Page 13 of Rockstar's Fake Engagement

We’ve texted, of course. Carefully curated messages approved by Rachel—so damn sweet they make my teeth ache. Publicly, we’re already the perfect couple, a whirlwind romance playing out in headlines and social media posts. But privately?

We’re still just two strangers caught in a very convincing lie.

I exhale, rubbing a hand over my jaw as I glance at my phone. Lacey’s flight landed half an hour ago. She should be here by now.

I still don’t know how I feel about her staying in my house.

I’m used to solitude. But now, I’m about to share it with a woman I barely know. A woman who, if I’m not careful, might make me forget that none of this is real.

The low rumble of an approaching car breaks through my thoughts. I push off the kitchen counter and head to the front door just as the sleek black SUV pulls into my driveway.

The second the door opens, Lacey steps out. She’s all sun-kissed skin and effortless grace, dressed in a pair of fitted jeans and a light, off-the-shoulder shirt, her dark hair twisted into some kind of loose, messy braid that makes her look soft and untouchably beautiful.

She pushes her sunglasses up into her hair, and when she spots me, her lips curve into a slow, knowing smile.

“Hey, fiancé,” she teases. “Sorry I’m late.”

My mouth quirks. “Hey, Lacey.”

The driver hands her a suitcase, but before she can grab it, I step forward and take it from him.

“You don’t have to—“

“Too late,” I cut in, already turning toward the house.

She follows, smiling as she steps inside, her gaze sweeping the space.

I watch as she takes it all in—the open-concept living room with its floor-to-ceiling windows facing the ocean, the sleek kitchen, and the carefully curated simplicity of it all. No excess, no distractions, just space to breathe.

Her breath hitches as she steps toward the window, pressing a hand against the glass. “Wow,” she murmurs, staring out atthe stretch of private beach beyond the house. “This view is... incredible.”

I nod, watching the way the late afternoon light catches in her hair. “It’s home.”

She turns, eyes dancing. “For me, too, for the weekend, right?”

“For the weekend,” I agree, even though something about the words settles uncomfortably in my chest.

The house feels different with Lacey in it. It feels warmer somehow, like sunshine flooding through windows I forgot I had. She moves through the space with easy grace, trailing her fingers along the walls, peering around the living room, and asking questions that make me see my own home through new eyes.

“This place is amazing,” she says, spinning slowly in the great room. “But it feels...”

“Like a fortress?” I supply, lifting a brow.

She grins. “I was going to say ‘lonely,’ but fortress works too.”

I lead her through the sliding glass doors onto the deck. The ocean stretches endlessly before us, waves crashing against my private strip of beach. The late afternoon sun turns everything golden.

“Want to walk?” I ask, and she slips off her sandals. The soft sand is warm beneath our feet, the rhythmic crash of waves filling the silence between us.

She breathes it all in, tilting her face toward the sun. “I can’t remember the last time I had a second to just... be.”

I glance at her. “You don’t get much downtime?”

She lets out a soft laugh. “Not unless it’s scheduled.”

I get it. I really do. The industry moves fast—if you don’t keep up, you get left behind. But watching her now, the tension in her shoulders easing, the stress fading from her expression, I wonder if she even remembers what it’s like not to be performing.

“You should take advantage of it while you’re here,” I say. “The quiet.”

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