Chapter 16
Eyes Open, Hayley
Hayley
The bathroom door swings open, and I step out, freshly powdered, still blotchy in places, and armed with a pep talk from an old woman who once witnessed a poultry–superglue incident
I’m halfway down the corridor to freedom when my eyes collide with the last thing I need right now: an actual Adonis.
Tyler.
He’s leaning against the wall like he was painted there, one foot braced, arms folded. The mask’s still in place, but it’s his eyes that pin me. Not amused. Not smug.
Just… watching.
“You alright?” His voice is low, softer than I’m used to.
I blink. “Are you seriously loitering outside the ladies’ like some sort of satin-clad stalker?”
He just shrugs. “Wasn’t sure if you were planning to climb out the window.”
“Tempting,” I mutter, brushing past him, except he shifts, blocking my path without apology.
“Hayley.”
I stop.
Not because he said my name, but because of how he said it. No banter. No smirk.
“You look upset.”
I fold my arms. “What gave it away? The running, or Helen’s subtle suggestion that I belong in cold storage?”
His jaw tightens. “Helen can be… a lot.”
“Ah. So you did notice her trying to socially assassinate me with a single eyebrow-raise.”
“I didn’t ask her to come,” he says quietly. “Didn’t even know she was invited.”
Something stupid flutters in my chest, and I try to crush it.
“I wasn’t jealous,” I blurt.
“Didn’t say you were.”
“Good. Because I wasn’t.”
Silence stretches between us, thick with every unsaid thing.
Then he looks at me properly. Not like I’m comic relief. Not like I’m the girl who crashed the cheese tower. Just… me.
And then, gently, he tucks a strand of hair behind my ear.
“You look beautiful tonight, Hayley.”
The words land between us like they weigh something. And the worst part? I think he means it.
I laugh, nervous and too quick. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Be nice. It’s confusing.”
He steps closer, his voice dropping. “You think that’s me being nice? You should hear me when I’m actually trying.”
My mouth goes dry. He’s too close. His gaze flicks to my lips, and…traitor that I am…mine do the same.
And then…
“Don’t mind me, lovebirds.”
We jolt apart like guilty teenagers as my bathroom grandma general shuffles past, gin and tonic clutched in her hands like holy water.
She gives us a look so knowing that, if it wasn’t for the drink in her hands, I’d be convinced she lingered around the corner just to see if her meddling pep talk paid off.
Tyler clears his throat. I stare very hard at the floor.
He coughs again, fussing with his cuff like it’s fascinating.
“So,” he says finally, voice pitched just for me, “want to get out of here? Walk. Air. Fewer lawyers.”
I glance up, wary. “Is that an invitation or a veiled abduction threat?”
He tilts his head, mouth tugging at the corner. “Depends. Are you going to scream?”
“Maybe. Depends how far we’re walking and whether my heels survive.”
His half-smile deepens. “Then I’ll carry you.”
“Oh God, is this where you start quoting Shakespeare and I faint into your velvet-clad arms?”
“No,” he says, offering me his hand. “This is where we escape before someone hands you a script called ‘Act V: Fondle My Duckies, Henry.’”
I snort, despite myself, and stare at his hand.
And for one long, reckless second, I let myself want it, want him, the touch, the quiet, the maybe-clean slate waiting somewhere beyond this ridiculous castle.
So, I take it.
And let him lead me out into the night.
The air outside is cooler than I expect, edged with something almost romantic, the faint hum of music drifting from the Ballroom. Somewhere, a string quartet is playing something slow and syrupy, the kind of tune that makes people grab whoever’s nearest and slip into the shadows.
Fairy lights blink across the hedgerows like hesitant stars, throwing pools of gold over the path.
A fountain burbles somewhere in the distance, steady and hypnotic, and every now and then I catch glimpses of couples disappearing behind archways, their laughter carried on the breeze, the whole garden feeling like a stage set for bad decisions.
We walk in silence at first.
His hand is still in mine.
Which I definitely didn’t mean to keep holding.
Which I also absolutely don’t let go of.
It’s steady, anchoring. My pulse latches onto the rhythm, slow at first, then quickening as the quiet stretches between us.
I nod towards the lights.
“Feels like we’re one harp solo away from a surprise engagement. Or a murder.”
“Bit of both, maybe,” Tyler replies, deadpan. “First Dates meets Poirot.”
I huff out a laugh, but it catches halfway, because he’s still looking at me. The kind of look that feels too loaded for casual banter. Like he’s tuned out the music, the lights, even the couples sneaking off into the night, and the only thing left in focus is me.
