Chapter 22 ASH
ASH
Bare Minimum
Olive pulls clothes from her closet, frowns, holds them up to her body, then tosses them into the open suitcase with a huff.
Her nervous energy crackles in the air—I can feel it from across the room.
I lean against her bedroom doorframe, sipping a coffee and watching her in that oversized T-shirt she stole from my closet weeks ago. No makeup, hair in a messy bun, completely unaware of how cute she is when she’s mildly spiraling.
“We’re going to Mexico, not the moon,” I say, lazily.
She shoots me a glare. “You say that like I’m not about to fly on a private jet and stay in a billionaire beach mansion like some fake-fiancée Cinderella.”
I take another sip. “Technically, Cinderella had it easier. All she needed was one dress and a pumpkin.”
Olive mutters something that sounds suspiciously like “arrogant jackass” and yanks open another drawer.
I push off the frame and cross the room, dropping onto her bed with a bounce. Her suitcase is spread open across the duvet like a crime scene. Bikinis, sundresses, a hair straightener still in the box, three pairs of sandals (all beige, somehow?), and a makeup bag the size of a toddler.
She’s frowning at a pair of denim shorts like they personally betrayed her.
“Those are cute,” I offer, pointing with my coffee mug.
“They ride up.”
“So do most things around you.”
She throws a scrunchie at my face. I let it bounce off and grin.
“I’m serious,” she says, plopping onto the bed next to the suitcase and blowing a rogue curl out of her face. “This trip is important. What if there are paparazzi at the airport? What if the staff at the villa are like…models? I can’t just show up in Target flip-flops and hope for the best.”
“You could show up in a trash bag and you’d still be the hottest person in the room.”
She rolls her eyes so hard it’s a miracle she doesn’t injure herself. “Stop.”
“I’m not kidding.”
I reach over and tug her hand gently, making her look at me. Her skin’s warm from all the moving around, her cheeks flushed, lips slightly parted from all the huffing. There’s a jittery sort of excitement under her nerves—like she wants to be cool about this, but can’t quite manage it.
“This isn’t some press stunt or red carpet circus,” I say softly. “It’s just you and me. Sun. Ocean. No one watching.”
She exhales, long and shaky. “No Liam.”
“No Liam,” I confirm. “Unless he hides in your carry-on. Which…isn’t impossible.”
That earns me a laugh, and the tightness around her eyes eases a little. I love watching her soften. Love that I can help her feel safe when everything else is spinning too fast.
“Okay,” she says, nodding slowly. “Okay. I can do this.”
“Damn right you can.” I kiss her hand. “And don’t worry about the wardrobe. If you forget anything, I’ll just have it flown in. Or buy out a store.”
“Casual billionaire flex,” she mutters.
“Didn’t even mean to. That’s just how my mouth works now.”
She throws another scrunchie at me—this time with less force, more affection. “Remind me why I’m fake marrying you again?”
“Because I read romance novels in bed and make you pasta from scratch?”
“And because you look really good in sunglasses,” she adds with a sigh, standing to grab another dress from the closet.
“Exactly. All the essentials.”
Two hours later, a sleek black car glides to the curb. The driver steps out in a pressed suit and opens the back door with a polite nod.
Olive hesitates for half a second, suitcase handle clutched in one hand, oversized tote bag slung over her shoulder.
She's dressed in one of those soft travel sets she claims are “just comfy,” but she somehow still looks like she belongs on the cover of a fashion magazine.
Her sunglasses are oversized. Her expression is nervous-excited.
“Fancy,” she whispers as I help her inside.
“Only the best for my fake fiancée,” I say, sliding in beside her and giving her hand a quick squeeze.
The doors shut with a soft thunk, sealing us into what I can only describe as rolling serenity. The interior smells like leather and cedar. The seats are plush and the car glides forward like it’s on rails.
I reach into the compartment between us. “Snacks?”
Her eyes light up as I pull out a small curated box. Grapes, brie, crackers, chocolate-covered almonds. I know her favorites. I made sure they were all in here.
“You did not,” she says, reaching for a chocolate almond like it’s contraband.
“I did. And”—I tap the screen in front of us—“your playlist is already queued. The one you said makes you feel like the main character on a road trip.”
