Chapter 3
OLIVE
A Rockstar’s Kiss
His mouth is on mine and I can’t remember how breathing works.
One second I’m arguing with him, and the next, I’m pressed against him on the couch—one hand fisted in the front of his T-shirt, the other braced on his shoulder like I’m afraid I might fall.
I don’t know who kissed who first. Maybe it doesn’t matter. All I know is his lips are warm and his hands are on my waist and he’s kissing me like I’m something he didn’t realize he was starving for until now.
And God help me—I’m kissing him back.
He tastes like sugar and coffee, and something hotter, darker, entirely his. His hand slides up my side, fingers splaying wide, not demanding—just there. Like he’s holding me in place while the rest of the world falls away.
And it does.
Everything—my messy life, the couch I’ve been sleeping on, the fact that this is my brother’s best friend—it all disappears under the press of his mouth, the slow drag of his lips, the way his thumb brushes bare skin just above the waistband of my leggings.
I gasp softly, and he answers with a low sound in the back of his throat that curls heat through my spine.
This is a bad idea.
The worst idea.
I should stop.
I should absolutely, definitely stop.
Instead, I shift closer, my knees brushing his thigh as I tilt my head and kiss him deeper. His tongue meets mine—slow, teasing, devastating—and my body arches instinctively like I want to crawl into him and stay there.
There’s nothing slow or safe about this anymore. It’s all pull. All spark. All gravity.
And when his hand moves up, fingers brushing the hem of my hoodie, I swear my brain just… fizzles.
I’m not thinking about consequences.
I’m not thinking at all.
I’m just feeling.
And God, he feels good.
He kisses like he knows exactly what he’s doing—and exactly what it’s doing to me. My fingers slide up the back of his neck, into his hair, and he groans into my mouth. It’s low and raw and wrecked, and it undoes something inside me I didn’t even know was still holding on.
I want to live in this moment. I want to bottle it. I want to write a blog post called “How to Know You’ve Made a Huge Mistake That Feels Unfairly Incredible” and then delete it and do this all over again.
And then—
Keys jangle at the door.
We freeze.
The world shifts. Snaps.
Oh no. No no no no—
Liam.
I bolt off the couch like I’ve been electrocuted.
My socked foot catches on the rug and I nearly wipe out, flailing for balance.
Ash doesn’t move with anything close to the same level of panic.
He just blinks once, turns calmly, and picks up a donut off the coffee table like he hasn’t been kissing the hell out of his best friend’s little sister.
I grab the first thing in reach—an old paperback from the end table—and clutch it like it’s a lifeline. Like it can explain the heat in my face or the fact that my lips are tingling or that my bra strap is currently halfway down my arm.
The door swings open.
Liam walks in, headphones around his neck, a bag of tortilla chips in one hand and a six-pack of sparkling water in the other. He’s humming under his breath.
He doesn’t even glance at us.
“Yo,” he says, kicking the door shut with his foot. “Did I miss donut day?”
I stare at him like I’ve forgotten how language works. My entire face is on fire. I hold the book up higher, like maybe if I pretend to read, the universe will retroactively erase the last three minutes of my life.
Ash, of course, doesn’t miss a beat.
He lifts the donut in his hand and says, “Help yourself. But Olive crushed the good ones in a moment of crisis.”
I whip around to glare at him. His voice is smooth. Unbothered. The smug bastard is smiling like he didn’t just have his tongue in my mouth ten seconds ago.
Liam shrugs, dumps the snacks on the counter, and heads to the fridge. “I’ll take what I can get.”
I finally exhale. My knees are still wobbly. My mouth still tastes like Ash.
I risk a glance.
He’s already watching me.
And that stupid, smug half-smile?
Still there.
Liam’s muttering at the fridge like it personally insulted him, and I’m pretending to scroll my phone—while sneak-glancing at Ash every ten seconds like a complete weirdo.
Not that he seems to notice. He’s back to being effortlessly chill, lounging like he owns the place—which, honestly, he probably could, judging by the sheer confidence radiating off him.
I try to focus on breathing like a normal person.
