Chapter 15
Boobs. Out. Battle Stations
Hayley
My rescuer’s hand is warm and confident in mine as he sweeps me away from the cheese crime scene, spinning us onto the dance floor with the kind of effortless grace that makes people stop and watch.
“Ben’s told me a lot about you,” he says with a grin, settling one hand at my waist as the string quartet slides into something vaguely waltz-like. “Allow me to formally introduce myself. I’m Karl. School friend. Occasional therapist. Now a rare cheese enthusiast.”
“Of course you are,” I say, trying not to look like I’m still traumatised by my dairy dive. “I have a feeling only a true professional could extract a woman from a Camembert catastrophe with such style.”
Karl laughs. “It’s a niche skill, but someone’s got to have it.”
We begin to move, gently at first, as the lights shift and the staff start ferrying away half-squashed Brie wheels and grapes that now look less like hors d’oeuvres and more like the first stage of winemaking.
My cheeks are still hot, my limbs still jelly, but Karl keeps me steady, his movements fluid, his smile easy, his whole presence annoyingly disarming.
He’s handsome. Effortlessly so. And mercifully not in character anymore.
I let myself relax… until I glance across the room at Tyler.
He’s standing near the mead ‘tavern,’ mask tilted slightly, jaw sharp, eyes locked on me.
Which would be fine, if not for the fact that draped over his arm like a designer handbag is the tall, stunning woman with cheekbones carved from marble and a waist so cinched it could get sucked into a Dyson.
I narrow my eyes. She’s laughing at something. Flicking her hair. Touching his arm like she’s already picked out the wedding china.
I nod towards them, keeping my voice breezy. “Friend of yours?”
Karl follows my gaze. “Oh. That’s Helen.”
My stomach dips.
Karl doesn’t seem to notice. “Tyler’s ex. Lawyer from the city. Super clever. Super… intense. She really hates that Ben and Lily paired her up with me for the weekend, hence my hanging out with you, hope you don’t mind?”
I blink, trying not to look like I care one way or the other. “Not at all,” I say lightly, pretending that doesn’t hurt, though my grip on Karl’s shoulder tightens just a little.“And she’s just… here?”
He shrugs. “It’s complicated. They were together for a while. I think she still wants him back.”
Of course she does.
I flick my gaze back to Tyler, who’s still watching me, or maybe watching Karl.
Whatever the reason, I feel the heat rise in my chest.
I smile up at Karl. “Mind if I pull in a little closer? Just… for balance.”
He smiles back. “By all means.”
And I step into his arms, pretending it’s for stability.
Pretending I don’t see Tyler’s jaw clench.
Pretending this isn’t the pettiest waltz in English wedding history.
Karl’s hand rests lightly at my back as the music draws to a close.
“Well,” he says, resigned, “I suppose I’d better return you to your date.”
I arch a brow. “Is that what he is?”
Karl’s smile softens. “Feels like it. And for what it’s worth… even the best partnerships deserve a dramatic finale.”
Something in his tone makes my chest tighten, like he’s not just talking about tonight, but about Tyler and me.
I manage a small smile as we cross the room, which is to say, I try not to trip over my own feet while pretending I haven’t just seen my romantic prospects torpedoed by a peroxide-blonde ex with elite-level smirking credentials.
As we reach the mead table, Karl stops and turns to Tyler with a mock bow. “My Lord, I believe I have something that belongs to you.”
Tyler’s eyes flick to Karl, then land on me, and for a second, there’s no smirk, no sarcasm, just something almost resembling genuine concern.
“I didn’t think you’d come back,” he says quietly.
The words hang there, heavier than I expect.
Then, as if realising he’s let too much slip, he clears his throat, straightens his shoulders, and adds with a mock flourish, “I was about to stage a dramatic sonnet about abandonment.”
I manage a smirk. “Good thing Karl saved you from your tragic debut. He said the walking red flag should be returned to its rightful owner.”
Karl chokes on a laugh, clearly enjoying himself far too much. Tyler just arches a brow, gaze sliding over me in a way that makes my stomach flip.
