Chapter 8
The Burrito Effect
Tyler
If there’s a wrong way to wake up, it’s watching a woman look at you like you’re the punchline to every joke she’s ever made about men.
Hayley Price, sheet-wrapped and glaring at me like she’d rather die than owe me a thank-you.
And the worst part? I’d been smiling. Actually smiling.
She thinks I’m a cliché.
A walking rom-com trope with commitment issues and a body count.
She’s not wrong about the commitment issues, but she’s not right about the rest. Not even close.
By the time I left her room, I was so wound up I couldn’t face breakfast. Didn’t want to sit there with her words replaying in my head while I pretended to be polite.
So, I went for a run.
Not far, just down the long gravel drive, past the ridiculous hedge maze and the ducks glaring like they were on security detail, until my lungs burned and my head was quiet again.
The castle was waking up around me: kids tearing through the play area, parents trying to wrangle them, a little girl clutching a plastic crown like it was treasure.
And for a second, just a second, I wanted that. The chaos, the noise, the little hands tugging at mine.
Then I remembered Hayley’s face when she called me a cliché, and the moment was gone.
I’d showered to cool off, which was pointless, because all it did was give me a clear, uninterrupted mental reel of her.
Her, standing in the middle of that room, sheet barely hanging on, hair a delicious mess, skin flushed from sleep. Looking like she’d just been thoroughly ruined and was daring me to say something about it.
Let’s just say it turned into more of a cold shower than I’d planned.
And then today, in that Music Room, getting to touch her.
Her waist fit perfectly in my hands in a way that made me want to pull her closer, instead of letting go.
She smelt like vanilla and soap, clean, unpretentious, and the longer I held her, the harder it was not to picture burying my face in that scent.
Snuggling her back into that ridiculous burrito sheet and keeping her there until she stopped looking at me like I’m the arrogant bastard.
Which, to be fair, I am.
But not with her.
Not anymore.
Because for all her swearing, for all her chaos, she’s the only one here who feels real.
And when she looked up at me in that Music Room, soft-eyed, apologising, actually letting me in for once, it did something to me.
I almost told her the truth.
That I’m not the man she thinks I am.
That I’m not proud of the things she assumes I’ve done.
That I want to be better than the version of me she has in her head.
I’d been trying to figure out how to say it all morning: the run didn’t help, the shower didn’t help, and when she stood there looking at me like that, it was right there, ready to spill out.
But if I’d opened my mouth, I think too much would’ve come out, more than I’m ready to give away.
So, I did the only thing I know how to do.
I made a joke.
Turned the moment into something lighter, safer.
Because if I’d let myself tell her what I really wanted, what I’m starting to want, I’m not sure I’d have been able to stop.