Chapter 6 - ASH
ASH
Roomies
The house is quiet after Liam leaves. Too quiet.
I figured Olive needed space to think in his tiny apartment, so Liam came over for a few drinks. He left a few minutes ago.
Now that he’s gone, my thoughts won’t settle. I’m pacing the edge of the infinity pool barefoot, city lights scattered like diamonds below, phone in hand, thumb hovering over nothing.
And then it buzzes. Just once.
A message. From her.
I swipe it open.
Olive:
Let’s do it.
I stare at the words, reading them again. And again.
And suddenly, it’s real.
She said yes. She’s going to marry me.
For my career? This is everything I need. It’s controlled. Clean. Executable.
I tilt my head back, staring up at the stars. There’s a weight lifting off my shoulders.
I sit down on the edge of a lounge chair by the pool, screen glowing in the dark, thumbs hovering for a beat before I reply.
Ash:
Didn’t expect you to text back tonight.
Her response comes fast.
Olive:
Didn’t expect you to propose marriage, so I guess we’re both full of surprises.
I grin.
Ash:
Touché. So… this is a yes?
Olive:
It’s a “yes, but this is still objectively insane.”
Ash:
Agreed. Entirely unhinged.
Olive:
Glad we’re on the same page.
Ash:
I’ll have the draft contract ready this week. Sound good?
There’s a pause this time. A full minute before her reply comes through.
Olive:
Yeah, who doesn’t love a good fake marriage contract?
She’s quick. Sharp. Warm beneath the sarcasm. And she’s not afraid of me. That’s rare.
Ash:
Speaking of which—we should make this as real as possible. That means moving in together.
Olive:
Like… immediately? Hopefully your place is more spacious than Liam’s.
Ash:
It’s a big house. You’ll have your own room. I promise.
Olive:
Fine. But I’m not doing your laundry and cooking.
Ash:
Wouldn’t ask you to. Maybe I’ll cook for you. Besides, I have a housekeeper. You’ll meet her.
Olive:
Of course you do, Mr. Rockstar.
Ash:
Talk soon, Hart.
Olive:
Goodnight, Ash.
***
I hear the security gate buzz before my phone lights up with the message:
Olive Hart has arrived.
Right on time.
I close the fridge, leave the untouched smoothie on the counter—something my assistant dropped off because apparently my “image” now includes antioxidants—and head for the front door.
Through the tall windows, I catch a glimpse of her:
Dragging two overstuffed suitcases up the front walk, hair pulled back in a loose ponytail, hoodie tied around her waist, wearing a soft blue T-shirt and jeans that hug her legs in a way I immediately have to not think about. She’s squinting up at the house like it personally insulted her.
She looks cute.
Totally out of place against the backdrop of high-end stonework, architectural symmetry, and manicured hedges.
And still—she makes the whole place look better.
I open the front door just as she reaches the top step.
“Hey, roomie,” I say, leaning casually against the frame.
She blows a strand of hair out of her face, hands on her hips. “You weren’t kidding about the big house.”
I grin. “Judgmental much?”
“Judgmental? Me? I’m the opposite of judgmental. You can be as rich as you want—I won’t give a damn.”
I decide that last part’s probably true and reach for one of her bags. “Come on. Let’s get you inside before your suitcase rips a hole in the earth.”
“It’s mostly books,” she mutters, dragging the second one behind her as she steps over the threshold.
“Of course it is,” I say.
The door swings shut behind her with a soft click.
And just like that, she’s in my house.
Standing in my foyer.
Looking around with wide eyes like she just fell through a portal into another life.
She turns in a slow circle, taking it all in—the curved staircase, the marble floors, the infinity pool glinting beyond the windows, the way late-afternoon light spills across the piano in the sunken living room.
“Do I need a map? A passport?”
“You’ll get used to it.” I start walking, motioning for her to follow. “Come on. Tour time.”
She trails behind me like she’s not sure she belongs here.
“Living room,” I say, gesturing with a dramatic sweep as we pass the sunken space with floor-to-ceiling windows, a plush leather sectional, and the baby grand. “Nobody really sits here. I’m usually outside, in the kitchen, or the studio. But it’s great for movie nights.”
Her gaze lingers on the piano. “Do you actually play?”
I glance back at her. “Well enough to make a room full of hipsters cry.”
Her mouth twitches, but she manages to hold it together.
Next stop: the kitchen.
“I like to cook. But my housekeeper does some meal prep too, so there’s always something edible in the fridge.”
“That must be… handy,” she says—and I’m pretty sure she gulps.
We pass the pool next—expansive, infinity-edged, glowing pale blue even in daylight, with a stone waterfall spilling in a soft, steady ribbon at one end. Beyond that, the pool house-slash-recording studio gleams like a minimalist spaceship.
