Page 1 of Fake Fiancé for the Billionaire Rockstar

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Carmen

I’m seconds away fromlosing it.

Donny’s at it again. The fifth holiday jingle that’snoton the set list I sent two days ago. Seriously, how hard is it to follow simple instructions? At this rate, I might actually scream.

The rest of the band doesn’t seem to care.Of course, they don’t.

Brent and Evan are all but grinning, throwing their too-perfect smiles over their shoulders at Donny like they’re in on some inside joke. Jace doesn’t even bother to join them—he just stares at me, bored as ever, like I’m the only one noticing this train wreck happening in real-time.

For a split second, I wish the others were more like him—apathetic, sure, but at least he sticks to the plan.

But no. Brent, Mr. Family Man now, should be the one to tell Donny to cut it out. Responsibility and all that. Guess fatherhood hasn’t completely killed his taste for chaos, because he’s egging Donny on like a schoolboy.

Here’s Donny, curls drooping over his eyes, proudly tapping away at his drum. The charity concert’s in a few weeks. You’d think they’d be on top of things.

Static echoes through my earpiece, then a male voice comes through the other end, “The lights on stage left aren’t working. Is there a new set in storage?”

Before I storm up to the room where our stage tech is working, I focus all my energy on the man-child sitting in front of his drums. He starts tapping them with the sticks, oblivious to the death glare I’ve got aimed at him, but at least the other guys make room for me to walk through them — they know what’s good for them.

Unlike Donny. He never knows what’s good for him. Or me.

Donny looks up. That cheeky grin. For a moment, I can’t breathe. Damn him. I hate how his eyes light up, brown irises dotting with yellow. Hate his perpetually relaxed stance.

Hate how much I notice these things.

“Hey there, Carm. Come to tell me how amazing I am?”

I plant my hands on my hips. Tap my foot. “No, Donny. There’s a schedule. Follow it.”

Another moment of static in my ear, then a voice asks, “What are we going to do, Carmen?”

“It’s no big deal. We know all the songs and I can play them with my eyes closed.”

Infuriating.

I grind out, “I don’t care. Do what you’re supposed to, or get out.”

I try not to notice the sweat on his forehead. Or how his shirt clings to his chest.

Inappropriate, Carmen. Focus.

“Either do what you’re supposed to, or get the hell out of my rehearsal.”

His eyebrows jump and he leans forward, his arm resting over one of the drums and giving me a good view of the veins cascading down them.

“Yourrehearsal?”

“Let’s get back on track,” Brent says, suddenly becoming the leader I needed him to be a few moments ago. “We’ve got a lot of work to do.”

Donny stands, ignoring Brent’s words, and he sets his drumsticks down on the set before waving a hand in front of him.

“I’d hate to get in the middle ofyourrehearsal, Carm.”

There’s a challenge in his eyes that makes my heart jump, but I keep my mouth closed as he says, “Let’s see what you got.”

“Carmen,” the stage tech mutters through the earpiece. “We need to get this figured out, pronto.”

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