Page 18 of Fake Fiancé for the Billionaire Rockstar

“I’ve got it,” she says quickly, though her voice wavers, betraying her.

I can’t help but lean in a little closer. “That kiss,” I murmur, close enough that I’m sure she feels the warmth of my breath against her ear, “wasn’t exactly what I had in mind.”

Her breath hitches, and for a second, her hands freeze. “It was for your parents,” she replies, her voice tight. She’s trying to keep it together, but I can tell I’m getting to her.

“They’re not here now,” I whisper, letting my fingers brush ever so lightly against hers as she holds the knife. The contact is electric, sending a shock straight through me, and I hear her quick intake of breath.

For a moment, she doesn’t move. Her chest rises and falls in quick, shallow breaths. Then she pulls away, putting the knife down with a soft clink. She turns to face me, her eyes locked on mine, blazing with something I can’t quite place—anger, frustration, desire... maybe all three.

“Don’t push your luck,” she warns, her voice shaky.

The domesticity of it, the rightness, hits me like a punch to the gut.

This is dangerous. These feelings—they’re not part of the plan. But as I watch her move around my kitchen like she belongs here, I’m starting to wonder if I care about the plan at all.

7

Carmen

Donny’s heat radiates againstmy back, his presence overwhelming my senses. I slam my hand on the marble counter, whirling to face him. “Do you mind? I don’t need you hovering. I can cook just fine on my own.”

He takes a small step back, but remains close enough that I can still catch the subtle scent of his cologne. The warmth radiating from his body seems to bridge the gap between us. “Just checking how things are going,” he murmurs, his voice low and intimate despite the spacious kitchen around us.

I swallow hard, willing my racing heart to slow. “Well, don’t.”

“Maybe you should be thinking about how you’re going to act in rehearsal tomorrow, rather than making sure I’m not burning your precious kitchen down,” I mutter.

I’ve been cooking this dinner for a while now because every time I start one thing, I think of another that his parents might enjoy. At this point, I’m pretty sure we are going to have what could be considered a Thanksgiving feast.

Donny grunts, then silently walks out of the kitchen.As he leaves, I catch a glimpse of his face. There's a tension in his jaw, a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes that I've never seen before. My breath catches in my throat. This isn't the rockstar I'm used to seeing on stage, commanding thousands with a single drumbeat. This is just... Donny. A man nervous about his parents' visit, anxious about maintaining our charade.

A strange warmth blooms in my chest, accompanied by an unexpected urge to reach out and squeeze his hand reassuringly.

Am I starting to care about his feelings?

I turn back to the stove, stirring the sauce with more vigor than necessary, trying to drown out the sudden rush of empathy. But it's too late. That brief moment has shifted something between us, blurring the lines I've so carefully drawn.

It’s only when I’m absolutely positive he’s gone that I spin around, my back pressing against the counter, and wipe a towel along my brow to catch the sweat. My hands are shaking, which is bound to happen when I’m meeting the parents of someone who’s supposed to be my fiancé. I’m not sure how the rest of the evening is going to play out, but I can’t imagine it will go smoothly.

I may have been working around Donny for a little while now, but that doesn’t mean I know everything that a fiancée should know. Putting myself in the kitchen, where I could steer away from having the awkward conversations about me and Donny, was the best option for me so I could get my mind in the right place.

There are a few things I know about Donny—he’s allergic to peanuts, fresh oatmeal cookies before every show, and he always does these four small beats on the drums as soon as he sits behind them. A fiancée could know those things about him, sure, but what about everything else?

Does he fall asleep to the city’s symphony of traffic, or does he need silence? Which side of the bed does he prefer? Is he really as neat as his pristine living room suggests, or is his bedroom a chaotic counterpoint?

These thoughts swirl in my mind, each one a reminder of how little I truly know about the man I’m supposed to be engaged to. What if his mother asks about his quirks, his habits? The intimacies a real fiancée would know?

My stomach knots. I’mwayover my head.

Donny and I didn’t exactly have enough time to go over the simpler things about the two of us. The only thing I managed to get out of him during dinner last night was that he’sveryspecific about his wine—to the point that he has to ask detailed questions about each one just to make sure it’s something he will drink.

If I’m being honest, I hadn’t expected him to be a wine person—more of a whiskey on the rocks kind of guy. That’s the most interesting thing I’ve learned about him, though, and I’m not sure I’ll be cut out for enjoying a meal with his parents in light of that.

“Well, well, well,” his mother says eagerly as she steps into the kitchen, “smells like something amazing is cooking.”

I give her the best smile I can manage and nod. “Doing my best. I apologize for not having things done sooner. We weren’t expecting you for another day, and Donny seems to enjoy pushing my buttons at work.”

“Sounds like my son.”

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