“Studio’s soundproof,” I say casually. “So you should be good, even if I stay there late into the night. That sometimes happens when I’m on a roll.”
“Okay.”
We turn the corner and nearly run into Margot, my housekeeper.
She’s in sleek black, AirPods in, tablet tucked under one arm like she’s heading into a mission briefing. She’s French, one of the kindest souls on earth—but composed in that way that makes entire rooms behave.
“Margot,” I say, already easing a smile. “This is Olive. As I mentioned, she’ll be staying with me from now on.”
Margot’s glance is quick and kind, more welcome than inspection. “Olive,” she says, with a small nod that somehow feels like a curtsey. “Bienvenue. I hope your room is to your liking. Fresh linens are in the top drawer. The laundry schedule lives in the household binder.”
Olive blinks. “There’s a binder?”
Margot’s mouth tilts. “There are tabs,” she says, dry as good tea. “If you prefer chaos, we can negotiate.” She shifts the tablet to her other arm. “Shall I put the kettle on?”
“Yes, please,” I say, grateful for the way she makes everything sound simple.
“Very good.” She gives Olive another small, approving nod. “If you need anything, call my name. I appear.” Then she glides down the hall, already half-listening to something only she can hear.
Olive turns to me slowly. “What did you even tell her? Does she know about us? Is she aware that you’re, you know—?” She doesn’t finish the sentence, and I have no idea what she means.
“I told her you’re the love of my life, that I couldn’t wait any longer, and I asked you to marry me.”
“But what about the separate bedrooms? Doesn’t she think that’s… weird?” She frowns, clearly puzzling it over.
“What you should know about Margot,” I say, guiding her down another hallway, “is that she doesn’t ask questions. She’s very discreet. She was housekeeper to the British Prime Minister once.”
“Oh, goodie,” she mutters. Then, only half-sarcastic: “Does Margot live here too—maybe in the servant’s wing?”
I chuckle. “No servant wing. I’ve got a few people who help with the house and garden, but none of them live here.”
Under her breath, Olive mutters, “This place has more bathrooms than I have pairs of underwear.”
I laugh, pausing outside one of the guest suites. “Here we are.”
I push the door open.
The room is enormous—vaulted ceilings, a four-poster bed dressed in cloud-soft linens, soft gray walls, and floor-to-ceiling curtains that billow slightly from the breeze of the balcony beyond. A candle flickers on the nightstand. Margot’s doing, probably.
Olive steps in like she’s afraid to breathe too hard.
“This is a guest room?” she says.
I lean against the doorframe, watching her take it in. “It’s yours now. For the next year.”
She turns, looking at me. There’s something quiet in her eyes. Something not entirely sarcastic. “This is… beautiful. Thank you, Ash.”
I’m relieved to hear it, because I want her to have her own space where she feels comfortable. “I’m glad you like it,” I say truthfully.
“I do. Just a little bit of my personal touch and this will be absolutely perfect.” She grins and gets to work.
She proceeds to unpack one of her suitcases and out come fairy lights, a fuzzy lavender blanket that she throws over the foot of the bed, lots and lots of books. I swear, that suitcase is like a fucking Mary Poppins bag.
I lean against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching her hanging the fairy lights. The room glows instantly—soft, golden, and completely different.
Next she unpacks a ridiculous—and I mean ridiculous—hedgehog-shaped pillow with beady eyes and a smug little face that looks personally offended by my wallpaper.
She fluffs it once and pats its spiky faux-fur head like it’s an old friend.
“This is Bernard,” she says solemnly.
I eye the hideous thing. “Bernard? He looks more like a Kevin to me.”
She tsks, genuinely offended. “He is no Kevin. Why do you and Liam hate him?” Then, to the pillow: “Don’t listen to them, Bernard. You are beautiful, inside and out.”
I huff a laugh. “Liam’s probably glad to be rid of him. What did he say about you agreeing to fake-marry me, anyway?”
“Oh, you know. Threatening serious bodily harm. The usual. He’ll get used to it.“
Then she pulls out a stack of books—well-worn paperbacks with cracked spines, heart-covered covers, and titles that might as well scream hot mess in a tuxedo falls for sunshine disaster.
She lines them up on the windowsill like they’re sacred relics.
Romance novels.
I eye her stack of paperbacks—each one featuring a half-naked man on the cover. Not just shirtless. Windswept shirtless. Muscles glistening. Eyes smoldering.
She catches the look on my face and lunges as I reach for one, but I’m faster. I hold it out of her reach, flipping to the page marked with a crumpled receipt.
“Ash, stop! That’s a breach of privacy. Give it back!”