Page 20 of Rockstar's Fake Engagement

I nod, understanding more than she realizes. Mornings are like a reset. A time to exist in the quiet before the world demands more of you.

She exhales, brushing a few loose strands of hair from her face. “So, how about some Boston cream doughnuts?”

I snicker. “I thought your nutritionist would murder you.”

She grins. “What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her.”

“You’re trouble, Lacey Monroe.”

She laughs, and it does something to me—settles deep in my chest—something I really don’t need to analyze. I don’t know what it is about her that draws me like a magnet.

After breakfast, we settle onto the sand, towels spread out under the sun. Lacey sighs in contentment, stretching in a way that makes it hard to look away.

“This,” she says, closing her eyes behind her sunglasses and lifting her face toward the sun, “is exactly what I needed.”

She takes a deep breath, and I try not to stare at how the movement draws attention to the curves of her breasts, the flat plane of her stomach. “Not used to having a day off?”

“Not even a little.” She peeks at me from over her sunglasses, and there’s something in that look that makes my blood run hot. “You?”

I shrug, leaning back on my elbows, needing the distance. “I like the quiet.”

Her lips curve into a knowing smile. “Yeah, I’m getting that about you, Stone.”

The conversation drifts into easy topics—music, movies, the tragedy of the latest remake of a classic film. She gets heated over Hollywood remakes, and I just sit back and watch, enjoying the animation in her voice, the way her nose scrunches when she’s really into an argument. I’m thankful that my dark sunglasses hide how my eyes trail over her curves in that swimsuit she’s wearing. It’s modest compared to some, but would still tempt a saint. I determinedly avert my eyes.

It’s a slow, lazy kind of morning until her phone starts buzzing.

She sighs, peering at the screen. “And so it begins.”

I raise a brow. “Fans?”

She snorts. “Worse. Family.”

She taps the screen, putting the call on speaker.

“Lacey!”

“Hi, Blaire,” Lacey says with a long-suffering sigh.

“So, are you married yet, or are you making Hollywood wait?”

“Blaire—“

“Oh, relax,” Blaire drawls. “I’m teasing. You’re living the dream. Private beach, handsome rockstar fiancé—“

I chuckle and say, “I like her.”

Blaire demands. “Is that him? Put him on.”

Lacey groans. “Nate, do not encourage her.”

I lean in, amused. “Hi, Blaire.”

“Even your voice is sexy as hell—all low and gravelly.”

I chuckle. “So I’ve been told.”

Lacey gapes at me. “Are you flirting with my sister?”

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