We reach the edge of the garden, where the path curls into a small orchard. The trees are gnarled and twisted, branches arching overhead like a canopy. More fairy lights are strung through them, flickering softly, making the whole place feel like a secret.
There’s a wrought-iron bench under one of the trees, half-hidden in shadow. Tyler gestures toward it.
“Sit?”
I hesitate, my pulse still trying to catch up with me. “Is this the part where you confess you’re married with three kids and a secret career as a magician?”
He drops onto the bench, stretching one leg out. “No,” he says, dry. “But if I did magic, I’d probably use it to disappear whenever Helen walks into a room.”
A laugh escapes me before I can stop it, and some of the tension in my chest loosens.
“Let’s keep walking,” I say quickly, because sitting feels dangerous, too still, too intimate.
He nods without argument, rising easily, and falls back into step beside me. The silence stretches again, but it doesn’t feel awkward this time. Just… comfortable.
“Sorry,” he says eventually, breaking the quiet.
I glance at him. “For what?”
“For… earlier. For her.”
“It’s not your fault she thinks I’m the wedding jester.”
His mouth twists, his expression briefly hardening. “She doesn’t know you.”
“I would ask what the hell you saw in her… but then I have eyes, so I can kind of guess.”
“There you go again,” he says, glancing at me sideways, “judging a book by its cover.” A pause. “But in this case, you’d be right.”
I stop walking for a second. “Really?”
He nods once, jaw tight, like this isn’t a story he shares often.
“Ben set us up. She ticked all the boxes, on paper. Clever, polished, the perfect plus-one for a gallery opening. But she bored me to tears. In the end, I couldn’t even look at her without wishing I was home, hiding under a blanket with the telly on. ”
The corner of my mouth quirks despite myself. “So, she’s your type, then?”
He shoots me a look. “That’s what you got from all of that?”
I shrug, but something shifts between us. The banter slips, the ground feels unsteady, like we’ve wandered off the safe path into deeper, quieter woods. His words aren’t just words now, they seem more exposed, and suddenly I’m aware of how personal this is becoming.
Panic flares. I reach for the only weapon I trust.
Humour.
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome,” I say, the words dripping with exaggerated pity. “It’s just hard to feel sympathy for a man who’s dated a woman that looks like she moonlights for Cosmo and probably knows how to work a charcuterie board without toppling it.”
He grins, slow and infuriating. “So, what’s your type then?”
“My type? I don’t really have one.” I shrug. “Unless you count emotionally unavailable men with questionable hobbies and the ability to ruin me with one look.”
Tyler chuckles, the sound curling down my spine. “Well. That’s oddly specific.”
“Yeah, well. I like a challenge.”
He steps a little closer, his eyes glinting under the moonlight. “And am I… ruining you yet?”
My pulse stutters, but I tilt my head and force a smirk. “Not yet. But the night is young, my lord.”
His grin widens, cocky and wicked. “Ah, so I’m ‘my lord’ again. Should I prepare for another fake proposal? Or are you planning to run into another dairy-based disaster to avoid kissing me?”
I gasp. “Excuse me, I was ambushed by a poorly designed cheese installation and emotionally destabilised by… cheekbones.”
He raises an eyebrow, smug. “So, you do think I’m handsome.”
I roll my eyes. “Stop fishing.”
“Not fishing,” he says, walking backwards now, keeping pace with me, his smile downright dangerous. “Just clarifying. So, to recap…you claim I don’t ruin you, I don’t make you wobble, and apparently, I’m not your type?”
“Exactly.”
He stops.
I almost collide with him, momentum catching in my chest.
Then he leans down, stopping just short of contact, the warmth of him brushing my skin. Every nerve in my body goes on high alert.
The night air suddenly feels thinner, like the space around me has tightened.
My pulse hammers in my throat.
He doesn’t look away. Just stays there, so close I could count his lashes if my brain were capable of anything other than short-circuiting.
“Liar.”
It’s barely more than a breath, but it strikes like flint to steel, a spark I feel far too keenly.
Before I can argue, before I can think, Tyler closes the gap between us.
His fingers skim my jaw, feather-light, tracing a path up until his palm cups my face. His thumb brushes my cheek, like he’s trying to memorise the exact shape of me.
It’s gentle, tender.
But there’s nothing polite about the way he’s looking at me.
My breath catches. Heat pools low in my stomach. My knees nearly buckle.
And then he kisses me.
It isn’t rushed.
It isn’t careless.
It feels like a decision made somewhere deeper than thought.
He leans in, slow enough that I could stop him if I wanted to. But I don’t.
His mouth meets mine carefully at first, a question more than a claim, and the surprise of it steals the air from my lungs.
