Ash:
It’s a big house. You’ll have your own room. I promise.
Olive:
Fine. But I’m not doing your laundry and cooking.
Ash:
Wouldn’t ask you to. Maybe I’ll cook for you. Besides, I have a housekeeper. You’ll meet her.
Olive:
Of course you do,Mr. Rockstar.
Ash:
Talk soon, Hart.
Olive:
Goodnight, Ash.
***
I hear the security gate buzz before my phone lights up with the message:
Olive Hart has arrived.
Right on time.
I close the fridge, leave the untouched smoothie on the counter—something my assistant dropped off because apparently my “image” now includes antioxidants—and head for the front door.
Through the tall windows, I catch a glimpse of her:
Dragging two overstuffed suitcases up the front walk, hair pulled back in a loose ponytail, hoodie tied around her waist, wearing a soft blue T-shirt and jeans that hug her legs in a way I immediately have tonotthink about. She’s squinting up at the house like it personally insulted her.
She looks cute.
Totally out of place against the backdrop of high-end stonework, architectural symmetry, and manicured hedges.
And still—she makes the whole place look better.
I open the front door just as she reaches the top step.
“Hey, roomie,” I say, leaning casually against the frame.
She blows a strand of hair out of her face, hands on her hips. “You weren’t kidding about the big house.”
I grin. “Judgmental much?”
“Judgmental? Me? I’m theoppositeof judgmental. You can be as rich as you want—I won’t give a damn.”
I decide that last part’s probably true and reach for one of her bags. “Come on. Let’s get you inside before your suitcase rips a hole in the earth.”
“It’s mostly books,” she mutters, dragging the second one behind her as she steps over the threshold.
“Of course it is,” I say.
