Page 26 of Rockstar's Fake Engagement

“A gentleman, huh?” His voice has dropped lower. “That doesn’t sound like me.”

My heart thuds against my ribs. “No?”

He leans in slightly, and for a wild moment, I think he might kiss me. Instead, he murmurs, “I think I would have kissed you right there at the party. The second I got you alone.”

The air between us crackles with tension. I can’t look away from his mouth.

“That’s...” I swallow hard. “That’s not very romantic.”

“No?” His fingers brush my knee. “Tell me your version then. How did I kiss you?”

I try to calm my racing pulse, but his fingers are still on my knee, and the sunset has faded to that magical twilight that makes everything feel possible.

“Well,” I say, my voice softer than I intend, “you would have waited. Built the anticipation.”

His thumb traces a small circle on my knee. “Go on.”

“Maybe...” I shift slightly, hyperaware of every point of contact between us. “Maybe you found a quiet corner of the garden. Away from the cameras, the noise.”

“Just us?” His eyes haven’t left mine.

I nod. “Just us. And you would have tucked my hair behind my ear, just like—“

His hand moves from my knee, fingers ghosting along my cheek as he does exactly that. My breath catches.

“Like this?” he murmurs.

“Yes.” The word is barely a whisper. “And then...”

“And then?”

We’re so close now I can feel his breath on my lips. The rational part of my brain is screaming that this isn’t part of the act, that there are no cameras here and no audience to convince.

But his hand is cupping my face, and my heart is thundering, and—

His phone rings, shattering the moment.

Nate pulls back, cursing under his breath as he checks the screen. “It’s Emily.”

Reality crashes back. Emily—his manager. One of the women orchestrating this whole charade.

I stand up quickly, nearly knocking over my wine glass. “You should get that. I’m going to...” I gesture vaguely toward the house. “Get more wine.”

I practically flee inside, my hands shaking as I grip the kitchen counter. My lips are tingling from his almost-kiss, and I can still feel the phantom trace of his fingers on my skin. Through the glass doors, I watch him pace the deck as he talks, the muscles in his back taut beneath his shirt. Even from here, the sight of him makes my pulse race.

This is dangerous. Whatever is happening between us—these moments, these almost-kisses, these conversations that feel too real—it has to stop.

Because in six months, this ends. The contract expires, we go our separate ways, and anything real we might feel…

I pour myself another glass of wine, trying to steady my nerves. When Nate comes back inside, I need to be composed, professional, and ready to discuss whatever new appearance or interview Emily has planned.

But my lips still tingle from what almost happened, and my skin still burns where he touched me, and I know I’m in way over my head.

Because pretending to be in love with Nate Stone is turning out to be the easiest role I’ve ever played.

The sliding door opens, and I force myself not to turn around immediately. Instead, I focus on pouring wine, though the bottle trembles slightly in my grip. His presence fills the kitchen, and I’m acutely aware of every step he takes toward me. His heat radiates against my back before he even speaks.

“Emily says hello,” Nate says, his voice carefully neutral. “She’d like us to put in an appearance at a small get-together tomorrow at the Riverside Hotel. And she’s lined up a photo shoot for next week. Something casual and intimate, for People magazine.”

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