I haven’t let anyone do that in a long time.
It’s always easier to joke. To charm. To play the part. But last night, I wasn’t performing.
And she didn’t run.
It felt good to say it out loud. Weirdly good. Like I’d let something out I didn’t realize I was still carrying. Like a pressure valve finally releasing.
And now—this. Her body curled into mine, fitting too perfectly, like some sick kind of punishment for a man who’s supposed to keep his distance.
Olive shifts against me again—her hand brushing over my stomach, her thigh sliding just a little more against mine.
And I nearly groan.
Yep. Still hard. Still a terrible time to exist in my own body.
She blinks up at me, eyes bleary and still soft with sleep. “Morning,” she whispers.
Her voice is husky. Like velvet and trouble.
I clear my throat, trying to focus onanythingbut the fact that her body is pressed against mine and my dick has zero shame about it.
“Morning,” I say. “Don’t freak out, but I’m gonna need you to get up first.”
Her brows knit. “Why?”
I raise one eyebrow. Give her alook.
She blinks again. Then her eyes widen, and her cheeks flush bright pink. “Oh.”
“Yeah. That.”
She practically vaults off the couch, clutching the blanket like it’s a lifeline. “Right. I’ll just—go. Coffee. Pants. Yes.”
I laugh under my breath as she disappears into the kitchen like she’s fleeing a crime scene.
Once she’s gone, I sit up and run a hand through my hair.
Sunday. Right. We’ve got a busy day ahead. First, a meeting with the wedding planner. Then a pre-wedding cover shoot for a magazine.
I pull on a hoodie and head to the kitchen, where she’s already clutching a mug like it’s shielding her from the memory of what just happened.
“Crisis averted?” I ask, grabbing a mug of my own.
“Barely,” she mutters.
I smirk. “Relax, Hart. It’s a biological inevitability.”
“You sound very calm about it.”
“I’m a man of experience,” I say, sipping my coffee.
I nod toward the folder on the table. “So… you ready for our meeting with the wedding planner?”
She groans. “God help us.” Olive reaches for the guest list we filled out together—the names of the people we each wanted to invite.
“Okay, let’s see,” she says, chewing on her lip. “Who’s on your list?”
I shrug. “Liam, obviously. Some friends. A few people from the label. My manager. Maybe… a couple industry folks to make it look legit.”
