Chapter 4 - ASH
ASH
Someone Squeaky Clean
The city blurs past my windshield, all sharp edges and traffic lights I barely notice. I’m gripping the steering wheel too tightly and replaying the same ten seconds over and over in my head.
Her breath. Her lips. The exact moment I kissed Olive Hart.
What the hell was I thinking?
I’ve kissed thousands of women. Models, actresses, groupies. Women who wore designer perfume and practiced their angles in front of mirrors. Women who knew exactly who I was and wanted the myth more than the man.
But none of them—none—were my best friend’s sister.
In fuzzy socks.
With powdered sugar on her leggings and a throw pillow between us like a makeshift battlefield.
It was supposed to be harmless. Teasing. Maybe a little flirtation.
Just something to cut through the tension that had been buzzing ever since I walked through Liam’s door and found her there—naked, dripping, furious… and way too beautiful for my peace of mind.
But that kiss?
It knocked the breath out of me.
And what really rattles me isn’t the kiss itself.
It’s the way she looked at me after.
Like she didn’t know whether to slap me or kiss me again.
And for a second—I wanted both.
I shake my head and press harder on the gas. I should be thinking about the lawsuit. The brand deal. The management meeting I’m ten minutes late for.
Instead, I’m thinking about her.
Her mouth, her hands, the way she kissed me back with this raw, unpracticed intensity that made it feel real.
Which is a problem.
A massive, brother-code-breaking problem.
Because she’s Liam’s fucking little sister.
Off-limits in flashing neon.
Untouchable.
And I crossed a line I told myself I wouldn’t even go near.
I pull into the driveway of my house—the gates glide open as I roll up the drive, tires whispering over smooth stone. The driveway curves like it was designed for paparazzi shots—wide, dramatic, lined with softly glowing uplights and tall cypress trees that flicker gold in the dusk.
The house comes into view like a scene from a movie.
All clean angles and warm wood, glass walls catching the last of the sun and throwing it back in amber streaks. Not just big—breathtaking. A three-level marvel cut into the hillside, overlooking the city like it owns the skyline. Which, honestly, it kind of does.
It still hits me sometimes. I grew up sleeping on a mattress on the floor of a one-bedroom walk-up with peeling wallpaper and neighbors who fought through the walls. Now? I own six bathrooms, an infinity pool, and a house with a temperature-controlled wine wall I’ve literally never touched.
I park out front, walk up the limestone steps, and scan my fingerprint at the door. It clicks open with a soft chime.
Inside, it’s quiet. Peaceful.
The foyer is flooded with warm light, high ceilings stretching up to floating staircases and open balconies. Polished oak floors gleam beneath a hand-blown glass chandelier.
The scent of cedar and bergamot lingers in the air—subtle, not sterile. It’s what I told the interior designer: make it expensive, but make it feel like someone lives here.
And it does. I do.
The living room opens up ahead—sunken and sleek, with caramel leather sectionals, plush gray throws, and a massive hearth glowing gold with soft embers on a timer.
Jazz hums from hidden speakers—Melody Gardot, if I had to guess.
The whole place radiates comfort, and I exhale slowly.
This is my sanctuary. My home. Because I made it that way.
Floor-to-ceiling windows frame a panoramic view of L.A.—a glittering sprawl of lights against twilight. In the corner, my favorite piece: a matte black baby grand piano, lit from above by a sculptural pendant like it’s onstage.
I toss my keys into the marble tray by the console, slip off my boots, and let the house wrap around me. No echoes here. Just quiet luxury and the kind of stillness that reminds me how far I’ve come.
I pour a club soda from the built-in bar—three limes, plenty of ice—into a crystal tumbler and step into my office. Sinking into the leather chair, I take a slow sip, letting the chill settle as the video call loads.
With a soft chime, the screen flickers to life. Five faces appear in neat little boxes.
Scott—my manager—is dead center, already frowning like I personally ran over his dog. Surrounding him are my PR rep, my brand liaison, my agent, and the poor legal guy who always looks like he wants to crawl out of his own skin whenever I speak.
