His thrusts become frantic, his breath coming in sharp pants. “You’re mine,” he snarls. “Say it.”
I can’t hold back any longer. “I’m yours,” I breathe—just before I fall apart.
My body trembles, breath caught, as I shatter around him. He follows with a shudder, spilling into me, every muscle tensed in release.
For a moment, we’re still, our hearts pounding in unison, our breaths mingling. His forehead rests against mine, his eyes closed, his face relaxed in a way I rarely see.
“You’re going to be the death of me, Hart,” he murmurs, his voice soft, almost tender.
I smile, tracing the lines of his tattoos with my fingertips. “Likewise, rockstar.”
He pulls back, his eyes searching mine, and for a moment, the air between us is heavy with unspoken words. But then he smirks, that cocky, playful expression I’ve come to know so well.
“Now tell me I’m the best damn fake fiancé you’ve ever had.”
I laugh, nudging him. “Don’t push your luck, Ash.”
But when he pulls me into another kiss—this one soft and unhurried—I know we’re both pretending.
Because this isn’t just about a fake wedding or a game of banter.
It’s about us.
Two people who stumbled into something real when neither of us was looking.
And as his lips brush mine, I know the truth.
I’m falling for my fake fiancé. For real.
22
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.”
