Olive Hart.
My best friend’s little sister.
And, apparently, my best bad idea yet.
I swirl my club soda, watching light catch the ice and bead along the rim.Couldshe really pull it off? Could we? A fake marriage. On paper. In public.
I grin.
She got flustered overonekiss. One kiss and she looked like she couldn’t decide whether to run or throttle me. Or both.
It shouldn’t be fun.
But it is.
I picture her on my arm at a gala—stiff-backed and suspicious in some jaw-dropping gown. The way her fingers would dig into mine just a little too hard. The sweet, polite smile she’d wear for the cameras. And the death glare she’d shoot me the second no one was looking.
God, the headlines.
“Ash Ryder Settles Down”
“Rockstar Tamed by Bookish Bride”
“From Tabloids to True Love?”
I laugh under my breath and take another slow sip.
The truth is, she’s perfect for it. The image. The story. The tension. All of it. She’s real in a way that cuts through the noise. She doesn't try to impress me. Doesn’t care about the name. She kissed me like it meant something—then acted like it didn’t.
And she needs money.
That part stings more than I expected. She shouldn’t have to need anything. Not someone like her.
But I have too much of it.
And not enough credibility.
She has theopposite problem.
And if I’m being honest—reallyhonest—part of me just wants to see what would happen if we tried.
If she stood next to me in front of flashing cameras and called me her husband with that fire in her eyes and that stubborn mouth daring me to enjoy it.
It’s a disaster waiting to happen.
Which is probably why I already want to say yes.
I strip down and step into the shower, letting the hot water hit me like I’m trying to burn the tension out of my skin.
But it doesn’t work.
I brace a hand against the marble wall, lean my head forward, and exhale hard.
Olive Hart.
She’s everywhere.
In my bloodstream. My thoughts. That impossible little laugh. The flash of teeth when she’s annoyed. The way she glares like it’s a weapon—and has no idea how much it turns me on.