“Ash,” Scott says, nodding once. “Appreciate you showing up.”
I lift my glass. “Wouldn’t miss it. Love these team-building circles.”
No one laughs.
Scott cuts straight to it. “As we all know, three brands have pulled out this week.”
He doesn't even warm me up first. Just bam—right in the teeth.
“Which ones again?” I ask.
“Draven Skin, Fused, and the Vital Rush campaign. Energy drinks, remember?”
I groan. “That’s a lot of money right there.”
“You nailed it,” says the PR guy without a shred of irony. “The word they used for you was ‘uncontrolled risk.’”
Scott leans forward, fingers steepled. “And we’re on thin ice with Vital+. That’s the family-oriented one. Huge wellness push. Yoga, supplements, matching loungewear.”
I let my head fall back against the chair. “Jesus. One supposed backstage incident and everyone forgets I haven’t thrown a chair in, what—two years?”
“Doesn’t matter,” Scott says. “It’s not about what you did—it’s about what it looks like you could do. And right now? It looks like you’re spiraling. Doing drugs. Being reckless. That kind of thing.”
“Great. So what’s the plan?” I ask. “Rebrand me as a monk? Shave my head and open a smoothie truck?”
There’s a long pause.
The PR guy clears his throat. “They want something visible. A gesture. Something that says you’re stable. Grounded. Reformed.”
I take a slow sip of club soda and mutter, “Maybe I’ll just marry someone squeaky clean and pretend I’ve matured.”
It’s a joke.
Mostly.
But something about it hits different the second it leaves my mouth.
My brain latches onto the thought.
Squeaky clean. Wholesome. Smart. Doesn’t take my crap. Olive.
I see her clearly in my head—defensive hoodie, sharp mouth, warm eyes. The way she kissed me like she’d forgotten the rest of the world existed. And the way she looked after—like she didn’t know whether to murder me or kiss me again.
And she’s broke. She told me that. She needs money.
I’ve got more of it than I can spend and zero credibility left.
She’s everything I’m not.
And that’s exactly why it could work.
My fingers tighten around the glass.
“Anything you want to suggest?” Scott asks, watching me.
I look back at the screen.
“Let me get back to you on that,” I say slowly, still thinking.
I know it’s a crazy idea.
And if we do this, it has to be strictly business.
No more kissing. No more getting naked. No sex.
Otherwise, Liam would kill me.
The meeting ends with a promise to “circle back” and a spreadsheet I’m never opening.
I shut my laptop and just sit there, thinking.
Olive Hart.
My best friend’s little sister.
And, apparently, my best bad idea yet.
I swirl my club soda, watching light catch the ice and bead along the rim. Could she really pull it off? Could we? A fake marriage. On paper. In public.
I grin.
She got flustered over one kiss. One kiss and she looked like she couldn’t decide whether to run or throttle me. Or both.
It shouldn’t be fun.
But it is.
I picture her on my arm at a gala—stiff-backed and suspicious in some jaw-dropping gown. The way her fingers would dig into mine just a little too hard. The sweet, polite smile she’d wear for the cameras. And the death glare she’d shoot me the second no one was looking.
God, the headlines.
“Ash Ryder Settles Down”
“Rockstar Tamed by Bookish Bride”
“From Tabloids to True Love?”
I laugh under my breath and take another slow sip.
The truth is, she’s perfect for it. The image. The story. The tension. All of it. She’s real in a way that cuts through the noise. She doesn't try to impress me. Doesn’t care about the name. She kissed me like it meant something—then acted like it didn’t.
And she needs money.
That part stings more than I expected. She shouldn’t have to need anything. Not someone like her.
But I have too much of it.
And not enough credibility.
She has the opposite problem.
And if I’m being honest—really honest—part of me just wants to see what would happen if we tried.
If she stood next to me in front of flashing cameras and called me her husband with that fire in her eyes and that stubborn mouth daring me to enjoy it.
