Chapter 20
Let the Games Be Gin
Sunday Morning
Hayley
My head’s pounding again like a Tudor war drum, and this bloody pink monstrosity of a corset? Actively plotting my assassination. But Peacock’s lakeside brunch waits for no hangover.
I stagger onto Hever Castle’s sun-drenched terrace where mismatched goblets and trays of bacon-wrapped quails’ eggs scream ‘chaotic elegance.’ I’m seventy per cent hairspray, twenty per cent regret, and ten per cent pure dread after closing the door on Tyler.
The lake sparkles like it knows something I don’t. Mocking me. I squint, searching for coffee and mercy, only to be greeted by a tray of cocktails with names like Bloody Mary, Queen of Scots.
Peacock bursts onto the terrace like a caffeinated fever dream, his brunch robe a riot of gold brocade and feathers, waving a coupe glass sloshing with something red like a sceptre.
“Rise, my hungover court!” he booms. “These cocktails are your salvation!”
I lurch towards the violently crimson concoction, praying its really espresso in drag, and nearly collide with Lily’s grandmother, who is already watching me like I’m her favourite prime-time soap.
“You look flushed,” she purrs, waggling her eyebrows like she’s about to narrate the next episode of Downton Abbey: After Dark. “Get much sleep, dear?”
I choke, cheeks blazing like a Tudor bonfire. “Oh, I had a wild night, me versus historical fashion and my own poor life choices. Spoiler: they both won.”
She cackles, delighted, and I silently pray she hasn’t heard a single whisper about the garden kiss.
My knight in shining armour, or at least, shining blond hair, sidles up with the smugness of a man holding good gossip.
“Easy on the Queen of Scots, milady,” Karl grins, his annoyingly perfect hair gleaming like he’s in a shampoo advert. He nods to my glass. “We can’t afford another dairy disaster.”
I snort. Sir Karl of Smug Hair, my unexpected saviour. Bless him for trying to lighten the mood, but my smile falters the second I see her.
Helen. Draped in silk. Laughing like she knows exactly where the cameras are. Of course she’s flawless, probably had her hangover surgically removed. She’s chatting to someone, no, flirting, and my stomach does a triple axel.
Is that Tyler?
No. Can’t be. Please don’t be.
Before I can spiral further, a shadow falls over me.
I glance up, and there he is.
Tyler. Looking like he bathed in actual moonlight. Hair mussed just so. Smirk calibrated for maximum damage.
“Morning, my lady chaos,” he says, voice like velvet. “Do you always wake up looking like you survived a scandal… or caused one?”
My pulse stage-dives without checking for a landing.
“Sod off, Tyler. As always, you look like you were moisturised by angels,” I snap. “Frankly, sir, it’s fucking rude!”
He chuckles. My brain immediately queues a Hollywood-style montage of our cheesiest moments, the traitor.
Our eyes lock. The world hushes.
“My lords and ladies, your boats await!” Peacock announces with far too much enthusiasm, arms flung wide like he’s opening a Broadway show. “Channel your inner Boleyn, it’s time for our Regal Rowboat Portrait Series!”
I whirl towards Karl, full panic mode. “I’m stealing you! Be my boat buddy before anyone else claims you.”
He barely manages a blink before Peacock swoops in, clipboard in hand, like a very sparkly avenging angel.
“Ah-ah!” he sing-songs, plucking Karl neatly out of reach. “Assigned partners only, darling. No swapping.”
“What the hell, Peacock!” The nickname slips out before I can stop it, and I slap a hand over my mouth.
Peacock just smirks, entirely too pleased with himself. “Trust the process, my little shipwreck. Fate knows best.”
Karl mouths a helpless apology over his shoulder as Peacock steers him away like he’s directing a scandalous village panto.
And just like that, I’m standing next to Tyler.
Perfect.
Now I’m trapped in a floating photo op with the man who kissed me like a promise… and forgot to mention the woman who thinks they’re just on a break.
My stomach twists. What does he even want from me? Why does he look at me like that if Helen is still in the picture? Is this just sport for him?
Not ideal.
Especially not when Helen glides past, her smile already rehearsed.
“Try not to stand up in the boat, Hayley,” Helen purrs from the dock. “Not all of us were born with balance.”
Gracefully drowning her is I guess illegal, I remind myself as I clamber into the rowboat, doing my best not to give the terrace a period-costume peepshow.
Tyler’s already inside, wrestling the oars and the boat lurches hard enough to make my stomach drop.
