Chapter 8 - ASH
ASH
Like a Christmas Tree
Iwake up slowly.
Disoriented, warm, heavy in a way that feels less like sleep and more like I’ve been anchored.
It takes me a second to realize where I am.
Couch. Dim morning light filtering through the curtains. The faint scent of shampoo that doesn’t belong to me.
And then—
Her.
Olive.
Soft and still in my arms, breathing slow and steady, her head tucked beneath my chin. One of her legs is tangled with mine. Her hand rests on my chest, fingers curled just slightly in the fabric of my shirt like she held on all night.
And I’m hard.
Of course I am.
Because she’s warm and sweet and curled up against me and not mine. And my body is a traitor with zero regard for boundaries.
I try not to move.
She shifts, just barely—and yeah, she’s awake. She definitely feels it.
Fuck.
I close my eyes and try to focus on anything else.
Last night.
The nightmare. The memory I’ve tried to shove into the back of my brain for two years like it couldn’t still cut me open.
And then Olive—sitting with me. Quiet. Solid. Real.
She held my hand like it was the most natural thing in the world. Let me lie down with her like I deserved comfort.
I haven’t let anyone do that in a long time.
It’s always easier to joke. To charm. To play the part. But last night, I wasn’t performing.
And she didn’t run.
It felt good to say it out loud. Weirdly good. Like I’d let something out I didn’t realize I was still carrying. Like a pressure valve finally releasing.
And now—this. Her body curled into mine, fitting too perfectly, like some sick kind of punishment for a man who’s supposed to keep his distance.
Olive shifts against me again—her hand brushing over my stomach, her thigh sliding just a little more against mine.
And I nearly groan.
Yep. Still hard. Still a terrible time to exist in my own body.
She blinks up at me, eyes bleary and still soft with sleep. “Morning,” she whispers.
Her voice is husky. Like velvet and trouble.
I clear my throat, trying to focus on anything but the fact that her body is pressed against mine and my dick has zero shame about it.
“Morning,” I say. “Don’t freak out, but I’m gonna need you to get up first.”
Her brows knit. “Why?”
I raise one eyebrow. Give her a look.
She blinks again. Then her eyes widen, and her cheeks flush bright pink. “Oh.”
“Yeah. That.”
She practically vaults off the couch, clutching the blanket like it’s a lifeline. “Right. I’ll just—go. Coffee. Pants. Yes.”
I laugh under my breath as she disappears into the kitchen like she’s fleeing a crime scene.
Once she’s gone, I sit up and run a hand through my hair.
Sunday. Right. We’ve got a busy day ahead. First, a meeting with the wedding planner. Then a pre-wedding cover shoot for a magazine.
I pull on a hoodie and head to the kitchen, where she’s already clutching a mug like it’s shielding her from the memory of what just happened.
“Crisis averted?” I ask, grabbing a mug of my own.
“Barely,” she mutters.
I smirk. “Relax, Hart. It’s a biological inevitability.”
“You sound very calm about it.”
“I’m a man of experience,” I say, sipping my coffee.
I nod toward the folder on the table. “So… you ready for our meeting with the wedding planner?”
She groans. “God help us.” Olive reaches for the guest list we filled out together—the names of the people we each wanted to invite.
“Okay, let’s see,” she says, chewing on her lip. “Who’s on your list?”
I shrug. “Liam, obviously. Some friends. A few people from the label. My manager. Maybe… a couple industry folks to make it look legit.”
She looks up. “What about your parents?”
I pause, mug halfway to my lips.
Here we go.
“We’re not close,” I say finally. My jaw tightens before I can stop it.
She must notice, because her voice softens. “You don’t have to answer if it’s a thing.”
“It’s a thing.”
She waits. Not pressuring. Just… open.
I set down my mug and exhale. “They’re not the dramatic, disown-you kind. Just… disappointed. Always have been.”
Olive watches me closely, her hands wrapped around her mug. Silent, steady.
“My dad was a structural engineer. My mom stayed home. Very traditional. Very stable. They didn’t get it when I quit school to play guitar. Didn’t come to my first show. Or my fifth. Or my first stadium tour.”
I laugh, but it’s not really funny. “I think my mom still tells people I’m in ‘entertainment consulting.’”
Olive winces. “Oof.”
“And when I became the guy in the magazines with tattoos and eyeliner and rumors about hotel rooms—I think they gave up trying.”
I don’t mean for it to come out bitter. But it does.
Olive reaches for a pen and taps the paper gently. “You could still invite them.”
I raise a brow. “Why would I?”
“Because maybe it’s time. And maybe you’d regret it if you didn’t.”
I scoff. “You’re seriously advocating for the people who called my last album ‘concerning noise pollution’ to sit front row at our fake wedding?”
She smiles. “Not for them. For you.”