The kiss deepens, unhurried and sure, like he knows exactly where this is going and isn’t afraid to take the long way there. One hand settles at my waist, steady and warm, grounding me as the world quietly tilts.
I melt into him before I even realise I’ve moved.
Everything else fades. The stone walls. The distant music. The castle itself could crumble and I wouldn’t notice. There is only this closeness, this quiet intensity, the way he holds me like I matter.
My hands rest against his chest, feeling the calm strength beneath them, his heartbeat steady and certain, as if it has all the time in the world.
The kiss lingers, tender and devastating all at once, and something inside me shifts. Not breaks. Not burns.
Opens.
When he finally pulls back, he doesn’t let go. The space between us hums, the moment delicate and charged.
“Still not your type?”
I can’t even form a sound.
My fingers stay tangled in his shirt. My breath comes shallow and uneven. My eyes stay clamped shut like I can hold onto the kiss just by refusing to open them.
Silence.
“Erm… Hayley?”
His voice is tender now.
“Eyes open.”
I blink, heart hammering. When I meet his gaze, there’s a spark there, not teasing exactly, but knowing. His mouth curves, just slightly, like he’s proud of himself.
“Say it,” he says quietly.
“Say what?” My voice comes out barely more than a breath.
“That I’m your type.”
I go to respond.
Then…
A dramatic cough explodes from the hedgerow.
We both jerk apart like guilty teenagers.
Peacock emerges from behind a rose bush, wine glass in one hand, vape pen in the other, mask pushed up onto his forehead.
But this isn’t the Peacock we know, no strut, no jazz hands, no feathers metaphorically or otherwise.
His doublet is unfastened at the collar, revealing a triangle of tanned chest dusted with salt-and-pepper hair.
The eyeliner is smudged, his hair slightly mussed, and for the first time all weekend, he looks… normal.
Worse. He looks good.
“Carry on,” he says, voice stripped of its usual theatrics, low and smooth, exhaling smoke in a lazy curl. “I was just enjoying Act VI: Tongues and Tensions from my private box. Five stars. Minimal cheese this time. Refreshing.”
Tyler groans quietly. I want the gravel to swallow me whole.
Peacock takes a long drag, then lets the smoke out in a sigh, leaning against the balustrade like a man who’s seen some things.
Without the glitter and the performance, he’s suddenly older, broader, the kind of man you’d actually notice across a bar for reasons that have nothing to do with his wardrobe.
“Honestly,” he says, swirling the wine in his glass, “you two are the only ones who haven’t made me want to hurl a swan at someone this weekend.”
“You’re… smoking,” I manage, dumbfounded.
He glances down at the vape pen with a ghost of a smile. “Honey, if you think I’m getting through this Tudor nightmare without nicotine and Pinot Grigio, you’ve seriously overestimated my commitment to immersive theatre.”
I squint at him. “Wait…”
“Are you…” Tyler frowns. “Are you American?”
Something flickers across Peacock’s face. Not surprise. Amusement.
“Observant,” he says lightly. “Yes.”
I blink. “But your accent…”
“It’s all theatre,” he cuts in smoothly, taking another drag. A pause, then a faint, knowing smile. “And it’s a story for another time.”
He pushes off the balustrade, posture loose now, almost casual, and fixes us both with a level look.
“Anyway, back to your story. I do one of these weddings every month,” he says, the performance completely gone from his voice.
“Same costumes, same speeches, same star-crossed weirdos acting out their repressed issues in doublet and hose. But you two…” His gaze softens just slightly.
“You’ve got spark. Real tension. You’ll end the weekend in either a passionate make-out or mutually assured destruction. Either way…entertaining.”
Tyler blinks. “This is you being professional?”
Peacock smirks faintly, but it’s warmer now. “I’m off duty.”
He drains the last sip of wine and sets the glass on the balustrade with a decisive clink.
“Don’t waste it,” he adds, his voice dropping low enough that it feels almost private. “Whatever this is between you two… it’s not in the script.”
Then, with one last look, one that feels almost approving, he turns and strolls away, humming “Greensleeves” under his breath, disappearing into the night like a man who knows exactly how much chaos he’s just stirred.
I exhale, long and slow.
“American,” I mutter, mostly to myself.
Tyler glances sideways. “You okay?”
I nod once, still staring after Peacock. “I have no idea,” I admit. “But God help me… I think I really like him.”
The words hang in the air, heavier than they should, as I’m not entirely sure if I mean Peacock, stripped back, suddenly magnetic, unexpectedly human…
Or the man next to me.
The one who just kissed me like I was oxygen.