Page 44 of Rockstar's Fake Engagement

She opens her eyes, meeting mine with a soft smile that does dangerous things to my heart. But instead of fighting it tonight, I just let myself enjoy it. I let myself appreciate having her here, in this moment, without worrying about what it means or where it’s going.

The night stretches on, filled with easy conversation and comfortable silences. We talk about anything we want. Nothing is off limits—the band’s new songs, her upcoming projects, that weird documentary about penguins she’d like to watch. The bongos become a subtle backdrop to our conversation.

When she finally yawns and stands to head to bed, she pauses by my chair.

“Thanks for making this feel like my home away from home.”

When she leans down, maybe to kiss my cheek, I turn my head at the same moment. Our faces are suddenly inches apart, and the casual warmth of the evening ignites into something molten. Her breath catches, and I watch her pupils dilate in the dim light. Her scent surrounds me—wine, salt air, and something uniquely her that makes my hands itch to pull her closer.

For a heart-stopping moment, neither of us moves. The sound of the waves fades away, replaced by the thundering of my pulse. Her hand is braced on my shoulder, and I can feel the heat of it burning through my shirt.

We’re not fooling anyone, I realize. Whatever this is between us, it’s as real as the rhythm that drives every song I’ve ever played.

But tonight isn’t the night to cross that line—not with her family waiting to meet me tomorrow and with five months of the contract still ahead of us.

Lacey seems to come to the same conclusion. She straightens slowly, her hand sliding from my shoulder. “Goodnight, Nate,” she whispers, her voice a little unsteady.

“Goodnight, Lacey.”

I watch her disappear inside, my body humming with awareness of her. The ghost of her touch lingers on my skin like a brand, and I can still feel the heat radiating from her body, still smell the subtle scent of her skin. My fingers grip the arms of the chair, fighting the urge to follow her, to finish what that almost-kiss started.

The pretense of our arrangement feels paper-thin now, fragile as a spider web, ready to shatter at the slightest touch.

Every carefully constructed wall, every professional boundary, every rational reason for keeping my distance is crumbling beneath the weight of wanting her. Not just her body, though God knows that’s part of it, but all of her—her laugh, her mind, and her heart.

And that terrifies me more than any thrill of desire ever could. Because desire I could control. But this? This feels like falling without a safety net.

Fourteen

Lacey

There’s a difference between being tired and being exhausted.

Tired means finishing a long day on set, kicking off my heels, and sinking into a pile of pillows with a glass of wine. Exhausted means waking up at 5 a.m. for hair and makeup, sitting through six back-to-back interviews, and pretending I’m not counting the minutes until I can sneak away.

We’re in the middle of the press gauntlet, locked into the brightly lit green room of some downtown studio. The People magazine shoot is later this afternoon, but before that, Nate and I have to get through this stack of carefully curated interviews.

Rachel, standing off to the side, is in full manager mode—sharp, poised, and sipping her ever-present coffee like it’s the only thing keeping her from homicide.

“Okay, we’re keeping this clean and light,” she says, scrolling through her phone. “You’re America’s sweetheart couple, remember? No tension, no awkward pauses.” Her eyes flicker to Nate. “And maybe you can try to look like you’re enjoying this a little instead of like you’re plotting your escape?”

Nate, sitting in the chair beside me, lifts a single eyebrow. “I thought brooding and mysterious was what you wanted.”

Rachel exhales through her nose. “Not today, it isn’t. I really wish Emily, your manager, could have made it. Maybe she could keep you in line.”

I smother a smile.

This is how it’s been all morning—Rachel handling damage control, Nate giving her just enough pushback to be annoying, and me caught somewhere in the middle, teetering on the edge of exhaustion and attraction—and that’s the worst part.

No matter how tired I am, no matter how many hours I spend rehearsing the answers to the same five questions, I’m still aware of Nate—his presence, his heat. The way his fingers brushed mine just slightly when he handed me my coffee earlier.

I take a slow breath and push the thoughts aside. Work now, relax later.

The door swings open, and a perky producer in a headset beams at us. “We’re ready for you.”

It’s showtime.

The first two interviews go smoothly.

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