Chapter 12
Of Rollers and Rogues
Hayley
The mirror fogs in solidarity, as though even it wants plausible deniability for what’s about to happen, which, frankly, is more than I’ll have once these rollers are in.
My cheeks are flushed from a shower that flirted with third-degree burns, and the sight of me mid-roller insertion is less ‘effortless glow-up’ and more ‘Nora Batty shacked up with a Care Bear during a heatwave.’
I pin the final roller with a sigh and take a step back, surveying the chaos like I’ve just finished a particularly unhinged art installation.
“This,” I tell my reflection grimly, “is why Derek the Hedge wouldn’t frolic towards me if I came with free fertiliser.”
The reflection just blinks back at me, all judgy and smug, wearing the same look my mum gives me when I try to claim leggings are trousers.
I towel off my face, swipe under my arms again, still stress-sweaty, of course, then shove a couple of bits of toilet paper under there like I’m seventeen again hiding in the PE changing rooms and praying for divine intervention.
Accepting that this situation calls for industrial-strength containment, I stomp barefoot across the rug to my suitcase, muttering prayers to the gods of shapewear.
I’m bent double, head practically in my knickers bag, arse in the air digging for my emergency Spanx, less sexy temptress, more desperate downward dog on Pornhub, when I freeze.
Because there is a man.
In my bath.
Fully clothed.
Lounging like this is his personal boudoir shoot and I’m the uninvited photographer.
“Holy fuck!” I screech, nearly taking myself out on the suitcase zip as I whip around. I clutch the towel tighter, a towel that suddenly feels about as protective as a cocktail napkin, and glare at him like I can set him on fire with my eyes.
“Have you lost your mind?”
Tyler doesn’t even flinch. Just lifts one arm to rest behind his smug, beautiful head and casually raises the other, holding a black box. “I knocked. You didn’t answer. So, I let myself in.”
“That’s called breaking and entering, you psycho!”
He shrugs. “It’s not breaking if the doors open. And it’s not entering if I’m a roguish earl honourably courting his reluctant lady. Besides…” His mouth quirks, “…our role card does say ‘secret trysts,’ Hayley. I’m just being historically accurate.”
I stare at him, dumbfounded, rollers bobbing like they’re offended on my behalf.
“You can’t just appear while I look like…this!” I wave at my rollers, my towel, my entire existence.
He smirks, giving me a slow once-over. “On the contrary, milady, I think this look might be my favourite so far. Even better than the twigs. Very… avant-garde.”
I grab the nearest pillow and hurl it at his far too handsome head.
He doesn’t duck. Just lets it hit him square in the chest, grinning like I’ve thrown him a love note instead of soft furnishings.
I follow his line of sight.
Oh. Fuck. He’s seen the toilet roll.
How can this be happening again?
The bastard actually tilts his head like David Attenborough has just discovered a new species in the wild
“Are you… leaking? Or is that some kind of Tudor insulation?”
“It’s stress absorption!” I snap, yanking the paper out and flinging it across the room. “It’s practical. Olympians probably do it.”
“Right.” He fights a grin. “Gold medal, then. Very innovative.”
“What. Do. You. Want?” I growl, snatching my dressing gown from the bed and yanking it on like armour.
He sits up, places the box on the edge of the bath, and says simply, “For tonight.”
I narrow my eyes. He just grins, and damn it, the grin is unfair.
“I figured you were about as prepared for this ball as I am for my tax return, and probably forgot it was masked. Also…” A beat, softer, “I owe you. For the hedge-spiral-slash-duck debacle.”
A laugh bursts out of me before I can stop it. God help me, I think he’s trying. And worse, it’s kind of working.
I eye the box. Then him. Then the box again.
“How do you even have this? Not even Prime delivers this fast.”
He winks. “Always so perceptive, princess.”
I fold my arms, eyeing him warily. “You do realise you’re still in my bath?”
He stretches, slow and lazy, before spreading his arms like he’s doing a bloody calendar shoot. “I do. And I must say… it’s incredibly comfortable. Spacious. Plenty of room for…”
“GET. OUT.”
He raises his hands in mock surrender and stands, smooth and annoyingly athletic. Broad shoulders, rolled sleeves, white shirt clinging in ways that should be illegal.
Athletic arsehat. That would’ve taken me at least a minute and a pulled hamstring.
He straightens, adjusts his cuffs like nothing happened, then smirks as he heads for the door.
“Rogues these days,” he mutters, pausing just long enough to look back at me.
I cross my arms and glare.
“Used to be you could charm a woman with a well-timed bath ambush. These days? Courtship’s fucking exhausting.”
The rollers are out.
My face is on.
But the bath intruder is still playing on a mental loop like a very annoying, very sexy pop-up ad.
My dress is…mostly on.
I’ve managed everything except the final zip, which is currently wedged somewhere in the vicinity of my bra strap. I’ve tried coat-hanger acrobatics, tactical squishing, and something that could technically be classified as yoga, but the damn thing won’t budge.
I refuse to be defeated.
“Come on, you little bastard,” I mutter, wrestling the zip and blowing an escaping curl out of my face.
The knock comes just as I let out a particularly undignified grunt.
I freeze, hand still wedged behind my back. “Who is it?”
“Tyler.”
