Chapter 35 OLIVE
OLIVE
Husband and Wife
When we step into the courtyard, sunlight spills over the stone in a warm wash.
Ash tugs me into a quiet corner of the gardens, stealing a moment for just us before we face the throng of well-wishers.
Across the courtyard, Celeste’s voice carries: “The couple will join you in the garden shortly. Champagne is that way.”
She steers the tide of people toward the long tables, where strings of lights hang overhead, unlit for now but ready to glow once the sun goes down.
Ash’s hand threads through mine, steady and warm, and we slip behind the ivy wall where the library’s reading garden tucks into a quiet L-shape.
The hum of the crowd fades to a soft thrum.
It smells like sun-heated stone and rosemary and whatever magic lemon oil the custodians use on the wood inside.
A small bistro table waits under a strand of café lights Celeste must have thrown up at dawn—two flutes already sweating, a plate with exactly six perfect bites of something flaky and herby.
I didn’t know I was shaking until we stop and the shaking has nowhere else to go. Ash notices first. He sets both glasses down and cups my elbows, thumbs finding that spot on my arms he’s learned will calm me faster than words.
“Hi, wife,” he says, voice rough with joy and nerves and the tail end of unshed tears.
I laugh, which comes out like a hiccup. “Hi, husband.”
We stand there for a breath, forehead to forehead, letting our bodies catch up to what our mouths just promised in front of everyone we love.
The ivy throws dappled shadows across his shirtfront; a blue shard of stained glass light from the window above paints his jaw.
I think: remember this. The color. The hum. His hands.
He pulls back just enough to see my face. “You okay?”
“Better than okay,” I say—and I am. There’s relief and lightness and a thousand small tremors settling into something that feels like certainty.
“I was afraid you weren’t gonna come,” he admits quietly.
“I almost didn’t. I only listened to your message a few hours ago.” Suddenly I remember why I never got to hear the message earlier. “Yesterday was a crazy day… I was busy. I’ve been writing like a maniac. I almost finished writing my book this week. And there’s more.”
He’s already grinning, pride blooming before the details. “Tell me.”
“A publisher reached out,” I say, the words giddy even in the shade. “Through the anonymous inbox on my blog. She said they loved my blog. We had a video call. They want to see the full manuscript. If it’s what they think it is, they want it for their spring romance lineup.”
For a beat he just looks at me like I hung the moon. Then he laughs—full-bodied, incredulous joy—and scoops me in, careful of the dress, not at all careful of his heart. “Of course they do,” he says into my hair. “Of course they do. They’d be idiots not to.”
My heart feels so full it could burst. It’s the dizzy kind of happiness that only comes after heartbreak and too much adrenaline. I want to hug the whole world, and my cheeks ache from smiling.
He gives me a goopy smile, like he can read my thoughts. “We’re really doing this, huh?”
“We already did,” I say, and the truth of it lands like a soft weight in the center of me. “But yes. We’re really doing this.”
We lift our glasses—orange juice, mine champagne—and clink the thin rims so gently they barely make a sound. The library’s clock hums somewhere inside; a breeze stirs the ivy and brushes cool leaves over my bare arm like a blessing.
“Can I ask you one thing?” I say, sudden curiosity blooming. “What were you going to do if I didn’t come?”
He seems to ponder this. “I actually don’t know. There was never a plan B. I probably would’ve just stood there until it got dark.” He gives a helpless shrug. “So yeah, I’m really fucking glad you came.”
“Me too,” I whisper. Then, quieter: “You mentioned something in your vows… Do you know I actually saw the list you made about me on your phone?”
His eyes shut like the light’s too much. When he opens them, they’re clearer than I’ve ever seen. “I’m sorry,” he says softly. “For writing it. For needing it. It was never meant for you to see—and when I wrote it, I wasn’t in the same place I am now.”
“I know,” I say. “But you need to know how it felt. After I told you I loved you, finding that list… It was like walking into a room I thought I belonged in and seeing a checklist pinned to the wall that said, You’re convenient. Don’t get any ideas.”
His grip on my hand tightens. “I can’t imagine how that felt.” He swallows, then pulls his phone from his pocket. A few taps and there it is: FAKE WIFE CRITERIA. Even now, the sight of it stings.
He turns the screen to me.
“Delete it,” he says. “Please.”
I do. My thumb trembles over the trash icon, and then it’s gone. He empties the folder—gone gone—and my chest loosens by an inch I hadn’t realized was tight.
