Chapter 11
Melt or Bite
Tyler
I’m knackered, scratched to shit by roses, and staring at Hayley belting out a power ballad to a bloody hedge.
Not a shy hum, no, she’s going full X Factor. Arms flung wide, face tipped to the sky, gloriously off-pitch like she’s summoning the ghosts of dead Tudors with Tesco’s cheapest rosé. I legged it through this maze expecting her to be chucking wine cups or swearing at squirrels.
Instead, she’s sprawled in the clearing, legs out, fuck-ugly mustard-yellow gown trying to strangle her, twigs in her hair, singing like the hedge is the last man left on earth.
I should have delivered a killer line. Something flirty. Instead, I stood there like a prat in a codpiece and called her “Bridget Jones.”
Smooth, Tyler.
Fuck me, she was a state. But she’s the kind of state you run toward, not away from. The kind you want to brush clean, pour another glass of wine for, and hope she’ll let you stay.
Truth is, I didn’t want to be late. The second I realised the race started without me, something ugly twisted in my gut.
I legged it faster, thorns tearing at my arms, because of course she’d think I’d ditched her.
Yet again, I’d demonstrated the exact type of man she thinks I am, the one who doesn’t show up.
The universe is clearly taking the piss right now.
I should probably tell her why I got delayed, but she seems to have forgiven me, so why make it a bigger thing?
Maybe that story’s for another time.
Hayley’s a whirlwind with a soft centre. One minute, she’s slagging off a shrub she’s affectionately dubbed Derek; the next, she’s cracking her heart open like it’s nothing.
She’s got no clue she’s beautiful.
Sounds like a rom-com line, but there she is, trussed up in that godawful corsetry, screaming ‘Henry VIII wouldn’t shag this,’ and somehow, she’s still electric.
And the way she felt in my arms during that dance?
Christ.
Soft and warm, the kind of body you want to get your hands on properly. My hand anchored her, every muscle fighting the pull to close the distance, and the air between us forgot how to behave.
She’s not like the usual women I’ve dated, all angles and air kisses, smelling like department stores and hairspray.
Hayley’s real.
She shifted under my hand like she might actually let me hold her there, pull her closer, find out if she’d melt or bite.
She smelled incredible, the kind of incredible that ruins you for anyone else. For a second, I wanted to haul her against me, mouth to her neck, to see if she’d gasp, swear, or laugh in my ear.
She’s the kind of woman you want to wake up with, hair wrecked, face buried in your pillow, body pressed against yours, while Homes Under the Hammer drones in the background and neither of you bothers getting dressed until noon.
Her confidence? Built from the ground up, chipped but unshakeable, like a beam that’s weathered storm after storm.
She reckons she’s the spare part. The comic relief. Makes me want to shake her, kiss her, and apologise all in the same breath.
I’d have wrestled Lord Moustache myself to keep him and his twirly, ticklish paws away from her. Nearly did, just to keep that laugh of hers coming.
Then there’s her ‘two years’ bombshell.
Two years without a man? Her? The woman who lights up a room like a bloody firework?
I’m gobsmacked. Makes me want to track down every tosser who fumbled the ball and boot their shins for good measure.
She’s not just hot, she’s Hayley. How the hell has no one been smart enough to stay?
Telling her she scares me was a daft move.
But she does.
Not her motor mouth or that riot-starting laugh, it’s the way she sees straight through me.
Cuts through my BS like a hot knife through butter.
Makes me want to tell her everything. And I don’t tell anyone everything.
Not my mates. Not my family. Definitely not women who call me a dick before coffee.
I walked away from a future paved with trust funds and champagne receptions. Built a life that actually belonged to me. Best decision I ever made, even if it made me the cautionary tale they whisper about over port.
That’s why Hayley’s ‘black sheep’ jab hit closer than she knows. Stung like a bastard.
She thinks no one ever picks her. Maybe that’s been true.
I don’t know what this is, but I know I want more of it. More of her.
Even if she never finds out how long I’ve been looking.