Chapter 17 OLIVE
OLIVE
Red Carpet
It’s the kind of weekend people write about in novels—lazy, sun-soaked, and soaked in other ways too.
Ash and I barely leave the house. We don’t need to. We order takeout like the responsible adults we’re pretending not to be—pad thai, dumplings, pizza, ice cream straight from the tub. He insists on feeding me the last bite of everything, grinning like it’s a love language.
The pool becomes our second bed. We float side by side, limbs touching, Ash occasionally dunking me just to hear me shriek. Then pulling me back, all slick skin and dripping hair and whispered apologies pressed into the curve of my neck.
And then there’s the sex.
Hot. Slow. Lazy. Urgent. Up against the kitchen counter while waiting for our food to arrive. In the shower after a swim. On the bed, in the bed, practically under the bed at one point when we somehow both fell off laughing.
But it’s not just sex. It’s this soft, almost unbearable closeness. Like the walls between us are dissolving.
At night, we collapse in bed—my head on his chest, his fingers trailing patterns across my back. One night, I find him thumbing through one of my romance paperbacks, the cover curled in his hand, his brow furrowed in focus.
“You’re reading my book?” I ask, propping myself up on an elbow.
He shrugs like it’s nothing. “I wanted to know what turns you on.”
My cheeks flame. He smirks.
“You could just ask,” I say, trying not to sound like I’m melting.
“I prefer research.”
I roll my eyes. He kisses me anyway. Then doesn’t stop.
By Sunday evening, I’m sore in places I forgot existed. My hair smells like chlorine and his body wash. My cheeks ache from smiling. My heart—God, my heart—feels like it’s filling up with something too big to name.
I’m curled up on the couch in Ash’s oversized hoodie, legs tucked under me, a cup of lukewarm tea cradled in my hands.
Across from me, Ash is strumming his guitar—half-humming, half-focused, playing something that sounds suspiciously like a love song.
I glance over. His brows are furrowed in concentration, fingers gliding over the strings like it’s second nature. His hair is still damp from the pool, curling at the ends. He’s barefoot, shirtless, in nothing but gray sweatpants and a look of quiet contentment I want to bottle and keep forever.
My chest tightens.
Because tomorrow is Monday.
Which means early alarms. A long commute. A full day of being Miss Hart again—kindergarten teacher, professional snack-opener, chaos-wrangler.
Not the girl who’s spent the last two days being kissed stupid, spoiled rotten, and read to in bed.
I love my job. But right now? I just want to stay home.
I set my mug down with a sigh.
Ash glances up immediately. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” I smile, but it wobbles at the edges. “Just sad it’s over.”
He sets the guitar aside, scooting closer until his knee bumps mine. “It’s not over.”
I raise a brow. “Pretty sure Monday comes for us all.”
He grins, then leans in like he’s sharing a secret. “We’ve got the engagement moon to look forward to. We should pick a place.”
My stomach flips. “You’re serious?”
“Dead serious.” He brushes a knuckle down my cheek, voice soft. “But first, we’ve got a couple things to check off. Tomorrow’s the award show—our red carpet debut. And the magazine cover drops too.”
I blink. “Tomorrow? Already?”
He nods. “Mid-morning.”
I roll onto my back and stare at the ceiling. “So tomorrow, we break the internet.”
He grins. “That’s the goal. Between the cover story and the red carpet, we’re going full PR power couple.”
“Right,” I murmur, my voice softer now. “Power couple.”
“Are you nervous about the red carpet?”
I groan. “No?” I lie.
He chuckles, seeing right through me.
“Well, maybe a little,” I admit, shrugging like it’s no big deal. “Mostly about tripping. Or flashing a boob. Or saying something weird and becoming a meme.”
Ash laughs, then climbs onto the couch beside me and pulls me into his lap like I weigh nothing. “You’re going to be perfect.”
“That’s a dangerous amount of confidence in me.”
“Hmm.” He kisses the tip of my nose. “I’ve seen you tame a room full of five-year-olds. A red carpet’s got nothing on you.”
I roll my eyes but secretly melt a little. “So… what’s the plan?”
“We’ll get ready here first. Then a car will pick us up, and we’ll head out together.”
I hesitate. “You sure? I know your team might want to manage your arrival…”
He cuts me off with a look. “We’re doing this together, Olive. They can manage around that.”
Something tight and warm blooms in my chest. “Okay.”
We sit there for a while, tangled up together in the fading light. His heartbeat is steady under my cheek, and the scent of his cologne—woodsy and clean—makes me want to bury myself in him forever.
“Hey, Ash?” I murmur.
“Yes, Hart?”
“Thank you for this weekend.”
He shifts just enough to kiss the top of my head. “Thank you for making it the best one I’ve had in a long time.”
