I snort. “You mean like a brooding duke about to ruin me in a hedge maze?”
His eyes glint. “Exactly.”
I take another deep breath. It doesn’t help. “And what if they ask questions?”
He tilts his head. “Then you answer them. Or let me. Whatever makes you comfortable.”
“That sounds dangerously close to trust.”
He smiles, slow and genuine. “Good. Because I do.”
The car slows. My heart rate spikes. I hear the thrum of music and the buzz of a crowd even before the door opens.
Ash notices my death grip again and slides his fingers between mine, palm warm against mine. “Olive.”
I turn to him.
“You’re going to be fine,” he says, steady and low. “And if it gets to be too much, just lean into me.”
I nod, because my throat’s too tight for words.
He leans in, brushing his lips to my temple. “Let them see what a lucky bastard I am.”
And just like that, the door swings open.
Ash steps out first, cameras exploding in a frenzy of white flashes and shouting voices.
Then he turns, extends his hand toward me, and smiles like there’s no one else in the world.
I take his hand.
And step into the spotlight.
Flashes explode like fireworks, and voices shout from every direction. “Ash! Over here! Ash, who’s the girl?” “Is that your fiancée? Give us a kiss!”
Ash’s hand finds the small of my back, steady and warm. He leans close, voice low in my ear. “Smile like I just whispered something filthy.”
I bite back a laugh. “You do have a habit of doing that.”
We step forward together, hand in hand, and the frenzy intensifies. Ash raises our joined hands for the cameras, the diamond on my finger catching the light in a dazzling flash. I swear half the crowd gasps.
“Hold still,” he murmurs, then slides his arm around my waist, drawing me into his side like we’ve done this a thousand times. He angles us just right for the cameras—his rockstar instincts kicking in—and I try to follow his lead. Chin up. Shoulders back. Soft smile.
He turns toward me slightly, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear. It’s nothing, really—barely a touch. But the flashes pop like grenades, and the crowd noise crescendos.
“You’re doing great,” he says quietly, lips close to my cheek. “You look beautiful, Hart.”
I feel beautiful. Nervous, but beautiful. The gown fits like a dream, the glam team gave me cheekbones I didn’t know I had, and the man beside me is looking at me like I’m the main event—not the accessory.
A photographer shouts, “Can we get a kiss?”
My heart stutters. Ash doesn’t miss a beat. He leans in—not to my lips, but to my temple, pressing the gentlest kiss there. The crowd reacts anyway, like he just dipped me in a passionate movie moment. His lips linger for a beat longer than they should.
I watch as he works the crowd, posing and smiling.
He lights up under the spotlight—not in the forced way people do for the cameras, but in that magnetic, larger-than-life way that makes people stop and stare.
He’s dazzling.
