She doesn’t look up. “I’m all ears, dear.”
“Right. So. Hypothetically, if two adults who live here were… reallocating space… at night—purely logistical—would that be, in your professional opinion, disruptive to your workflow?”
Margot sets the kettle down. It gleams. She turns, all tidy bun and calm eyes. “I polish surfaces and absolve no souls,” she says gently. “If you’re asking whether your laundry schedule needs updating, I can advise.”
I blink. Abort. Regroup. “Okay, but also… you may have noticed—actually, you probably haven’t noticed—why would you notice?—that Ash and I are sometimes sleeping in the same room.”
Shit.Shit. Shit. Shit. Why do I keep talking? My face promptly tries to combust.
Margot’s mouth twitches, just once, and then returns to neutral like a pro. “I haven’t noticed anything,” she says with that immaculate discretion of hers. “I dust the hallway, Olive. I do not audit doorways.”
“Oh.” I nod, rapidly, like a bobblehead that has seen things. “Great. Perfect. Because it’s not—I mean, it is, obviously, because we’re getting married, but even if we weren’t, we’re adults, and it’s very practical? Heat conservation. Pillow allocation. Duvet ratios.”
“Duvet ratios,” she repeats, as if filing it under “Household Mysteries.” “Very wise.”
“And we—well—I just didn’t want you thinking that we were, um…” I make a vague gesture that could mean anything from ‘sharing oxygen’ to ‘committing tax fraud.’ “Showing poor judgment. In the room.”
“Of course,” Margot says soothingly.
Why am I like this.
“I mean, yes, there are… grown-up activities,” I blurt, then clap a hand over my mouth. “Which I will not describe. Because I am not twelve. But just so you know we’re not… doing this recklessly, we have… systems.” I exhale so hard my bangs move. “I’m going to stop talking.”
“An ambitious promise,” she says, eyes kind. She reaches for the tin of tea. “Chamomile?”
“Yes, please.”
Footsteps thud down the hall. Ash appears in the doorway, barefoot, wearing black joggers and a fitted T-shirt that really should not be legal. “Morning,” he says. “Are we conspiring?”
“Always,” I saytoo quickly.
“Never,” Margot says at the same time. Then, with the smoothness of a diplomat: “We were discussing duvet ratios.”
Ash blinks. “Are they controversial now?”
Just then the doorbell chimes, saving me.
Two seconds later, Nina bursts in, wrapped in a silk trench coat, heels clicking dramatically on the marble like she owns the place. “Okay, this house is so extra I nearly cried in the Uber,” she says by way of greeting. “You have a grand piano?”
“Technically, I don’t have a grand piano. It’s all Ash’s,” I say, grinning as I pull her in for a hug. “Welcome to Casa Ryder.”
Nina pulls back to look around. “This isn’t a house. This is a Bond villain’s lair. Tell me there’s a button somewhere that opens a secret bar.”
“Honestly? Wouldn’t surprise me.”
Ash steps forward to greet her, easy confidence in his stride. “You must be Nina.”
“Andyoumust be the rockstar-slash-husband-slash-supposedly gay fake fiancé,” Nina says, completely unfazed as she sticks out her hand. She missed the talent show yesterday, so this is her first time meeting Ash.
Ash smirks and shakes it. “I see someone’s been briefed.”
“I do my research,” she replies with a wink, then turns to me. “Girl. He’s hot. Like, dangerously hot. You should definitely get with him.”
I freeze. Ash lifts a brow, clearly amused.
“Right,” Nina says quickly. “Sorry. Not my business. Blame the wine I had after work.”
Ash chuckles. “No offense taken.”