It’s a disaster waiting to happen.
Which is probably why I already want to say yes.
I strip down and step into the shower, letting the hot water hit me like I’m trying to burn the tension out of my skin.
But it doesn’t work.
I brace a hand against the marble wall, lean my head forward, and exhale hard.
Olive Hart.
She’s everywhere.
In my bloodstream. My thoughts. That impossible little laugh. The flash of teeth when she’s annoyed. The way she glares like it’s a weapon—and has no idea how much it turns me on.
The kiss replays in perfect, excruciating detail—her breath catching, fingers fisting in my T-shirt, that soft, surprised sound when I pulled her in like I’d been waiting years.
I squeeze my eyes shut, letting my other hand drift down my chest, across my stomach.
She’s Liam’s sister. She’s off-limits. But my body doesn’t give a damn.
All it knows is her. Her mouth. Her heat. The way she looked at me like she was seconds from falling apart—and I was the one pulling the thread.
My cock is already hard. I wrap my hand around myself and groan—low, quiet—water rushing over my back.
I know I can’t have her, not for real. But this? This is mine. So I chase that release alone.
It’s almost too much. Too good. But I keep going. My hand moves with just the right pressure, my breaths coming in sharp, shallow bursts. Steam clings to my skin. I close my eyes and let the water wash over my face as I stroke faster, grip tightening, the world narrowing to this one burning need.
Pre-cum slicks my cock, the motion smoother, more intense. The pressure builds—tight, hot, relentless.
I think of her. Of what might’ve happened if Liam hadn’t walked in. If I’d pressed her into the cushions. If I’d kissed her until she forgot everything but me. If I’d taken her up on everything she was offering.
It’s over embarrassingly fast. With a sharp exhale, I climax.
My body tenses, every muscle rigid, as I ejaculate.
My cock pulses in my hand, shooting stream after stream of cum into the water.
It mixes with the flow, disappearing almost instantly, but the sensation is overwhelming.
My head falls back, water running down my face, as I ride out the waves of pleasure.
It’s intense, all-consuming, and I let out a low, guttural groan.
The sound echoes in the space, a raw confession of my need.
The release is everything I hoped for—a rush of relief and satisfaction that hits me like the water itself. My body eases, hand slowing as the last of the tension drains away. I stand there, spent, water still cascading over me, letting the moment stretch.
My breath comes hard. One hand braces against the wall, heart still thudding like she’s in the next room instead of a hundred blocks away.
I let the water run a little longer, trying to rinse her from my mind. Then I clean up, towel off, pull on a soft cotton tee and my favorite sweatpants.
Outside, the pool glows turquoise in the dark. The breeze smells like jasmine.
I sink into one of the pool chairs and pull out my phone. No notifications worth checking—just a stack of unread texts from my agent and two trending article alerts I already know will piss me off.
I ignore them.
Instead, I open the Notes app.
New note.
My fingers hover for a second.
Then I type:
Fake Wife Criteria
My thumbs move fast—clinical. Detached. Cold, on purpose.
- Wholesome
- Low-drama
- Not famous
- Not sexy in a threatening way
- Comfortable in the background
- Easy to explain
- Won’t fall in love
- Will say yes for the right price
I stare at it. It reads like a casting call. Like I’m building a character, not involving a real person.
Good. That’s what this has to be.
This isn’t about feelings.
I continue to type: Fake Marriage Contract – Draft
It looks ridiculous. Stark. Utterly insane.
And yet… completely right.
I start listing terms, fast, like if I think too hard about it I might lose my nerve:
– 1 year minimum commitment– Must live together– Monthly stipend (generous)– Bonus upon successful completion
I stare at the last line, thumb still hovering.
Bonus.
It makes it sound transactional. Which, sure, it is.
But also… not really.
I think of Olive again. The way she glares when she’s flustered. That pink flush crawling up her neck when I get too close. The way she kissed me like she forgot how to lie.
I smirk.
Yeah.
This is going to be fun.