Of course. Because why would it be Lily?
She’s probably getting trussed up in a lace masterpiece right now, glowing like bridal royalty and preparing to glide downstairs in full ‘here comes the bride’ glory.
Checking on the chaotic bridesmaid, who’s currently losing a wrestling match with her dress, is very much not on her to-do list.
“You actually knocked this time,” I call, still catching my breath from what might as well have been a marathon.
“Trying a new approach.”
“Don’t come in!” I shout, still grappling with the zip. “I’m not…ready.”
There’s a pause.
Then the soft click of the handle.
“Tyler!”
The door creaks open.
I whirl around, breathless, expecting a smirk. A wink. Something cocky and insufferable.
But he just stands there.
Silent.
His hair is slicked back, still damp at the edges like he’s fresh from a shower.
A black eye mask with silver trim sits snug against his cheekbones, sharp, elegant, infuriatingly unfair.
The rest of him is head-to-toe in full Tudor regalia, and yet he somehow still manages to look dangerous.
The top buttons of his doublet are undone, revealing a sliver of chest and collarbone like he’s personally declared war on every functioning ovary in the building.
My mouth goes dry.
He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t grin. Doesn’t move.
Just looks.
No smirk. No jokes. And somehow, that’s worse.
“Zip,” I croak. It’s the only word that makes it out.
One corner of his mouth lifts, not quite a smile. “Allow me.”
He steps closer, deliberately slow, like he knows exactly what he’s doing to me. The air thickens with every inch he closes between us.
I turn around, still clutching the front of my bodice, my heart hammering.
His fingertips skim the small of my back, warm and careful, and the intimacy of it nearly undoes me. It’s such a simple act, closing a zip, but it feels too close, too familiar, like we’ve done this a hundred times before in some other life, and my body remembers even if my mind doesn’t.
The thought makes my pulse stutter.
He works the zip, the glide unhurried, the sound of it sliding home impossibly loud. His touch is almost reverent.
When he reaches the top, his fingers pause, brushing the base of my neck like a question, before he lets go.
Goosebumps ripple up my arms.
I turn back to face him, my fingers still gripping the front of my dress, pulse thudding at my throat.
And our eyes catch.
The energy between us shifts, subtle, but unmistakable. Heavier and charged, like the whole room is holding its breath and waiting to see who sparks first.
My lungs forget their job, my pulse, a wild traitorous drum in my ears.
There’s no humour in his face. No cockiness. No shield of sarcasm.
No mask, not really, despite the one resting just beneath his eyes.
Just him.
Just me.
And this, whatever this is, simmering between us. My breath comes shallow, my fingers twitch at my sides, like they’re aching to close the distance and not entirely sure they’re allowed.
He’s the first to speak.
“The mask?”
His voice is low. Rough, maybe. Or maybe it’s just my brain, still fried from earlier roller trauma and general Tyler proximity.
I nod and move to the bed, reaching for the unopened box he left earlier. It’s still pristine, not because I didn’t want to look, but because I’d been too busy fighting with rogue curls, and my own mortality.
My fingers fumble the lid open like it might explode.
Inside is a pink satin eye mask, not the flimsy plastic sort you grab at a party shop, but something exquisite.
The satin is soft, almost liquid under my fingertips, shimmering with the faintest blush when it catches the light.
Tiny diamantés trace the edges in a pattern so precise it looks stitched by fairy hands, catching like stars every time I move.
It’s not remotely Tudor-approved, which somehow makes it feel even more perfect, like a quiet rebellion wrapped in ribbon.
I gasp. Not dramatically, just a sharp, involuntary inhale that escapes before I can stop it.
“It’s beautiful,” I whisper.
And it is. It’s thoughtful. Personal, even. Like someone knew I’d never have chosen black or gold or anything too obvious, knew I’d need something that felt soft, romantic, a little bit playful, something that would make me feel like me.
I glance up at him, suspicion flickering. How the hell did he even find this in the middle of nowhere? It’s not like Hever Castle has a secret ballgown boutique in the gift shop.
He steps closer, clearing his throat. “May I?”
I nod, throat too tight to manage words.
His hands are careful as he ties the ribbon behind my head and adjusts the fit with maddening precision, fingers brushing the edge of my hairline as though he has all the time in the world.
When I finally turn to face him, the moment between us hums.
“What, Mr. Rogue,” I whisper, “no jokes?”
He doesn’t look away. Doesn’t smirk.
When he speaks, his voice is quiet, almost rough, like the words cost him something.
“There’s nothing to laugh at.”
Something in my chest tips, a soft lurch that steals the snark right out of me.
I simply nod.
Because for once, I can’t speak.
He holds out his hand, palm open, steady, patient.
For a heartbeat, I just stare at it, like taking it might be some kind of irreversible choice.
Then I slide my fingers into his, and he curls his around mine, strong and sure, like there was never any doubt I’d say yes.
The touch is simple. Too simple for how it feels.
Warmth runs up my arm, settling somewhere deep and low and we step into the corridor together, hand in hand, masked and silent.
And in that quiet, terrifyingly vulnerable moment, one thought lodges so firmly in my chest I almost trip on the carpet:
I want this story to keep going.
Hand in hand.
Page after page.
As if maybe, finally, I’ve found the chapter where I’m meant to start.