She stares at me, blinking.
“What?” I say innocently. “I listen when you ramble about your Spotify habits at midnight. Sue me.”
The music starts, a slow, moody opening guitar riff filtering through the speakers. She turns to me slowly, mock-suspicious.
“You’re trying to seduce me in a moving vehicle.”
I shrug. “I’m trying to relax you.”
“Well, it’s working.” She sinks deeper into the seat, kicking off her shoes and curling her legs beneath her. “This is insane.” She gives me a side-eye that’s all sass and no heat. “Do you always travel like this?”
“Pretty much.”
“Do you always pack brie for the car ride?”
“Only for women who make me read their smutty romance novels in bed.”
She pops a grape into her mouth and smirks. “You like my smutty romance novels.”
“I love your smutty romance novels.”
The music swells as the car glides through the city, leaving behind traffic lights and noise. The buildings blur into palm trees and open sky. Olive rests her head against the window for a moment, eyes drifting shut, hand still in mine.
She looks calm now. Soft. Like the storm of this past week hasn’t followed her here.
The driver turns toward the private airport entrance, and I lean closer to her, whispering in her ear:
“Next stop: paradise.”
She hums without opening her eyes. “As long as there’s more brie, I’m in.”
We pull up right beside a gleaming jet—no terminals, no security lines, no screaming babies—and the flight attendant is already at the bottom of the steps, smiling like this is just a Tuesday for her. It is.
For Olive? Not so much.
She stares out the window of the car with her mouth slightly open, and I can practically hear the gears in her brain short-circuiting.
“That’s… ours?” she whispers, as if the plane might hear her and fly away out of spite.
I squeeze her hand. “All ours, baby.”
She shoots me a look. “Ash… this is a lot. Can you even afford all this?”
I grin, half amused, half charmed out of my mind. “Are you asking if I’m bankrupting myself for our engagement moon?”
She gives a sheepish shrug. “Kind of, yeah.” She fidgets, then straightens a little. “Let me contribute. This must cost more than I can even imagine.”
That catches me off guard. “What?”
“My stipend,” she says. “The one your manager set up. I haven’t touched it yet. If you’re spending this much, I want to help.”
I just stare at her—not because I’m surprised by the offer, but by the sincerity behind it.
She means it. Her eyes are wide and earnest, cheeks flushed with nerves. I can tell how hard it is for her to even suggest it, and it makes me want to pull her into my lap and kiss the worry away.
Instead, I reach for her hand. “Olive. "No."
“But—”
“No,” I say gently, tracing her knuckles. “You’re not paying me to pretend to love you. And you sure as hell aren’t funding this trip.”
Her throat works as she swallows. “I just don’t want you to think I’m using you.”
I give her hand a light squeeze. “You’re not. You never were. Olive, I could fly us around the world three times, book a yacht, throw fireworks every night—and I’d still have money to burn.”
Her eyes widen, but she tries to play it cool. “That sounds excessive.”
“Good thing we’re just doing the jet and the fireworks,” I tease.
She nudges my foot with hers. “Okay. But if I find out you sold your Grammy to fund this, we’re turning around.”
I grin. “The Grammys are safe. For now.”
I climb out first and offer her my hand. The sun is bright overhead, the engines hum low, and her hair whips around her face in the breeze. She takes my hand and steps out slowly, cautiously—like she’s not sure if she’s boarding a jet or crossing into Narnia.
“Welcome aboard, Mr. Ryder,” the flight attendant says, flashing a professional smile. “Everything’s ready.”
“Thanks, Celine.”
Olive freezes. “You know the flight attendant?”
“She’s flown with me before. She makes a killer espresso martini, if you’re interested.”
Olive laughs—nervously—and climbs the steps with me at her heels.
Inside, the cabin is all soft beige leather, dark wood paneling, and buttery lighting. The seats recline fully. There’s a queen-sized bed tucked in the back, a stocked bar, a screen the size of her entire living room wall.
She spins in a slow circle once we’re inside. “Okay, this isn’t a plane. This is a Bond villain’s lair.”
I throw our bags into the storage bin and hand her a glass of champagne that Celine has already poured.