“Thank you,” I say.
“I should be thanking you,” he says, exhaling. “For walking down that aisle anyway.”
He grins, a little sheepish, then nods toward the untouched plate. “Celeste will kill me if you don’t eat something before we greet. We’ve got to keep your blood sugar up. Did you even have breakfast?”
“No,” I admit, plucking a pastry. Flakes rain down my fingers as I bite in—butter, herbs, salt—and only then do I realize how hungry I am. He holds out a napkin, and I let him. It feels like a ceremony all its own.
On the other side of the ivy, someone starts the string version of a pop song that I love. This day couldn’t get any more perfect.
I step closer to Ash, tuck my hand into his. “Ready to go?”
His eyes go soft. “In a minute. There’s something I have to do before—”
He bends and finds my mouth.
The world narrows to just me and him. His palm comes up to cradle my jaw, thumb skimming the place just beneath my ear like he’s memorizing it.
The kiss starts careful—almost reverent—like he’s tasting the moment to make sure it’s real.
I feel the cool brush of his ring against my cheek, the faint clink of mine where our hands are laced, a little punctuation mark of promise.
I rise onto my toes without thinking. He smiles against my lips when I do, and the smile turns the kiss from soft to certain.
He tilts his head; I open for him; the rest of the courtyard blurs into a hum of distant laughter and the low purr of the library’s old clock.
He tastes like mint and something sweeter I can’t name, the kind of sweetness that makes you greedy.
When we part, it’s only far enough for breath. His forehead rests against mine. We’re both smiling in that dazed, private way that feels like a secret handshake.
“Okay,” he whispers, voice rough. “Now I’m ready.”
“Me too,” I say, and I am—my pulse steady, my mouth tingling, the ivy flickering shadow-light over us like a benediction.
We step out from behind the ivy and the whole garden turns toward us. A cheer rises—scattered at first, then one bright wave. Someone whistles. Someone else shushes the whistler. There’s clapping, laughter, the low rumble of a hundred soft congratulations, and for a second I forget how to breathe.
Ash squeezes my hand. Between the hedges, Celeste’s team laid runners the color of cream pages, and tucked little bud vases down the center—garden roses, ranunculus, sprigs of rosemary that release their scent when you brush them.
Place cards sit in vintage library pockets, our guests’ names stamped like due dates.
The table numbers are “Chapter One,” “Chapter Two,” all the way to “Epilogue,” and it’s ridiculous how much joy that silly detail brings me.
The air is warm without being hot; a sycamore throws generous shade, its mottled bark looking like it’s been hand-painted by time.
We make it three steps before Nina barrels into us like a glittery meteor. Her mascara is absolutely not waterproof, and her smile is a mile wide.
“You DID it!” she cries, flinging an arm around each of us.
We sway under the force of her hug, and I feel Ash’s laugh against my shoulder, startled and delighted.
Nina pulls back just enough to cup my cheeks.
“I knew you would,” she says, voice breaking on knew.
Then she points at Ash without looking away from me.
“And you—don’t make me threaten you in a public place. I will.”
Ash lifts both hands in surrender, grinning. “Noted, ma’am.”
Nina sniffles, shoves a wad of tissue at me, then promptly hugs us again because once isn’t enough. When she finally lets go, she fans herself with a place card and stage-whispers, “Okay, I have TWO speeches prepared and one lip-sync performance in case the mood tanks.”
“God help us all,” Liam mutters, appearing at her shoulder.
My brother looks like himself again—not that strange alchemy of protective and proud that only happens on big days. His tie is crooked, as always, because he never lets anyone fix it. His eyes are glassy, but he’ll deny it until the day he dies.
“Hey,” he says, and the word lands soft.
I step into him and wrap both arms around his middle. He smells like peppermint gum and the cologne Dad wore. He hugs back like we’re still kids and I scraped my knee and he’s mad at the sidewalk for existing.
He clears his throat as we separate, then turns to Ash. For a beat there’s just the hum of the garden and the two of them standing a foot apart, some old thunder still rolling far away.
Ash extends his hand first. “Thank you for today.”
Liam stares at it long enough to make me want to hold my breath. Then he takes it—firm, no games. A quick, sincere handshake. The kind men do when they mean I’m still watching you, and also I’m in your corner if you do right by her.
“Don’t make me regret this,” Liam says quietly.
“I won’t,” Ash says, just as low.
They release. The ground beneath my feet steadies.