Chapter 27 OLIVE
OLIVE
The Blow-Up
The city feels louder when we get back—horns blaring, streetlights flickering, the air thick with that particular Los Angeles mix of exhaust and coffee.
It’s jarring after days of warm ocean breezes and the lull of waves, but Ash looks completely unfazed, lounging back in the car seat like he owns every block we pass.
“You’re awfully quiet,” he says, tipping his head toward me. His hand brushes mine on the seat between us—deliberately casual, like he’s testing how much he can get away with in front of the driver.
“Just thinking,” I reply, shaking my head absently.
I’m already somewhere else entirely—mentally arranging the scene I want to write next.
The lines of dialogue, the way the light would fall in the opening paragraph, the heartbeat of tension between my characters.
It’s all right there, bright and insistent, and I’m terrified that if I don’t capture it soon, it’ll slip through my fingers.
The second we step inside the mansion, I beeline for my bag. My journal and laptop are inside, and the sight of them feels like a lifeline.
“Wow,” Ash says, following me in and dropping his keys on the counter. “Straight to work? You’re not even gonna unpack?”
I’m already flipping my laptop open. “Priorities.”
He leans against the doorway, watching me with that half-smile that’s equal parts amused and intrigued. “Alright, Miss Priorities, how about I order us dinner? Something sinful and carb-loaded. Might help with your post-vacation blues.”
I glance up just long enough to meet his gaze. “This isn’t blues, Ash.”
“No?”
I shake my head, my fingers itching for the keyboard. “No. This is fire. And I need to get it down before it burns out.”
He gives me a little mock salute. “Got it. Fuel the fire, don’t get in the way. I can do that.”
And just like that, he disappears toward the kitchen, leaving me in the quiet with nothing but the hum of the city outside—and a head full of words demanding to be written.
The words come easy tonight—unexpectedly easy. Whole paragraphs spill out before I even pause to think about them. The setting sharpens, the dialogue feels alive, and for the first time in… God, years, I’m not second-guessing every line. I’m just writing.
“Tea,” Ash’s voice breaks through my bubble, warm and smooth, as he sets a steaming mug on the coffee table.
“Thanks,” I murmur, eyes still on the screen.
There’s a pause, then I feel him lean over my shoulder, his breath grazing my temple. “So… is this the part where they finally—”
I snap the laptop halfway shut, swatting at him. “Nope. Absolutely not.”
He grins, unbothered. “What? I wasn’t going to snoop. I was just… curiously hovering.”
“Hovering is snooping with extra steps.”
He sits on the arm of the couch, looking far too entertained. “Just saying—if you need inspiration for his, uh… attributes, I’d be happy to model.” His gaze drops meaningfully, and I swat at him before the blush can fully hit my cheeks.
“Go,” I tell him. “You’re distracting my characters.”
Ash must sense that I mean it, because instead of pestering me again, he settles into the armchair across from the couch with his guitar.
The first notes are soft—barely more than a hum in the air—slow, lazy chords that somehow weave themselves into the rhythm of my typing. I don’t even have to look at him to know he’s watching me in between glances at his strings.
It’s… oddly domestic. Like we’ve done this a hundred times before—me lost in my words, him filling the quiet with something beautiful. There’s no need to talk, no need to explain ourselves. Just being here, together, feels enough.
“I’ve never felt more motivated to write,” I blurt before I can stop myself, my eyes still on the screen.
The guitar stops for half a beat, then picks up again, richer somehow. “Guess that means I’m doing my job,” he says lightly, though there’s a thread of warmth in his voice that makes my chest feel too full.
Minutes pass like seconds, and when I finally hit “save,” after a few hours of intense work, it’s with a long, satisfied sigh. I lean back, stretching my arms overhead, and glance at the pages I’ve filled.
It’s good.
No—it’s really good.
For the first time in a long time, I’m proud of what’s staring back at me.
Ash is watching, a faint smile playing on his lips like he already knows.
