Chapter 8 - ASH #2
“Cold and intimidating?”
“I was going to say brooding and dramatic.”
“Same thing.”
I keep my tone light, but there’s something in the way she looks at the image that makes my chest tighten. She doesn’t see herself there. It’s too sharp, too staged.
And then Celeste pulls up the third.
“Last option: Bellgrove Library.”
We both blink.
Olive sits up straighter. “Wait. A library?”
“It’s a restored historic building in Pasadena,” Celeste explains. “Stained glass, cathedral ceilings, original shelves still intact. They host private events—quiet, romantic, full of charm. It’s available for a Friday next month. And it has excellent natural light.”
Olive leans toward the screen like she’s afraid it’ll disappear. “It’s gorgeous.”
I watch her expression soften as she flips through the photos—old books, long tables, arched windows glowing with amber light. She looks… enchanted.
“It’s like a storybook,” she says quietly.
And just like that, I know.
“This one,” I say, before Celeste can launch into catering options. “We’ll take the library.”
Olive glances over at me, surprised. “Are you sure?”
I nod. “You lit up like a Christmas tree. That’s how I know it’s the right place.”
Celeste beams. “Perfect! I’ll lock it in.”
As she starts tapping furiously on her tablet, Olive nudges my arm. “I thought you’d go for the edgy glass tower of doom.”
“Too many sharp corners. You’d trip on your dress.”
She rolls her eyes.
“Speaking of dresses… we’re on a tight timeline,” Celeste says briskly. “We’ll need to schedule fittings ASAP. I’ll send you a list of designers I trust with my life. What’s your style?”
Olive blinks. “Uh… functional?”
I grin over the rim of my mug. “Sexy librarian on her lunch break?”
She kicks me under the table.
Celeste doesn’t even look up, already deep into a mood board.“Are you a romantic tulle girl? Lace? Sleek satin? Boho goddess with a thigh slit? Or maybe something bold—off-shoulder, structured corset, dramatic train?”
“I—I don’t know,” Olive says, wide-eyed. “But I guess I’ll start looking.”
Celeste beams. “I’ll send you designer profiles tonight. Trust me—we’ll find something perfect.”
***
This photoshoot isn’t for us. It’s for the world.
For the public who thinks I’m spiraling again. For the brands still deciding whether I’m a safe investment. For the label, my manager, the board, and the press who live to dissect everything from my setlists to the state of my love life.
The narrative needs to change—and fast.
So here we are.
We’re standing in front of a slate-gray backdrop, all clean lines and dramatic lighting—elegant, modern, tasteful. The kind of setup that screams Vanity Fair cover. Olive’s in a blush dress that makes her look like she fell out of a storybook. I’m in a tux.
And behind the camera, a man named Viktor is flailing like a caffeinated flamingo, shouting, “Lean into it, my angels! Yes! Give me engagement, give me yearning!”
Olive shifts beside me, trying not to laugh as her hair sticks to her lip gloss under a wind machine set to tornado season. She looks stunning and completely over it.
“Don’t smile with your teeth,” Viktor barks. “Smile with your soul.”
“I don’t think my soul got the memo,” she mutters under her breath.
I grin.
We’ve been posing for nearly an hour under too-bright lights and not-so-soft demands, and Viktor is entering what I can only describe as his unhinged romantic visionary era.
He claps his hands, circles us like we’re prey, and says, “Now we build. Now we simmer. Now we ignite.”
Olive gives me a look. “Did he just say ignite?”
“Oh yeah,” I mutter. “We’re officially in the third act of a fucking Nicholas Sparks movie.”
She snorts and adjusts her skirt. Her dress today is all soft tulle and barely-there blush, the kind that looks innocent from far away—until she moves. And then you notice the off-shoulder sleeves. The dip of her neckline. The way it hugs her waist like it was custom-built to test my restraint.
Viktor gestures for us to stand closer. “You are in love. You crave each other. But not yet, no touch. Just longing. All heat. No relief.”