Before Tyler can respond, she pounces.“I’m Helen,” she purrs, stepping forward, hand extended like we’re about to start a televised debate. Or announce rival mascara launches.“You must be Hayley.”
Her tone drips with the kind of fake politeness you can drown in if you’re not careful.
“Yes,” I reply, taking her hand. Her shake is firm. Predictably cool. The kind of handshake that says I run marathons before breakfast and never get deodorant marks on my clothes.
“Tyler’s been telling me all about you and your… escapades.” She smiles, all perfect teeth and calculation. “Very impressive. I wasn’t sure who they’d cast as the jester of the weekend, but now I don’t need to guess.”
Ouch.
Tyler’s jaw tightens. He shoots her a look that says plenty, and clears his throat. “Helen’s an old friend.”
“We’re much more than friends, darling,” she says lightly, like she’s dropping a bomb over afternoon tea.
My ears are ringing.
And I know, I know, the smart thing to do is snap back. Hit her with a line so sharp it’ll leave claw marks. A verbal mic-drop that would get a standing ovation from Derek the Judgemental Hedge.
But I can’t.
Not with her standing there like a Vogue cover brought to life, statuesque and smug, and me still blotchy-cheeked, slightly cheese-scented, barely held together by hairspray and what’s left of my dignity.
So instead, I smile. Too wide. Too bright. Practically blinding.
“I think I need to freshen up,” I say, already backing away.
Helen leans in slightly as I pass, lowering her voice just enough to make sure only I hear it.
“Good idea,” she croons, faux-sweet. “I thought I smelled Gorgonzola.”
It hits like a slap.
I don’t stop. I don’t turn. I just keep walking, chin high, praying no one can see my hands shaking.
Because if I open my mouth right now, the only thing that’ll come out is a strangled noise somewhere between a scream, a sob, and a feral howl, and I’ll be damned if I give Helen that satisfaction.
The bathroom is blissfully empty.
For the first time in what feels like hours, I’m alone. No ridiculous masks. No wannabe BAFTA dramatics. No towering goddesses making passive-aggressive cheese jokes with their cheekbones.
I grip the edge of the marble sink and let out a long, shaky breath.
The face staring back at me is flushed, sweaty, and has the haunted look of someone who mistook mascara and mild hysteria for sex appeal.
“Of course he doesn’t like you.” I mutter, dabbing at my under-eyes with a damp tissue. “She’s a lawyer-pinup hybrid who probably does yoga in her sleep and files court briefs in stilettos.”
My voice wobbles. Damn it.
“Why would he ever look at someone like me when he can have her? I’m not the love interest; I’m the blooper reel they play after the credits.”
Tears are now Niagara-level, streaming down my face. I swipe at them furiously.
“Nope,” I whisper. “I’m done. Steal a bottle of wine, Hayley. Crawl back to your room, and fully embrace your destiny as the woman who dies alone… surrounded by cats and unfinished scrapbooks.”
I’m about to leave when…
Flush.
I freeze.
The stall door creaks open and out steps Lily’s grandma, still wearing her enormous fascinator and clutching a sequinned handbag like it holds the family silver.
She takes me in with one slow sweep of her eyes. Then, with the kind of amused clarity only possessed by octogenarians and drunk prophets, says, “Bit dramatic for a pee, love.”
I blink.
She calmly reaches for a paper towel, hands it to me, then rests a surprisingly steady hand on my shoulder.
“Men are daft. Always have been. Always will be. But you? You’re brilliant. And if he can’t see that, he’s got less sense than my late husband, and that man once superglued his hand to a roast chicken.”
A startled hiccupy laugh escapes me.
“There she is,” she says with a satisfied nod, giving my shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Don’t let some size-six barrister with a Botox addiction make you forget what you’re made of. Now, fix your face, fluff your hair, and go show that lawyer bitch how a real woman carries herself.”
And with that, she tosses her towel, adjusts her fascinator, and sweeps out like a war general who’s swapped the battlefield for bingo and never lost the instinct to command.
I stare after her, awestruck.
Then I take a long, steadying breath, reapply my lipstick, square my shoulders, and whisper to the mirror, “Alright, Hayley. Boobs out. Battle stations.”