***
The next morning, Liam sits on my couch, coffee in hand, giving me his undivided attention. I asked him here today because I’m ready. Ready to share this part of myself I’ve kept tucked away for years.
“So… this is kind of a big deal for me,” I begin, fingers twisting in my lap. “You know I’ve always loved reading romance?”
He smirks. “Yeah. I’ve seen your book piles. They’re basically structural hazards at this point.”
I laugh softly, but my heart’s pounding. “Right. Well… two years ago, I started a blog. Just book reviews at first. Then I began writing posts about romance tropes, fictional characters, sometimes little short stories.”
“Uh-huh.” He takes a sip of coffee, his brow furrowing in that way that means he’s listening.
“It… kind of took off,” I say, voice quieter now. “Like, people started reading. Commenting. It became this whole community. And—” I hesitate, feeling the urge to retreat. “I even started working on my own romance novel.”
That gets his eyebrows up. “You’re writing a book?”
I nod, warmth flooding my cheeks. “It’s only half-finished, but…
I think it’s good. At least, I’m proud of it.
And I realized—I’ve been hiding it from everyone because I was scared.
But I don’t want to hide anymore. I wanted you to know, because you’re my brother and I… I care about what you think.”
For a second, Liam just stares at me. Not in disbelief, but like he’s turning this over in his head. Then he leans back, resting the mug on his knee. “Olive… that’s actually pretty damn cool.”
Relief hits me so fast I almost laugh. “Really?”
“Really. I mean, you’ve clearly put in the work. And if it makes you happy, I’m all for it.” He gives me a crooked smile. “Although I’m gonna reserve the right to make fun of any characters you name after me.”
I grin, tension slipping out of my shoulders. “Deal.”
Upstairs, I hear the faint rush of the shower. Ash must’ve finally woken up. I figure he’ll be up there for a while—he’s the type to linger under hot water until it runs cold.
Liam nods toward the laptop. “So, do I get to read any of it, or are you keeping me in suspense?”
I slide it across the coffee table, the document already open to the first chapter. My palms are clammy, but my voice stays steady.
“Okay,” I say, forcing a smile. “No pressure. Just… tell me what you think.”
He gives me a long, assessing look—half big brother skepticism, half genuine curiosity—before turning the screen toward himself. “Alright. Let’s see what all the secrecy’s been about.”
The moment he starts reading, the room goes quiet except for the faint hum of the refrigerator. I curl my legs beneath me and wrap my hands around my mug, pretending I’m fine, pretending my heart isn’t trying to punch its way out of my chest.
Every now and then, his brow furrows or the corner of his mouth quirks upward, but he doesn’t say a word. The silence stretches, my nerves tightening with it.
I’m so focused on reading his micro-expressions that I almost miss the sound of footsteps coming down the hall.
“Morning, Hart,” Ash drawls, voice rough from sleep. “You recovered from last night yet?”
My heart lurches. “Ash—”
He keeps going, oblivious. “Because you were loud. Real loud.”
Silence.
I swear I can hear Liam’s coffee mug settle onto the table with a faint clink. Slowly, his head turns toward me, then toward Ash. His brows knit, suspicion sharpening his gaze.
Ash steps into view, damp hair dripping from the shower, sweatpants hanging low on his hips. When his eyes land on Liam, his easy posture changes—shoulders squaring, jaw tightening. “…Hey.”
Liam’s voice is deceptively calm. “What exactly were you doing with my sister last night?”
I sit up straighter, heart kicking into overdrive. “Liam—”
“We were sleeping,” he says, voice measured.
Liam’s eyes narrow. “Sleeping. That’s it?”
Ash meets his gaze without blinking. “Liam. You’ve known me long enough to know I wouldn’t hurt her.” His voice is calm, but I can see the tension in his jaw, like he’s choosing every word carefully.
“That’s not an answer,” Liam says, his tone cooling further. “You can play word games with reporters. Not with me.”
Ash exhales slowly, like he’s counting to three. “Olive and I got close these last few weeks.”
Liam’s jaw tightens. “Close.” The word drips with skepticism. “Are you sleeping with her is what I wanna know?”