Water sprays up, misting my dress. It’s fucking freezing. Of course.
“You’ve doomed us both, my lord,” I groan, clutching the edge. “This is why I don’t trust men with oars. They always think size is the problem when it’s really technique.”
His head snaps around, startled, and then that grin. The one that makes me want to kiss him and throw him in the lake.
“You’re critiquing my technique? You’re the one capsizing us with your sass.”
Another splash, this one soaking my skirt completely.
I glare at him, clutching the sodden fabric.
“My dress is drenched,” I hiss. “I look like the tragic heroine who dies in Act III, Tyler. If I get pneumonia and waste away, this is on you.”
From the dock, Peacock twirls dramatically, feathers flying like he’s summoning rain.
“Longing, not laundering, you aquatic amateurs!” he bellows. “I asked for romance, not river baptism!”
We sit there for a second, dripping, glaring, breathing hard.
And then something shifts.
The look on Tyler’s face, part outrage, part delight, is so ridiculous I can’t hold it in.
A laugh escapes me.
He blinks, startled, then starts laughing too, real, unguarded, head-tipped-back laughter.
And just like that, the tension cracks like ice.
For a brief moment, it’s just us, the lake, and this ridiculous, floating confessional booth.
As the laughter fades, the boat drifts further into the lake, away from the others. The chaos of the terrace dissolves into soft ripples and birdsong, the shouts of Peacock and co. now just faint echoes bouncing off the water.
To my surprise, Tyler actually starts to get the hang of the rowing, his strokes evening out, the boat gliding with something dangerously close to grace.
The sun’s crept higher, casting a warm shimmer across the lake, and the breeze has lost its bite.
It’s… nice. Annoyingly so. The kind of weather you’d write about in an obnoxiously perfect postcard. Wish you were here, etc.
He adjusts his grip on the oars, then sets them down with practiced care. Reaches into his doublet and pulls out a hip flask, because of course he’s that guy. He passes it to me, and when our fingers brush, a spark jolts up my spine like I’ve been tasered by Cupid.
I take a sip. The hair-of-the-dog burn is way too welcome. Gin, obviously, posh wanker.
When I meet his gaze, the words tumble out before I can stop them.
“You kissed me like I meant something,” I say, voice low. “But you were still tangled up in her. Why didn’t you tell me?”
His brows knit. “Helen?”
“Yes. Helen.” Her name tastes like acid. “She told me. Last night. That you only broke up six months ago.”
He flinches, barely, but I see it.
Good.
“When you said she was in the past, I thought you meant actual history. You know, ‘dusty textbook, terrible haircuts, questionable fashion choices’ history. Not ‘still warm in the grave’ history.”
His jaw works.
“You let me fall into that kiss thinking I was something new. But really?” My throat tightens, but I keep going. “I was just the next chapter while the ink was still wet on hers.”
“It wasn’t like that.”
“Then what was it like, Tyler?” My voice is measured, the kind of controlled that lands harder than yelling. “Because I’m not asking for your dating CV. I’m asking why you kissed me like that when you were still carrying her around like a shadow.”
He looks away, jaw tightening until I can see the muscle tick. Then back at me, steady.
“She was a habit, Hayley. Nothing serious.”
I laugh, bitter and wrong, a sound that feels like it slices my own throat.
“You know what habits do, Tyler?” I say, leaning forward. “They hurt people when you don’t break them properly. You don’t get to roll out of her bed and land straight on my lips and call it a clean slate.”
His jaw tightens. “Are we really doing this now?”
“Yes, Tyler.” My voice holds, even though my chest feels like it’s full of bees. “We’re stuck in a floating death trap in the middle of a lake. When else would be good for a snog post-mortem?”
He looks away, silent for a beat. The boat creaks like its eavesdropping. I half expect him to dodge, to deflect, to toss me some clever line and paddle us straight back to the safety of sarcasm.
Instead, he exhales, like he’s bracing for impact.
“You weren’t some rebound,” he says, voice quieter than I’ve ever heard it. “You were the reason I stopped rebounding.”
I go very, very still.
He leans in, not close enough to touch, but close enough that I can feel the heat of him. His voice softens again, dangerous now in how much it sounds like a confession.
“You’re not her shadow, Hayley. You’re the one that…”
The words vanish. Just hang there, unfinished, heavy enough to tilt the whole boat.
Everything inside me lurches.
I stare at him. “That what?”
He sighs, looks out across the water like he might just throw himself in to avoid saying it. “Forget it. You’ve clearly already made up your mind about me.”
