Chapter 12
ASH
Talent Show
The sunlight slices through the curtains like it has a personal vendetta against me. I groan and roll over, reaching for her.
But she’s not there.
I sit up fast—too fast. The sheet slips down to my waist, and I blink at the empty space beside me.
Then I hear her in the closet, humming under her breath as she changes. Her soft footsteps pad back into the room, and there she is. Olive Hart. Dressed in a simple blouse and flowy skirt, her hair tied up in a loose ponytail, her face fresh and glowing.
She looks like she belongs in a damn Hallmark movie.
And I want to drag her right back into bed.
“Don’t go,” I mutter, flopping onto my back and throwing an arm over my eyes. “Stay. Call in sick. Fake a fever. Say you’re chained to a bed and too busy being ravished. I don’t care.”
She laughs—that soft, amused huff that hits me right in the chest. “Ash, it’s Tuesday. My class starts at eight.”
I peek at her from under my arm. “So? Cancel it. The kids can read silently or eat paste or whatever kindergarteners do.”
She crosses the room to grab her shoes. “They’re five. I don’t think ‘spontaneous self-guided education’ is a viable plan.”
I groan louder. “You’re heartless.”
She leans down and kisses my cheek. “You’re clingy.”
“Am not.”
“You literally just asked me to skip work and stay in bed with you all day.”
“Because there’s still so much I want to do to you,” I grumble, tugging gently at her wrist to pull her closer.
She laughs again but lets me guide her until she’s straddling me over the covers. “You’re ridiculous,” she says, voice soft, almost fond. “But if you’re that desperate to spend the day with me… why don’t you come?”
“Right,” I say, pushing up from the bed. “Guess I better get dressed, then.”
She blinks. “Wait—you actually want to come?”
I shrug. “If you’ll have me.”
Her mouth parts in surprise. “Uh… yeah. Of course. I just didn’t expect you to say yes. We’re actually having a talent show today. The kids have been practicing for weeks.”
I nod like I know what that means. “Talent show, huh? What kind of talents are we talking about? Interpretive dance? Animal impressions? Dramatic finger painting?”
She snorts. “Mostly lip-syncing and cardboard guitars. One of my kids plans to juggle teddy bears. It’s very high-stakes.”
I grin. “And will Miss Hart be performing as well? Maybe a dramatic reading from one of her steamy romance novels?”
Her hand pauses mid-air while applying her lipstick. “First of all—absolutely not. Second of all, no. The kids are the stars today.” She turns to me for a second and looks at me. “You’d really want to go? Won’t you be mobbed?”
I shrug. “I’ll wear a hoodie and sunglasses. Blend in like a suburban dad who lost his way to Costco.”
She’s staring now, eyes soft and a little uncertain. “You don’t have to come, you know. I wasn’t—I didn’t mean to make you feel like—”
“Olive.” I reach for her hand and curl my fingers around hers. “I want to come, okay? And honestly, I’m kind of excited about the teddy bear thing. It sounds… intriguing.”
She smiles, the tension in her shoulders easing. “All right then.”
***
Olive walks beside me in a flowy skirt and ballet flats, her teacher badge swaying gently from a lanyard around her neck. She looks like sunshine in human form—calm, warm, effortless.
I’ve done my best to go incognito: jeans (normal ones, no rips), a soft gray T-shirt, and a navy baseball cap pulled low like I’m auditioning for suburban dad of the year.
Still, the moment we walk in, I can feel the eyes on me.
Not the kids—they’re too busy chasing bubbles or fighting over glitter glue. It’s the parents. A few of them double take. One whispers to another.
“Is that…?” someone gasps as we approach the class room.
A mom in yoga pants and oversized sunglasses clutches her iced latte like a lifeline. Her gaze zips from my tattoos to my face to Olive, then back to me.
“Oh my God,” she hisses. “It’s him. It’s really him.”
Another one—a dad this time—does a double take. “Ash Ryder? My wife is going to die.”
“Don’t tell her,” I murmur as we pass, offering a smirk. “Let her live.”
Olive chokes on a laugh, her cheeks coloring.
“You’re causing a scene,” she mutters under her breath.
“I’m just walking.”