The silence that follows is sharp enough to cut skin. Ash doesn’t look away, doesn’t hedge.
“Yes.”
The word lands like a punch.
Liam’s entire body goes rigid. “Are you out of your mind?” His voice jumps an octave, the fury coming fast now.
“Liam—” I start, but he’s already on his feet, looming over Ash.
“You’re my friend, Ash. I’ve known you for years. And you think it’s okay to get into bed with my sister?” His voice echoes off the walls, every word dripping with disbelief and betrayal.
Ash stays still, shoulders squared, but I see the muscle ticking in his jaw. “I’m not going to apologize for having a connection with her.”
“Connection?” Liam’s laugh is humorless, sharp. “You don’t do connection. You do flings. You do a few weeks of fun before you get bored and move on to the next pretty face.” He jabs a finger toward Ash’s chest. “But this isn’t some random girl you met at a party—this is Olive.”
Ash’s voice drops low, controlled, but I can feel the steel in it. “Don’t you think it’s Olive’s choice whether to start something with me? She’s a grown woman. It’s time you treat her like one.”
Liam shakes his head like he’s trying to process the words, his breathing fast. “No. No, you’ve crossed a line.
A big one. You should’ve come to me. Olive isn’t this kind of girl.
She cares about people. She is writing a goddamn romance novel, for heaven’s sake.
Don’t you think she might have other expectations than one of your model flings?
You should’ve said something—” He cuts himself off, scrubbing a hand over his face, like he’s trying to rein in the anger boiling under his skin.
The air between them crackles, heavy and hot.
Liam takes a step forward, his chest brushing Ash’s. “You think I’d just sit back and watch while you—” He breaks off, the muscles in his neck straining. “You’re sleeping with my sister. And you’re standing here acting like you’re owed my blessing?”
Ash doesn’t move, doesn’t blink. “I’m not asking for your blessing, Liam. I’m telling you how it is.”
“Wrong answer,” Liam snaps, and now they’re so close I can feel the heat radiating off both of them.
The words between them are sharp enough to cut, and I can feel it coming before it happens.
“Liam—” I start, but it’s too late.
Ash opens his mouth—probably to make some cool, controlled comeback—and Liam’s fist connects with his cheekbone in a clean, brutal arc. The sound is sickeningly solid, and Ash staggers back into the arm of the couch, one hand flying to his face.
“Jesus—” Ash hisses through his teeth, blinking fast like he’s trying to clear stars from his vision.
My gasp feels too loud in the stillness. “Liam!”
He’s breathing hard, shoulders rising and falling, eyes still blazing. But he barrels on. “You break her heart, and I swear to God—”
Ash cuts him off, voice low, dangerous. “I’m not going to.”
Liam’s fists clench at his sides. “You can’t promise that. No one can promise that.”
Ash’s shoulders are tight, his stance unyielding. “Then you’ll just have to trust me.”
Liam’s face hardens, and he takes another step into Ash’s space.
“I don’t.” Liam’s eyes are still locked on Ash over my shoulder.
“You think I’m overreacting? Fine. But I’ve known you for years, Ash, and I know your track record.
You’re not the guy who sticks around.” And with that, he turns and storms out, the door slamming so hard the frame rattles.
For a beat, all I can hear is the rush of my own pulse.
Ash lowers his hand, and I see the already-darkening bruise blooming under his left eye. “Well,” he mutters, wincing, “that went well.”
I drop to my knees in front of him, my hands cupping his jaw, tilting his face toward the light. “Hold still.” My voice shakes. “God, Ash, he—”
“It’s fine, Hart.” He tries for a smirk, but it’s half-hearted. “I’ve taken worse hits.”
“Not from my brother.” I grab the nearest dish towel from the kitchen counter, wrap some ice in it, and press it gently to his cheek.
He winces, sucking in a sharp breath. “Careful. My face is my moneymaker.”
The smirk slips, and for just a heartbeat, something raw flickers in his eyes—something that scares me more than the bruise. Maybe regret?