I bend down and scoop up a squashed donut, shaking my head as I drop it into an empty takeout bag. I clean the frosting off the floor, wipe down the kitchen counter, until Liam’s small apartment looks back to its old self.
I glance at the bathroom door—still firmly closed. Locked, probably. If she had a deadbolt, I’m sure she’d use it.
Olive Hart. Sweet name. Not so sweet mouth.
She’s pretty—petite, but with curves in all the right places. Her eyes, green and ridiculously expressive, give her away before she can edit a single thought. And the freckles dusting her button nose do nothing for my concentration.
She introduced herself like she was charging a battlefield, not standing naked and armed with a bath mat.
And for some reason, I haven’t stopped smirking since.
She has no idea who I am.
Not even a flicker of “Oh my god, are you Ash Ryder?” No wide eyes. No awkward smile. No fumbling over which album was her favorite or asking if I’m the one who dated that pop star or trashed that hotel room in Berlin. Nothing.
She just looked at me like I was an intruder and a pervert—which, to be fair, from her angle, I probably was.
But it’s... refreshing.
People always want something from me—tickets, selfies, attention, headlines. They either put me on a pedestal or treat me like a tabloid circus act. Buther?
She looked at me like I was a dumbass with powdered sugar on hisshoes.
And I fucking liked it.
A little too much.
Especially when she started yelling. Especially when she got flustered. Especially when she didn’t back down even though she was naked, dripping, and wielding kitchen accessories as armor.
I should probably apologize when she comes back out.
I grin, sinking onto the couch, and strumming a few lazy chords on the guitar I’d left here last time I crashed with Liam. It’s half out of tune. I don’t fix it.
The bathroom door clicks open.
I glance up, already half-grinning, curious what kind of verbal weaponry she’s bringing this time.
She steps into the hallway wrapped in what can only be described as civilian clothes—leggings, an oversized hoodie, fuzzy socks, and a bun so aggressively defensive it’s basically a battle flag.
Her eyes lock on me.
She doesn’t speak. Just crosses her arms and stands there like she’s weighing whether I’m even worth the effort.
I hold up a donut, my mouth curving into something between an olive branch and a dare.
“How about a truce, Hart?”
She squints at the donut like it might be poisoned, then crosses the room slowly, arms still folded like she refuses to be seen lowering her guard.
With a little huff, she snatches the donut and drops onto the far end of the couch, curling her legs beneath her like she’s settling into enemy territory.
“I’m still mad at you,” she says, not looking at me.
“Noted,” I reply, strumming a lazy chord on the guitar. “But you took the donut, so technically, I win.”
Her eyes flick to mine, sharp and unimpressed. “You didn’t win. I’m just low on blood sugar and self-respect.”
That makes me grin.