Olive blinks. “This man definitely writes fanfiction.”
“Just go with it,” I murmur, stepping closer.
She does too. Our bodies aligned, just inches apart. No contact. But the air is thick between us—like we’re both holding something back.
“Eyes on each other,” Viktor commands. “Yes. That. Like you can’t breathe unless they do.”
I look at her. She looks back. Her eyes flicker over my face. My jaw. My mouth.
And I feel it—that magnetic pull that’s been building, day by day.
Viktor steps back and lowers his voice like he’s directing a scene from a forbidden romance drama. “Now… lean in. Almost kiss. Almost. I want tension. I want devastation. I want people screaming into their phones.”
Olive gives a tiny huff. “I—what does that even mean?”
“It means this,” I murmur, tilting my face toward hers.
She doesn’t move away.
I lift one hand, fingertips brushing a loose strand of hair from her cheek. Her breath catches, and I swear I feel it all the way down my spine.
I lean in.
Close enough to count her lashes.
Close enough to feel the heat radiating off her skin.
Close enough that if I moved one inch—just one—we’d be kissing for real.
Her lips part slightly. Her eyes flutter, then open.
Viktor gasps—“Perfect, yes! Hold it!”—and the shutter clicks rapid-fire. “People are going to feel things.”
Yeah.
They are.
Because I sure as hell do.
Viktor lowers his camera, face serious. “Now. The final shot. The kiss.”
Olive’s head snaps toward him. “The what?”
“A kiss,” he says, gesturing like it’s obvious. “The cherry on top. The crescendo. The one that says, ‘we are in love, and we have no shame.’”
She stiffens beside me. Not dramatically—just the subtle kind of shift I probably wouldn’t catch if I hadn’t spent the last few weeks cataloging every micro-expression she makes.
“I—uh—don’t think we agreed to an actual kiss,” she stammers. Her eyes dart to mine, wide and uncertain.
And then she leans in. Just slightly. Voice low enough that only I can hear it.
“I don’t want this to be uncomfortable for you,” she says. “I know you don’t like me like that.”
I freeze.
I actually blink at her. Twice.
“Sorry?” is the only word I manage.
But she’s not joking. She’s not teasing. She’s serious—completely and sincerely convinced that I’m doing all this with a level of cool detachment I absolutely do not possess.
She’s looking at me with concern. Like I’m the one who might feel used. Or weird. Or grossed out by kissing her.
And I can’t even speak, because—
How does she not know?
Hasn’t she noticed the way I look at her when she’s curled up on the couch in her ridiculous hedgehog socks, reading her blog drafts out loud to herself?
Or how I sometimes stand too close in the kitchen just to watch her blush?
That kiss in Liam’s apartment? The one where I forgot my own name for a good five seconds?
But I don’t say any of that.
I should.
But I don’t.
Because if I say it now—if I tell her I do want to kiss her—I’m not sure I’ll be able to stop.
And this whole thing only works if we do stop.
So I let it stand. I swallow the truth and nod like I’m calm, collected, unfazed.
“I know you’re not into me like that,” she adds, voice smaller now. “So… I just don’t want you to feel weird.”
I look at her—really look at her.
Her cheeks are flushed. Her lips parted just slightly. She’s fidgeting with the edge of her sleeve, trying to mask nerves she doesn’t realize I can read like sheet music.
God, she’s beautiful.
And she has no idea.
“If it’s okay with you,” I say carefully, holding her gaze, “I’m fine with it.”
She hesitates.
Then slowly nods. “Okay.”
We step back into place.
The lights shift. Viktor murmurs something about timeless romance and moody passion, but I’m not listening.
Because she’s right in front of me again.
And when I place a hand on her waist, she doesn't flinch. She steps closer. Her hand rests gently on my chest. Her thumb brushes the edge of my lapel—whether intentional or nervous, I don’t know.
“On my count,” Viktor says, breathless.
Three. Two. One—