She shrugs, like it’s not that big a deal, but I can see the way her fingers tighten on her phone, the flicker of pride she’s trying to hide.
“You know,” I say, leaning back on my elbows, “if you can make a blog post go viral in a few hours, imagine what you could do with a book.”
Her mouth curves in a slow smile. “You sound like my manager.”
“Your unofficial one,” I say, nudging her knee with mine. “Except I’m a lot better-looking and I get to kiss you.”
That gets me a laugh. “What exactly do you mean my book?”
“I mean a book. A whole one. Something with a cover, a spine, a fancy font with your name on it.”
She hesitates, eyes flicking toward the horizon. Her cheeks go faintly pink, and she looks like she’s debating whether to admit something. Finally, she exhales. “I… might already have one. Well, half of one.”
I blink. “You’ve been holding out on me.”
“It’s not—” She waves a hand, like she can brush it off. “It’s just something I started a couple years ago. A romance novel. I never finished it, and it’s probably terrible.”
I sit up, grinning. “You’re telling me you’ve been hiding a half-written romance novel from me?”
She laughs, tucking her knees up to her chest. “It’s not like that.”
“It’s exactly like that,” I counter. “You’ve got this secret stash of words and you’re just keeping it to yourself? Criminal.”
Her lips twitch. “I didn’t think anyone would care.”
I shake my head, still smiling. “Olive, the internet cares. Clearly. And I care. And now I want to read it.”
“Not a chance,” she says quickly, but there’s a spark in her eyes that tells me she likes the idea more than she’s letting on.
25
OLIVE
Worth It
We opt for a slow morning at the villa. I’m curled up on the couch, laptop balanced on my knees, wrestling one stubborn sentence into place.
Ash flops down beside me, hair still damp from a shower, T-shirt clinging in a way that should be illegal. “Whatcha working on?” he asks, like it’s casual conversation.
“Nothing,” I say too quickly, snapping the laptop halfway closed.
He grins, that slow, knowing grin that always makes me nervous. “Oh, that was suspicious. Which means… it’s your book, isn’t it?”
“No.” My voice is firm. My cheeks, however, are burning like I’ve just sprinted a mile.
Ash leans in, lowering his voice like we’re conspiring. “You know, I’m averygood reader. Excellent at dramatic interpretation. I could do voices.”
I snort. “I bet you could. Still no.”
“Come on,” he says, pretending to pout. “Just one chapter. Or a paragraph. Or even the title.”
I shake my head, hugging the laptop to my chest like a life raft. “It’s not ready. It’s barely halfway done, and it’s rough, and you’d make fun of me.”
“Olive.” His tone is mock-offended. “I wouldnevermake fun of you. Tease you mercilessly, yes. But in a supportive way.”
“That is not reassuring.”
He stretches an arm along the back of the couch, his gaze flicking between my face and the laptop. “You’re killing me here. You know that, right?”