I smile. Tomorrow, the world will come knocking. But right now, we have each other—and a little bit of Sunday left.
***
By the time I unlock the front door, I’m sticky with sidewalk sweat and even more nervous than I expected.
Because the moment I step into the mansion, I’m no longer just Miss Hart, tired kindergarten teacher with finger paint on her elbow.
I’m Olive Hart, fake fiancée to a rockstar, and in approximately three hours, I’m supposed to smile for the cameras like I belong on a red carpet.
And there’s a full-on glam team waiting in the living room to make that happen.
“Hi,” I say, blinking at the flurry of activity. There are makeup cases on the coffee table, gowns hanging from the staircase, and three people I’ve never met before holding brushes like tiny weapons of beauty warfare.
A woman with bubblegum-pink hair beams at me. “You must be Olive. I’m Tash—face wizard. We’re gonna have so much fun.”
“Face wizard,” I echo faintly, shrugging off my cardigan. “That sounds… intense.”
“Oh, honey,” says another, already pulling me toward a velvet stool. “You have no idea. But don’t worry. We’ve been briefed. You want soft glam, romantic, but still camera-proof. Your dress is a dream, by the way.”
“I haven’t even seen the dress yet,” I admit, laughing nervously as someone starts fussing with my hair.
“Well, you’re gonna die,” Tash says, swiping a highlighter across her wrist like she’s prepping for battle. “Ash approved it himself. Said he wanted something that made his fiancée look like a goddess.”
I freeze. “He said that?”
“Mm-hmm,” she says casually, while dabbing something sparkly near my brow bone. “He also told me you hate looking too ‘done’ and that your eyes crinkle when you laugh, and to make sure we don’t hide that.”
Oh.
I blink again, but this time it’s not because of the bright light or the makeup brush hovering near my lashes. It’s because there’s a lump forming in my throat.
I sit quietly for a while, letting them curl and fluff and paint me into a new version of myself—one with glowing skin and glossy lips and hair that looks like it belongs in a shampoo commercial.
I feel like Cinderella, if Cinderella also had mild social anxiety and a hot fake fiancé with a publicist.
Someone hands me a mimosa. “Sip,” she says. “It’s for the nerves. And the cheeks.”
I sip.
And then it’s time to put on the dress.
The team parts like the Red Sea when a stylist named Jules walks in holding the garment bag like it’s the crown jewels.
Inside is a gown that makes my jaw go slack.
It’s midnight blue, with delicate beading across the bodice and an off-the-shoulder neckline that dips just enough to be sexy without scandalizing the parents at my school.
The skirt flares just slightly, hugging the hips before flowing to the floor in soft, liquid fabric.
It’s romantic. Elegant. Slightly daring.
And when I step into it and turn to the mirror, I swear I don’t recognize myself.
“Oh my god,” I whisper.
Behind me, Ash’s voice rumbles low and warm. “Yeah. That’s the reaction I was hoping for.”
I spin around. He’s leaning in the doorway, freshly showered, in a tailored black suit that makes him look like sex in formalwear.
“You look—” he pauses, eyes sweeping over me “—like every woman on that carpet’s about to be jealous of me.”
I swallow. “You’re not so bad yourself.”
He crosses the room slowly and holds out his arm. 'Ready to go blow some minds, future Mrs. Ryder?'
I slip my hand into the crook of his arm, my fingers trembling just slightly, and he leads me to the limo waiting outside.
Inside, it smells like leather, roses… and impending doom.
Okay, maybe not doom—but definitely nerves. And all of them? Mine.
Ash slides in beside me, maddeningly calm. His hand rests casually on his thigh—until he notices the death grip I’ve got on the clutch in my lap.
'Breathe, Hart,' he says gently, sliding his hand over mine.
I try.
Sort of.
“I think I’m gonna throw up,” I whisper.
He chuckles, the deep, low kind that does absolutely nothing to calm my heart rate. “Please don’t. That dress is too pretty for dry cleaning.”
I shoot him a look, but my lips twitch anyway. “I’m serious, Ash. What if I trip? Or say something weird? Or freeze up like a malfunctioning Barbie?”
He squeezes my hand. “You’ll be fine.”
“That’s not a plan. That’s blind optimism.”
“Okay, fine.” He shifts toward me, suddenly all business.
“Here’s the plan: When we get out, I’ll help you.
We’ll walk slowly. Smile, but not like a terrified hostage.
When they yell our names, just look toward the cameras.
Not at them, like you're challenging them to a duel. More like… soft eye contact. Romance-novel cover stuff.”
I snort. “You mean like a brooding duke about to ruin me in a hedge maze?”
His eyes glint. “Exactly.”
I take another deep breath. It doesn’t help. “And what if they ask questions?”
He tilts his head. “Then you answer them. Or let me. Whatever makes you comfortable.”