Page 55 of Rockstar's Fake Engagement

She gasps, like I just told her I don’t believe in birthdays. “Well, that settles it. You need this experience.”

I groan, rubbing my temples. “Fine. But we have to lay low. No getting recognized.”

Lacey waves a hand. “Please. We’ll dress down, blend in.”

I glance toward my closet. “Pretty sure blending in isn’t my specialty.”

An hour later, we’re dressed in our best attempt at anonymity—baseball caps, sunglasses, and casual clothes. Lacey eyes my Audi RS7 skeptically as we head to the garage.

“This car screams ‘notice me,’” she complains.

I smirk. “You want us to Uber to a flea market?”

“No, I want you to trade it in for a beat-up pickup truck and a ‘Honk If You Love Tacos’ bumper sticker.”

I chuckle, shaking my head. “Not happening.”

She sighs dramatically. “Fine. But if we get spotted because of your bougie car, I’m making you buy something extra embarrassing.”

“I can live with that.”

The flea market is already bustling when we arrive, a sprawling maze of tents and tables under the Florida sun. The air is thick with the scent of street food—grilled meat, sugary funnel cakes, and something fried that I probably shouldn’t question.

Lacey moves through the crowd like a pro, stopping at every table, running her fingers over old books and colorful glass bottles, and grinning like a kid in a candy store. I find myself smiling despite my reservations.

“Look!” She drags me toward a stall full of vintage records. “Oh my God, they have the first Zeppelin album on vinyl!”

I examine it while she chats with the vendor, surprised by the condition.

Then, I watch her in action.

Oh, come on,“ she protests, “Twenty dollars? I’ll give you fifteen.”

The old man running the booth shakes his head. “Eighteen, and you’ve got yourself a deal.”

Lacey narrows her eyes, considering. “Sixteen, and I’ll take this other one, too.”

The guy hesitates, then sighs. “Fine. But only because you’re cute.”

I chuckle as she hands over the cash, triumphant. “You love this, don’t you?”

She beams. “The thrill of the deal, baby.”

I shake my head, laughing as Lacey moves on to the next booth. She reaches up to examine something on a high shelf, and her shirt rides up, revealing a strip of skin that makes my mouth go dry. When she catches me staring, her lips curve into a knowing smile that promises payback later.

We wander for hours, and I have to admit, it’s fun. No one recognizes us. We’re just another couple, holding hands and exploring. Lacey bargains for everything—vintage band posters, an antique chess set that makes me think of her father, a ridiculous lava lamp that she insists will ‘add color’ to my living room.

At the food section, she insists we try everything. We share a massive funnel cake covered in powdered sugar, and she laughs when I get it all over my shirt. The street tacos are actuallyamazing, and watching her try to eat a burrito without making a mess is both adorable and hilarious.

“You’ve got...” I reach over to wipe sauce from the corner of her mouth, and she catches my hand, pressing a kiss to my palm. The simple gesture makes my heart pound.

And then it hits me—This is the most normal I’ve felt in years.

No cameras, no staged events, no one watching our every move. Just a girl and a guy at a flea market, eating food that will probably clog our arteries, arguing over whether or not my house needs a statue of a wide-eyed ceramic cat.

By the time we head home, the car is full of what I would normally consider junk, but somehow, I don’t mind. Lacey’s practically bouncing with excitement as we unload everything, making me laugh.

“You got your normal day, Lace,” I tell her proudly as we walk inside.

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