I go quiet.
Then I glance at her page, which she’s been mostly avoiding. “What about you? Who are you inviting?”
She shrugs, light but careful. “Nina, definitely. A couple of teachers I’m close to. My old neighbor, Marlene—she used to bring me pie every Sunday. Maybe Grace from book club, if she doesn’t bring her ex again.”
She smiles, but it flickers around the edges.
I glance down at the empty section marked Family of the Bride. Still blank—except for Liam’s name. My chest tightens.
“You know I don’t have anyone else in my family. Not since Grandma passed. She became my guardian after my parents died in that car crash. Liam was already an adult, so it wasn’t the same for him. But I was only fourteen. And Grandma… she became my everything.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, because it’s the only thing I can say.
She nods, looking into her coffee like it might explain something to her.
A small, fond smile tugs at her mouth. “I think she would’ve liked this whole fake-marriage plan. She was chaotic like that. She once faked a sprained ankle to get out of a blind date.”
I smile too. “She sounds like a legend.”
“She was.” Olive runs her thumb along the rim of the mug.
Something tightens in my chest. Because the way she says it? It’s not wistful. It’s earned. The kind of grief you carry quietly. Daily.
And now I’m the only person sitting at this kitchen table who has parents still breathing—and I’m the one refusing to call them.
Maybe she’s right.
Maybe I will regret it if I don’t invite them.
Maybe it’s not about whether they come.
Maybe it’s about proving to myself that I’ve built something anyway.
“I’ll think about what you said—about my family,” I say at last.
***
The wedding planner’s name is Celeste, and she has the energy of someone who drinks espresso straight from the pot and considers seventeen Pinterest boards a “warm-up.”
She sweeps into the living room like she owns it, dressed in flowy beige linen and delicate gold jewelry. She greets Olive like they’ve been best friends for years and greets me like I’m lucky to be marrying someone so “naturally radiant.”
Olive blushes. I bite my tongue.
We’re seated side by side on the couch, a coffee table between us littered with swatches, invitation samples, and an iPad glowing with wedding inspiration that looks vaguely terrifying.
Celeste taps the screen like a conductor preparing a symphony. “Okay, lovebirds. Let’s talk vision. Vibe. Venue. Do we want something sleek and modern? Or more rustic fairytale? What’s the energy you want people to feel when they walk in?”
I open my mouth to give a rehearsed, neutral answer.
But Olive speaks first.
“Well…” she says slowly, glancing at me. “We’re pretty much opposites, so I think we should lean into that a little. Maybe classic black-tie with some unexpected soft elements. Like dramatic candles and velvet—but also flowers that aren’t too fussy.”
Celeste gasps like Olive just reinvented marriage. “Ohhh yes. Juxtaposition. Romance meets rock and roll. I love that.”
I glance at Olive, eyebrows raised. “You’ve been thinking about this?”
She shrugs, cheeks pink. “Of course.”
Cute. Dangerously cute.
Celeste turns to me. “Ash? Thoughts? Colors? Details?”
I lean back, draping one arm across the back of the couch behind Olive, and say smoothly, “She’s the boss.”
Olive snorts. “He says that now, but wait until he finds out there’s a tasting menu involved.”
“Are we talking actual cake or one of those weird tower things made of tiny donuts?”
She nudges me with her elbow. “Cake. With layers. Like a grown-up.”
“Lame,” I mutter.
Celeste practically claps. “You two are adorable. Honestly, it’s always obvious when a couple has the it factor. The chemistry. The comfort. This is going to be magical.”
I smile. Olive’s smiling too. But there’s a strange heaviness in my chest.
I catch Olive looking at me, eyes crinkling with amusement as she points to a three-tiered cake photo that looks like it belongs on the cover of a fairytale cookbook.
I nod. I’d buy ten of them if it made her laugh again like that.
“So,” Celeste continues with a bright, blinding smile. “Let’s talk venue! I know we’re on a compressed timeline, but I’ve pulled a few magic rabbits out of my hat, and I have three options ready to go.”
She slides her iPad across the table toward us. “Option one: Hillcrest Estate. Think Tuscan garden fantasy meets modern glam. Outdoor ceremony, sunset backdrop, rose arch. It’s giving timeless. Luxe. Romance with a capital R.”
Olive blinks. “Wow.”
I peer at the photos. It looks like something you’d propose under if you were a prince in a Netflix Christmas movie. “Do we get horses with it?”
Celeste hesitates, clearly unsure if I’m joking. “I’ll have to check,” she says, like a true professional.
“Next,” Olive says, fighting a smile.
Celeste flips the screen. “Option two: Glasshouse 99. Sleek, contemporary. Skyline views. Lots of steel, glass, and mood lighting. Industrial meets elegance.”
Olive glances at me. “That’s… very your vibe.”