“No.” I lean forward, refusing to let him wriggle free. “You started a sentence. You don’t get to bail halfway through; there’s no roleplay safe word here.”
He exhales, almost smiling, but it’s tight, like he’s holding something back.
“Ben told me you were coming.”
My stomach dips. “What?”
“When he said he was getting married, I asked who’d be going. When he mentioned you… I hoped.”
I just stare at him.
He shrugs, his voice more careful. “I knew I’d be signing up for the castle, the drama, and the full-blown Tudor cosplay, but none of it mattered. The second Ben said you’d be here, I was in. Hoping, stupidly maybe, for a chance at a do-over.”
My brain stutters. “Do-over?”
He nods, watching me like he’s just waiting for my brain to finally catch up.
“Ben’s party. Six months ago.”
I blink. “Wait…what?”
“You don’t remember?”
“Should I?”
His mouth curves, half amused, half incredulous. “You were wearing a leather jacket and drinking negronis like they were water.”
Oh God. My stomach twists.
Was that the night I pre-gamed so hard I nearly fell asleep in the Uber? The night I passed out on a beanbag after giving my mum a drunken FaceTime lecture on emotional baggage and the virtues of dipping Doritos in melted Brie?
Okay, side note: I might have a cheese addiction.
I stare at him. “Are you sure that was me?”
He huffs a quiet laugh. “You told me my voice sounded like expensive candlelight… and then asked if I believed in reincarnation because you were convinced we’d met in a past life.”
Oh. Fuck. Yep. That sounds like me.
I cringe so hard my soul leaves my body, dragging a hand down my face. “That… does not sound like a woman making a lasting impression.”
He doesn’t look away. Doesn’t even blink.
“It was,” he says softly. “For me.”
My breath catches, disobedient, like the boat just rocked under me.
“Do you not remember?” he asks, quieter now. “At all?”
I shake my head. “I remember the hangover. And waking up with a goat cheese medallion in my bra. So… no.”
His mouth tips, but the smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Yeah. I figured.”
I want to joke. To throw out something flippant about artisanal lingerie or cheese sponsorship deals.
But the look in his eyes stops me cold.
“I broke up with Helen after that night.” His voice is stripped back, like he’s laying down a card he’s been holding for months. “You made me feel something I hadn’t felt in a long time.” His eyes find mine, unflinching. “Happy.”
The word lands with such quiet force it almost knocks the air out of me.
“You made me smile,” he continues, a ghost of one touching his mouth now. “And I just… knew I needed to see you again.”
I’m silent. Not just speechless, rooted. Heart hammering like it’s trying to catch up.
He leans in just slightly, enough to feel like the rest of the world is eavesdropping on us.
“You weren’t just a stranger in the maze to me, Hayley.” His voice drops even lower. “I already knew you were someone I wanted to get lost with.”
My breath catches so completely I almost laugh, just to break the tension, but I don’t. Because I can’t. Because this is the moment the whole night, the whole weekend, has been winding towards.
My heart stutters. This is so much worse than a rebound.
It’s real.
He already knew me…
My brain flashes back, to the mask, the one that had felt almost too perfect, too pointed. It wasn’t a coincidence. It was a choice.
“You…” My voice is barely a whisper. “You chose the mask, didn’t you?”
He nods without hesitation. “As soon as Ben let it slip that Lily had meddled, that she was pairing us up, I went looking. And when I saw that mask… I knew it had to be yours.”
He holds my gaze, voice softer now. “It was beautiful… A little too much. But beautiful.”
My throat tightens. Words won’t come.
Before I can reply, before I can even connect my brain to my vocal cords, someone shouts from the shore.
“My darlings! Look this way, and for God’s sake smile! Less guillotine, more gondola!”
Peacock waves from the shore like we’re about to re-enact The Notebook.
“Hold it! Yes, perfect, tortured romance, but make it sexy!” he calls, practically vibrating with glee.
I force a grin, my face twitching with the effort. Tyler lets out a chuckle that doesn’t quite land, his eyes stay locked on mine until Peacock claps, delighted, and the shutter clicks.
We row back in silence. No quips. No drama. Just the creak of the boat, the soft slap of water, and everything unsaid between us, crowding the air.
When we reach the dock, I climb out first, legs wobbly as if I’ve been at sea for hours, not minutes.
I turn to say something, anything, but the boat is empty.
Tyler’s already gone.
Vanished.
Always when I’m about to ask why.