Page 47 of Rockstar's Fake Engagement

The reporter settles into one of the armchairs while we take our position on the couch. Nate’s arm slides around me automatically, and I lean into him like I’ve been doing this forever.

“So,” the reporter begins, tablet at the ready, “tell me how America’s favorite new couple met...”

An hour later, we’re finally done.

The exhaustion hits me as soon as we’re in the car, and I let my head fall back against the seat. Nate’s thigh presses against mine in the confined space, and despite my fatigue, my body hums with awareness of him. His leather jacket softly creaks as he shifts, and his scent surrounds me, making it hard to remember why we’re supposed to be keeping our distance.

“You alive?” Nate asks, smiling down at me.

“Barely.” I sigh. “If I ever agree to this many interviews in one day again, just—take me out. Humanely.”

Nate chuckles, low and warm. “Noted.”

Rachel slides into the front passenger seat, tossing a folder into her bag. “Well, that was a success. No PR fires, no awkward moments.” She glances at Nate in the rearview mirror. “And you almost looked like you enjoyed it.”

He hums noncommittally, staring out the window.

Emily turns to me. “You’re still good for dinner with your parents tomorrow night?”

I groan. I’d almost forgotten about that. “Yeah. Can’t exactly bail now.”

Nate’s gaze flicks to me. “I’m expected too, right?”

“Yes,” I confirm. “Parents, sister, my entire extended family, which consists of more than just a few aunts.”

His lips quirk. “Sounds intense.”

“Oh, it will be.” I rub my temples, already anticipating the chaos. “You ready to be grilled by all of them, including being questioned by my older sister?”

His smirk deepens. “Bring it.”

I shake my head, laughing despite myself.

He has no idea what he’s in for.

When we arrive at his home, the sun is setting. My shoulders ache from maintaining perfect posture all day, and my face feels stiff from all the smiling. Nate closes the door behind Rachel, who’s still rattling off reminders about tomorrow’s dinner with my family. The silence that follows is blissful.

“You look exhausted,” he says, coming up behind me. His hands land on my shoulders, and I nearly moan when his thumbs find a particularly tight knot.

“That feels amazing,” I manage, letting my head fall forward as he works the tension from my muscles. “Where did you learn to do that?”

“Drummer, remember? Know a thing or two about sore muscles.”

His fingers squeeze my shoulders, and this time, I do moan and then flush with embarrassment. His touch is so sure and strong, yet somehow gentle, and when he finds another particularly tight knot, my whole body melts back against him. His warmth seeps through my clothes, and I have to bite my lip to keep from making more sounds that would definitely cross our professional boundaries.

I should probably stop him—this feels decidedly more intimate than our staged photos earlier—but I can’t bring myself to pull away.

“Tell you what,” he says after a few minutes, “why don’t you go take a hot bath while I order dinner? You’ve still got that lavender stuff you left here last time.”

The fact that he remembers my favorite bath soak does something warm and dangerous to my insides. “You don’t mind?”

“Go.” He gives my shoulders a final squeeze. “Take your time. Decompress.”

Twenty minutes later, I’m submerged in perfectly hot water, surrounded by lavender-scented bubbles. I can hear Nate moving around downstairs, the familiar sounds of him in the kitchen mixing with the soft music he’s put on.

It hits me how domestic this feels. How easy it would be to let myself believe this is true—the caring fiancé, the shared home, the quiet moments between the chaos. But tomorrow, we have to convince my family this is all genuine, and I’m starting to worry that won’t be the hard part.

The hard part will be remembering it isn’t.

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