“To the engagement moon,” I say, clinking my glass with juice against hers.
She narrows her eyes but takes a sip. “Not gonna lie—I thought this would be a cute Airbnb and maybe a cab from the airport.”
“That’s adorable,” I say with a grin. “No. This is the bare minimum you deserve.”
“Bare minimum?” she repeats, incredulous.
I shrug, sinking into one of the plush seats and patting the one beside me. “What’s the point of a vacation if the travel’s a hassle and the hotel’s just… fine? We should treat ourselves. Enjoy this time together.”
She snorts but sits beside me. Her legs stretch out on the footrest, eyes still darting everywhere like she’s afraid she’ll accidentally break a chandelier.
“I don’t know what to do with myself in here,” she says. “Is there a manual for how to be chill on a private jet?”
“You’re doing great.” I pop open a tin of lemon-rosemary almonds from the snack tray and offer her one. “Also, I promise it gets easier. Next time you won’t even flinch when the champagne is pre-poured.”
Her eyes widen again. “There’s a next time?”
I lean back in my seat, stretching one arm behind her shoulders and murmuring, “Oh, baby. You think this is a one-time thing?”
She stares at me for a long moment, then shoves a pillow into my face.
I’m still laughing as the engines roar to life and we start taxiing.
***
The flight to Tulum is smoother than I expected—clear skies, quiet engines, and Olive curled up beside me under a cream cashmere blanket like she was made to be here. We sip our drinks, trade lazy smiles, and let the world shrink to just this cabin.
She falls asleep halfway through a movie, her head resting on my shoulder.
By the time we land in Tulum, the air is thick with salt and sun.
A sleek, black luxury SUV with tinted windows and ice-cold air conditioning waits for us at the edge of the private airstrip. The driver wears white linen and offers us chilled towels and bottled water before whisking us down a winding road flanked by palm trees and wild bougainvillea.
Olive looks out the window, wide-eyed. “This doesn’t feel real,” she murmurs.
I smile, watching her more than the view. “It’s real. And we’re just getting started.”
We drive through a gated entrance tucked between jungle and coastline. The villa is hidden behind high white walls and thick greenery—secluded, exclusive, silent.
Until the gates open.
And she sees it.
The driver pulls up to a stone path lined with flickering torches and birds-of-paradise blooms. Our luggage is already being unloaded by discreet staff, but Olive doesn’t notice.
Because she’s staring at the villa.
And yeah—I kind of planned it that way.
It’s all open design, carved wood beams and sheer white curtains dancing in the breeze.
The entire front of the villa opens to the ocean—like the building is reaching out to the sea.
There’s a private infinity pool that disappears into the edge of the horizon, with two loungers shaded by oversized palms. The air smells like hibiscus and warm stone and something faintly citrusy I can’t name.
Candles are already flickering on every flat surface—low, golden glows casting shadows across polished floors and woven rugs. Tropical flowers spill from vases. A tray of fresh fruit and champagne waits for us on a teak table under a canopy of white linen.
And then there's the bed.
It sits in the center of the villa, raised slightly on a platform, draped in gauzy fabric and backed by a hand-carved wooden headboard. It’s massive. Indulgent. Sinful.
Olive is silent beside me.
Until she lets out a sound that’s part sigh, part laugh, part stunned disbelief. “Ash,” she whispers. “This is…”
She turns to me, blinking like she’s trying to process it all. “This is the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen.”
My throat goes tight, and not because of the view.
“You deserve it,” I say simply. “You’ve had a hell of a week. I wanted it to be perfect for you.”
She steps forward, barefoot now, and walks straight to the edge of the infinity pool. The turquoise water reflects the sky and her silhouette, and she stares out at the ocean like she might cry.
I walk up behind her and wrap my arms around her waist.
She leans back into me without hesitation.
“This is going to be the best fake engagement moon in the history of fake engagement moons,” she says softly.
I grin into her hair.
“Careful,” I whisper. “You might never want to leave.”
Her fingers slide over mine.
“I already don’t.”
And just like that, the chaos of LA, the cameras, the headlines, the mess of pretending—it all fades away.
Because right now, there’s only her and me.
And paradise.