Her lips curve like she’s in on a delicious secret. She twines her fingers through mine, grounding me.
It’s all for show, of course. We’re playing the part—pretend fiancés. Fake love. Real charm.
But when her thumb starts tracing lazy circles over my skin, I almost forget we’re faking anything.
“So how did you two meet?” my mom asks, finally directing her scrutiny toward something other than the salad.
I glance at Olive. She launches into the story with ease—Liam’s apartment, a hallway mishap, donuts flying. My mother blinks like she’s unsure if Olive is joking. My dad… actually cracks a smile.
While she talks, I rest my hand on the back of her chair, fingers ghosting across her shoulder.
She leans into it.
Subtle. Natural. Like we’ve been doing this forever.
Every small touch—her hand brushing my thigh under the table, the way she tilts her head toward me when she laughs—feels effortless. Intimate.
Dangerous.
My parents ask more questions. Olive answers with her usual warmth and wit. I throw in the occasional sarcastic comment that makes her roll her eyes fondly and nudge me with her elbow.
At one point, she picks a piece of bread from my plate without asking, like she’s done it a hundred times.
“So, Olive,” Dad says stiffly. “How do you and Ash plan to—manage things long-term? Career-wise?”
“Well, I love teaching,” Olive says, brushing a crumb off her dress. “And kids love finger paint. So unless the rockstar lifestyle includes glitter glue and circle time, I think I’ll stick with what I know.”
My dad looks baffled. My mom purses her lips. I brace for impact.
But Olive leans in, conspiratorial. “You should’ve seen Ash at the kindergarten talent show. He clapped the loudest. The kids thought he was a superhero in disguise.”
My mom’s eyebrows arch. “You went to a school event?”
“I was invited,” I mutter, suddenly feeling defensive. “It was fun.”
“Fun?” Dad repeats, like he’s never heard the word before.
“Adorable, actually,” Olive says, smiling at me. “He even got asked if we were going to have a baby. Because apparently when two people love each other and live in the same house, that’s what happens.”
I nearly choke on my water. Olive just grins.
“Oh, and he plays guitar for me while I read romance novels,” she adds. “Which is very swoony, by the way. I think I’ve accidentally trained him into becoming the perfect book boyfriend.”
There’s a beat of silence. My mom looks like she might be having a stroke.
“You… read romance novels?” she finally asks.
“Oh yeah. All the time.” Olive’s eyes light up. “There’s this one I read last week—about a grumpy single dad who hires a nanny, but she turns out to be his childhood nemesis, and they accidentally get stuck in a snowstorm with one sleeping bag. Very spicy.”
I cough.
My mom actually blushes.
But Olive is completely unfazed. “Anyway, it’s just fiction,” she says with a shrug. “Though Ash does make a compelling case for ‘tattooed rockstar with a hidden soft side.’”
Dad is staring at her like she’s a puzzle made entirely of glitter and chaos. But I swear… my mother’s lips twitch. Just barely. But I catch it.
By the time dessert arrives, my mother is complimenting Olive’s “grace” and “good humor,” and my dad has stopped scowlingaltogether. He even nods at something she says about her kindergarteners being “tiny humans with big feelings.”
