at my mug. “You didn’t poison it, did you?”
“I did consider it.” He shrugs, utterly calm. “But then I remembered that would leave me alone for the rest of the weekend. And frankly, your chaos is still the most interesting thing on offer in this pantomime.”
Ouch.
It shouldn’t sting, but it does. Entertaining. Like I’m a sideshow. Something to keep the crowd amused until the main act shows up. I’ve spent years laughing off that label, the girl who trips over her own feet, the punchline, the comic relief. It’s easier to lean into it than admit it hurts.
“So glad my rapid descent to social pariah status is providing you with quality entertainment,” I say, dry as dust.
He leans forward slightly, elbows on knees, head tilted like he’s about to say something that actually matters. I don’t let him.
“Entertaining,” I repeat, heat creeping through my voice. “That’s what this is to you? I’m a novelty act? Something to watch when you’re bored?”
The air between us shifts. His smile falls.
He doesn’t answer right away. Just watches me, jaw tight, shoulders tense, like he’s deciding whether to stay or walk.
“You don’t know me,” he says quietly.
The softness in his voice makes my stomach twist, which only pisses me off more. Because now it feels like there’s something underneath all that smugness, and I don’t know what to do with that.
“I don’t need to know you,” I fire back. “You’re a walking cliché. Broody. Hot. Definitely emotionally unavailable. I bet you ghosted at least two women this year because they used too many exclamation marks in their texts.”
He’s silent for a beat too long. The mood curdles.
“You know what?” he says finally, standing. “You’re right. I’m a dick. But at least I’m the dick who brought you coffee. Where are all your friends, Hayley? Who else is here, making sure you don’t starve before brunch?”
That one lands. Hard.
He crosses the room, shoulders still tight, one hand on the door handle.
“See you at the dance lesson, milady,” he says, without looking back.
And then he’s gone.
The door clicks shut, leaving me with half a coffee, half a regret, and the emotional equivalent of getting dumped by someone I’m not technically dating.