“Oh, goodie,” she mutters. Then, only half-sarcastic: “Does Margot live here too—maybe in the servant’s wing?”
I chuckle. “No servant wing. I’ve got a few people who help with the house and garden, but none of them live here.”
Under her breath, Olive mutters, “This place has more bathrooms than I have pairs of underwear.”
I laugh, pausing outside one of the guest suites. “Here we are.”
I push the door open.
The room is enormous—vaulted ceilings, a four-poster bed dressed in cloud-soft linens, soft gray walls, and floor-to-ceiling curtains that billow slightly from the breeze of the balcony beyond. A candle flickers on the nightstand. Margot’s doing, probably.
Olive steps in like she’s afraid to breathe too hard.
“This is aguestroom?” she says.
I lean against the doorframe, watching her take it in. “It’s yours now. For the next year.”
She turns, looking at me. There’s something quiet in her eyes. Something not entirely sarcastic. “This is… beautiful. Thank you, Ash.”
I’m relieved to hear it, because I want her to have her own space where she feels comfortable. “I’m glad you like it,” I say truthfully.
“I do. Just a little bit of my personal touch and this will be absolutely perfect.” She grins and gets to work.
She proceeds to unpack one of her suitcases and out come fairy lights, a fuzzy lavender blanket that she throws over the foot of the bed, lots and lots of books. I swear, that suitcase is like a fucking Mary Poppins bag.
I lean against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching her hanging the fairy lights. The room glows instantly—soft, golden, and completely different.
Next she unpacks a ridiculous—and I mean ridiculous—hedgehog-shaped pillow with beady eyes and a smug little face that looks personally offended by my wallpaper.
She fluffs it once and pats its spiky faux-fur head like it’s an old friend.
“This is Bernard,” she says solemnly.
I eye the hideous thing. “Bernard? He looks more like a Kevin to me.”
She tsks, genuinely offended. “He is no Kevin. Why do you and Liam hate him?” Then, to the pillow: “Don’t listen to them, Bernard. You are beautiful, inside and out.”
I huff a laugh. “Liam’s probably glad to be rid of him. What did he say about you agreeing to fake-marry me, anyway?”
“Oh, you know. Threatening serious bodily harm. The usual. He’ll get used toit.“
Then she pulls out a stack of books—well-worn paperbacks with cracked spines, heart-covered covers, and titles that might as well screamhot mess in a tuxedo falls for sunshine disaster.
She lines them up on the windowsill like they’re sacred relics.
Romance novels.
I eye her stack of paperbacks—each one featuring a half-naked man on the cover. Not just shirtless.Windsweptshirtless. Muscles glistening. Eyes smoldering.
She catches the look on my face and lunges as I reach for one, but I’m faster. I hold it out of her reach, flipping to the page marked with a crumpled receipt.
“Ash,stop! That’s a breach of privacy. Give it back!”
“Let’s see what we’ve got here,” I say, overly dramatic. “His hands gripped her hips as she shattered beneath him, breathless, undone—” I blink. “Wow. Okay. That escalated.”
She smacks my arm. “Told you to stop.”
I lower the book, but keep my eyes on her. She’s flustered now—cheeks pink, brow furrowed. Adorable.