“Anyway,” Liam says, flopping into the armchair. “I just spent twenty minutes on a call with a guy who thinks a quarter-inch cable and an XLR are the same thing. I swear if I hear one more person use the word ‘vibe’ in a tech conversation, I’m going to lose it.”
Ash chuckles. “You should’ve sent him that video from the benefit concert last year—the one where the power cut out mid-song and I had to finish the chorus unplugged. Crowd thought it was planned.”
Liam grins. “Still one of the best nights. You didn’t even flinch. Just kept playing, and everyone lost their minds.”
“Fire Season blew up after that,” Ash mutters around a sip of coffee.
I blink, caught off guard. “Wait—you were involved in Fire Season? I love that song!”
Liam looks at me like I’ve sprouted horns. “Ja, you could definitely say Ash was involved in Fire Season.”
I narrow my eyes. “What exactly is your role in the music industry, then, Ash?”
“I’m a singer-songwriter. Rock, soul, folk—whatever you want to call it,” Ash says with a shrug, like this is nothing.
Wait.
No. It can’t be.
My gaze shifts to him. Ash, who’s calmly biting into a donut like he isn’t detonating my entire worldview. Ash, with the tattoos. The guitar. The voice. The smirk that suddenly feels way too familiar.
Oh. My. God.
“You’re not—” My voice cracks. “You’re not Ash Ryder?”
He shrugs, maddeningly casual. “Last I checked.”
I stare at him like he’s grown a second, smug head. No way.
I blink. Once. Twice.
Liam stares at me like I’ve just confessed to never hearing of oxygen. “Wait—you seriously didn’t know?”
“No,” I hiss. “Because you forgot to mention that tiny little detail, didn’t you, dearest brother?”
But now I have to ask myself—how did I miss it?
The attitude.
The way he walks like the world owes him something and he’s already decided not to collect.
The way he kissed me like he had nothing to prove… but did it anyway.
Oh God.
I kissed that.
Ash Ryder is a big-name singer-songwriter I know from the radio.
Think pop-alt with killer hooks—the kind of songs you scream in the car, plus a few gut-punch ballads that sneak up on you.
His tracks always chart on Spotify, his tours sell out in minutes, and fans camp outside arenas for days just to snag the best spots.
He’s got a Grammy, millions of adoring fans—men want to be him, women fawn over him.
My stomach twists. Heat flushes up my neck. My thoughts start colliding like dominoes in a hurricane.
Ash Ryder. The Ash Ryder. Tabloid menace. Infamous stage-kisser-slash-hotel-trasher. The guy who once got banned from three late-night shows in one week.
I made out with him on a couch in my brother’s apartment.
He probably thinks it was nothing. Probably does that with every girl who gives him attitude and wears fuzzy socks and doesn’t immediately recognize his face from a thousand magazine covers.
I was just another story.
Another stupid, impulsive mistake.
Liam, completely oblivious to the existential crisis unfolding inside my skull, walks over and drops a bag of chips on the counter. “You seriously didn’t know? Olive, come on. He’s on the radio constantly.”
Ash is watching me now.
Not smug. Not cruel. Just… waiting.
“You really didn’t know, did you?” he says, like he’s still trying to wrap his head around it.
I swallow. My throat is dry. My voice comes out small.
“No. I didn’t recognize you.”
From across the room, Liam’s grinning like this is the most entertaining thing he’s seen all week.
No suspicious glances. No what the hell is going on between you two glares. Just pure, blissful ignorance.
And then it hits me—
He doesn’t know.
Liam has absolutely no idea that ten minutes ago, his best friend and rockstar had his hands on my waist and his mouth on mine.
That I kissed him back like I meant it. Like I still want to.
My heart lurches.
I glance at Ash out of the corner of my eye.
He’s lounging like always, elbow on the back of the couch, that same unreadable half-smile playing at the corner of his mouth. He looks infuriatingly calm. Like nothing at all is unusual. Like kissing me didn’t even register.
And maybe it didn’t.