“You’re walking like a sex god through a PTA meeting.”
“That’s just how I walk,” I say, amused.
She rolls her eyes, but I can see the corner of her mouth twitching. She’s trying not to laugh.
The kids, however, are way more excited to see Olive than me. A distant shout of “MISS HARRRTTTT!” echoes down the hall, followed by a thud and a squeal.
Olive beams. “That’s my class.”
“Sounds like pure chaos.”
She grins and tugs me gently toward the multipurpose room. “Come on, Rockstar. You’ve got front-row seats to the greatest show on Earth.”
We’re halfway there when a mom steps into our path, clutching her phone. “Excuse me—Ash? Would you mind? My sister’s a huge fan. She literally has your face on a tote bag.”
I blink. “That’s both flattering and mildly alarming.” Still, I smile for the selfie—
Until a sharp voice slices through the air behind me. “Excuse me.”
I turn, still smiling for the camera. “One second—just grabbing a quick—”
“I said,” the voice repeats, colder now, “excuse me.”
The mom’s eyes go wide. She lowers her phone like she’s just been caught doing something illegal, then promptly vanishes down the hall without so much as a goodbye.
I’m left blinking at a woman in her sixties, dressed in a starch-stiff blazer and enough disapproval to curdle milk. Her arms are crossed. Her mouth is a tight, judgmental line.
I straighten up. “Uh. Can I help you?”
She looks me up and down like I’m gum on her sensible flats.
“Who exactly are you?”
“Ash,” I say, offering my hand. “I’m here with Olive Hart.”
She doesn’t take it. “And what, precisely, is your role here?”
“My… role?” I glance around. “I’m just visiting. Watching the talent show.”
She narrows her eyes. “And signing autographs? Taking selfies with the parents?”
“Only if asked,” I say. “I wasn’t handing out posters or anything.”
She doesn’t laugh. In fact, she looks like she might combust.
“Let me be very clear, Mr… Ash. This is a kindergarten, not a promotional event. I’d appreciate it if you stopped treating it like a backstage meet-and-greet.”
Okay. Wow.
I blink. “Right. I wasn’t trying to disrespect anything.”
“And for the record, this kind of behavior reflects directly on Miss Hart.”
My jaw tightens, a retort on the tip of my tongue—
But then Olive appears at my side, slightly breathless. “Oh! Mrs. Dinsmore!”
The woman turns stiffly. “Miss Hart. I have paperwork to attend to.” And just like that, she’s gone—spine straight, judgment trailing behind her like perfume.
The moment she’s out of earshot, I let out a breath. “Well. Your boss is a delight.”
“Oh, she’s just a traditionalist. She means well,” Olive says with a shrug. “So—are you ready?”
“Let’s go,” I reply. Because now I really want to see her in her world—to watch her in her element. This is where she spends her time. This is why she does craft projects on weekends. This is what she loves.
The moment Olive steps into the circle-time chaos, it’s like someone dropped a beam of sunshine in the room. She claps twice, and twenty tiny heads snap toward her, like she’s got magic in her palms.
I hang back for a beat, hovering near the door in my best not-scary rockstar mode—sleeves rolled, tattoos covered, sunglasses ditched. A few curious faces peer up at me. One whispers loudly, “Is that a daddy?” and I nearly choke.
Olive waves me forward. “Everyone, this is my friend Ash Ryder. He’s a musician and will help us with our performances today.”
Friend. Cute.
The second I crouch down, I’m mobbed.
“Are you famous?”
“Do you like princesses?”
“Can you play ‘Let It Go’ on the guitar?”
Someone tugs on my jeans and asks if my tattoos hurt. Another hands me a glittery drawing of what I think is a dinosaur. Or a sandwich.
I grin. “Thanks, buddy. I love it.”
“He’s cool,” one kid announces.
“Yeah,” another adds, squinting at me. “He looks like a pirate, but nice.”
“Are you Miss Hart’s boyfriend?” asks a girl with a unicorn headband and absolutely no shame.
The room goes still.
I blink. So does Olive.
Then a chorus of “Ooooohhh!” erupts like we’re all in third grade—which, technically, we’re not. But emotionally? Nailed it.
