“No,” I hiss. “Because you forgot to mention that tiny little detail, didn’t you, dearest brother?”
But now I have to ask myself—howdidI miss it?
The attitude.
The way he walks like the world owes him something and he’s already decided not to collect.
The way he kissed me like he had nothing to prove… but did it anyway.
Oh God.
I kissedthat.
Ash Ryder is a big-name singer-songwriter I know from the radio. Think pop-alt with killer hooks—the kind of songs you scream in the car, plus a few gut-punch ballads that sneak up on you. His tracks always chart on Spotify, his tours sell out in minutes, and fans camp outside arenas for days just to snag the best spots. He’s got a Grammy, millions of adoring fans—men want to be him, womenfawn over him.
My stomach twists. Heat flushes up my neck. My thoughts start colliding like dominoes in a hurricane.
Ash Ryder. The Ash Ryder. Tabloid menace. Infamous stage-kisser-slash-hotel-trasher. The guy who once got banned from three late-night shows in one week.
I made out with him on a couch in my brother’s apartment.
He probably thinks it was nothing. Probablydoesthat with every girl who gives him attitude and wears fuzzy socks and doesn’t immediately recognize his face from a thousand magazine covers.
I was just another story.
Another stupid, impulsive mistake.
Liam, completely oblivious to the existential crisis unfolding inside my skull, walks over and drops a bag of chips on the counter. “You seriously didn’t know? Olive, come on. He’s on the radioconstantly.”
Ash is watching me now.
Not smug. Not cruel. Just… waiting.
“You really didn’t know, did you?” he says, like he’s still trying to wrap his head around it.
I swallow. My throat is dry. My voice comes out small.
“No. I didn’t recognize you.”
From across the room, Liam’s grinning like this is the most entertaining thing he’s seen all week.
No suspicious glances. Nowhat the hell is going on between you twoglares. Just pure, blissful ignorance.
And then it hits me—
He doesn’t know.
Liam hasabsolutely no ideathat ten minutes ago, his best friend and rockstar had his hands on my waist and his mouth on mine.
That I kissed him back like I meant it. Like I still want to.
My heart lurches.
I glance at Ash out of the corner of my eye.
He’s lounging like always, elbow on the back of the couch, that same unreadable half-smile playing at the corner of his mouth. He looks infuriatingly calm. Like nothing at all is unusual. Like kissing me didn’t even register.
And maybe it didn’t.