He’s Ash Ryder. He’s kissed more people in a year than I’ve probably spoken to. Maybe this was just another Tuesday to him. Maybe I’m the only one stuck here, breathing too fast, trying not to melt under the weight of everything unsaid.
I drag my eyes back to the book in my lap, heart hammering.
Don’t look at him. Don’t look at him. Don’t—
I look at him.
He catches it, of course. His mouth twitches slightly—like he knows exactly what I’m thinking and is already preparing to tease me for it.
I snap my head back toward the book and focus very hard on a sentence I’ve already read six times.
Liam cracks open a can of something fizzy and squints at Ash. “So… are you gonna tell me why you really showed up, or was this just a donut delivery?”
Ash, who’s still lounging on the couch beside me with the same annoyingly relaxed energy he’s had all day, leans back and exhales through his nose. “I was going to talk to you in private.”
At that, his eyes flick toward me—brief, guarded, but enough to make my stomach dip.
I sit up a little straighter. “I can leave if—”
“No,” Liam interrupts, waving a hand between us. “She’s fine. Olive’s solid.”
Ash’s expression doesn’t change, but something in his posture shifts. He studies me for half a beat longer, like he’s measuring the weight of Liam’s words.
Then he shrugs and runs a hand through his hair.
“Alright. Fine,” he says. “But this doesn’t leave this room.”
I nod, trying not to look too curious.
Ash leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “I’m being sued.”
Liam straightens, the casual air gone instantly. “Wait—what?”
“Backstage incident. I wasn’t even there when it happened. Some jackass trashed a dressing room during one of my shows—knocked over lighting gear, ruined equipment, security footage is inconclusive. The venue’s blaming me, probably because my name draws the bigger settlement.”
“Jesus,” Liam mutters.
Ash nods. “My lawyer says it’s going to get ugly before it gets better. I’ve already had three brands pull out of upcoming campaigns just from the rumors.”
“And the new deal?” Liam asks.
“That’s the other thing.” Ash exhales again and rubs the back of his neck. “Management’s been circling this family-friendly partnership with a huge wellness brand. It’s clean money. Long-term. But I’m too much of a liability right now.”
“So you’re trying to look... safer,” Liam says slowly.
Ash gives a wry smile. “Less ‘wrecking hotel rooms,’ more ‘buys organic produce at farmers markets.’”
I can’t help it—I snort.
Both of them glance at me, and I lift my hands. “Sorry. It’s just—that version of you is very hard to picture.”
Ash arches a brow. “You don’t think I scream wholesome domesticity?”
“Not unless donuts count as a food group.”
He huffs out a small laugh, then looks away. His voice drops lower, more serious. “I just... needed to talk to someone about it. Everything’s been nonstop pressure lately. From management, press, lawyers—hell, even my agent’s voice stresses me out now.”
I stay silent on the couch, not wanting to intrude. But Ash glances at me briefly, then back at Liam.
“I know you get it,” he continues. “You’ve seen it all. You know how fast this shit turns. And I don’t always know who’s actually in my corner anymore.”
Liam’s expression softens. “You know I’ve got you.”
Ash nods, but I can tell he’s still holding something back.
“I’m just trying to do the right thing,” he says.
“Protect my team, protect the brand. Keep the business side from going up in flames. But it’s hard, man.
I built this career on my name, and now it feels like everyone wants to use that name to burn me down. ”
There’s a beat of silence. Just long enough for the heaviness of it to settle in the room.
And for a second, I forget all about the music videos and magazine covers and the stupid, wild kiss we shared. All I see is a guy under pressure, fraying at the edges.
Liam pushes up from the armchair and claps a hand on Ash’s shoulder. “You’ll figure it out. You always do.”
Ash nods—grateful, but distant. He checks his phone and sighs. “I’ve gotta head out. Meeting with management.”
Then he turns to me—briefly, almost carefully. “Nice meeting you, Olive. I’ll see you around?”
I force a smile. “Sure thing.”
He looks back at Liam. “Thanks for letting me drop in.”
“Anytime,” Liam says.
And just like that, Ash steps into his boots, and heads out the door—leaving behind nothing but donut crumbs and a strange tension hanging in the air.