Olive’s cheeks flush pink, but she recovers quickly. “Actually, we’re getting married next month.”
Another little voice pipes up beside me.
“Mr. Ryder?”
I glance down. A tiny, curly-haired four-year-old is looking up at me with big eyes and a solemn expression.
“Yeah, kiddo?”
She tilts her head, very serious. “Are you and Miss Hart gonna have a baby?”
I blink.
Olive chokes on her water. “Ava!” she wheezes, bright red. “Oh my god—”
“I’m just asking!” Ava insists, wide-eyed. “Because my cousin says when a man sleeps in the same bed as a lady, his penis puts a baby in her belly.”
Olive looks like she might spontaneously combust. “We—We don’t—That is not—Okay, that’s enough science for today!”
I cough hard, nearly crack a rib trying not to laugh. “Uh… that’s… wow. That’s a very advanced theory, Ava.”
She nods solemnly. “That’s what happened to my mommy when Trevor stayed over. Now she’s got twins.”
I smile gently. “Right. But no baby right now. We’re just practicing being married.”
Another kid chimes in. “Like in pretend play?”
“Exactly like that,” Olive says quickly.
Then a boy in a shark costume raises his hand. “Does your penis sparkle because you’re famous?”
Olive jumps in. “Okay! Let’s start getting ready for our performances, okay?”
The chaos shifts into preparation mode, and I slide onto a tiny bench beside Olive, who gives me a look that says don’t you dare.
“I didn’t say anything,” I murmur, all innocence.
“Your smirk is loud,” she mutters, but I can see her mouth twitching.
And then the show begins. The lights dim—well, one of the fluorescents flickers off—and just like that, the “stage” is open.
It’s just a taped-off square of carpet in front of the cubbies, but to these kids, it might as well be Broadway.
Olive gives me a quick grin as she hits play on a tiny Bluetooth speaker. “Brace yourself. It’s about to get adorable.”
She wasn’t kidding.
First up: a shy kid named Milo who performs a dramatic interpretive dance to the Paw Patrol theme song. He flails like he’s exorcising demons, then ends with jazz hands. I give him a standing ovation.
Next is twins in tutus doing a ballet-slash-karate hybrid routine. One of them roundhouse kicks the air and almost takes out a paper sunflower. The room gasps. I clap like she just nailed Swan Lake.
“YES, QUEENS!” I call out.
Olive gives me a look that says calm down, rockstar. But she’s laughing.
Then comes a kid with a plastic ukulele and the stage presence of a Vegas showman. He strums aggressively and sings something that sounds like “Old MacDonald” but remixed with heavy metal chicken sounds.
I pump my fist. “That’s my guy!”
It’s all absolutely, fucking adorable.
But nothing—and I mean nothing—prepared me for watching Olive Hart crouch in front of a sobbing five-year-old with one Velcro sneaker and a glitter mustache, whispering, “It’s okay, buddy. Everyone gets nervous sometimes.”
She’s calm. Soft-spoken. So damn patient.
The kind of patient I didn’t think existed outside yoga instructors and monks.
And when the kid hiccups a laugh, Olive smiles and hands him a neon star sticker from her back pocket like it’s a golden ticket.
“You’re brave,” she tells him. “Brave enough to go up and dance anyway?”
He nods, eyes wide, and she gives him a high five so gentle I feel it in my chest.
Jesus.
I sit back on the bench—one clearly not built for six-foot men with tattooed arms—and watch her float through this chaos like she was made for it. Tie-dye handprint banners flap overhead. There’s someone in a cat costume breakdancing near the front of the room. And Olive? Olive’s thriving.
She directs kids with the authority of a general and the warmth of a marshmallow. She remembers every name, every favorite color, every sibling. She smooths one girl’s hair and helps another with a wrinkled paper crown.
And the way they look at her.
Like she hung the damn moon.
I feel something stir in my chest—something dangerous. Something warm and weighty and stupidly soft.
Because this is the real Olive.
The one who shows up. Who gives a damn. Who makes scared kids feel brave and chaos feel safe.
I lean forward, arms on my knees, and just watch her laugh with one of the parents, gesturing like she’s retelling the funniest story in the world.
God help me.
I think I’m in trouble.