Page 64 of Rockstar's Fake Engagement

She rises on her tiptoes, kissing me softly. The waves crash behind us, keeping time like a metronome, and I lose myself in the moment—in her taste, her touch, the way her body fits perfectly against mine.

“Sometimes,” she says quietly, “I forget this isn’t real. The engagement, I mean.” Her fingers trace patterns on my chest.

My heart stutters and then speeds up. “Maybe some parts of it are real.”

She lifts her head, and there’s something vulnerable in her eyes that makes my chest ache. “Which parts?”

Instead of answering, I pull her closer, one hand sliding into her hair. The moonlight shines above us, but all I can focus on is how right this feels despite every logical reason it shouldn’t.

“The important parts,” I murmur against her lips. “The parts that should scare me.”

She pulls back slightly. “Scare you?”

“Yeah.” I rest my forehead against hers. “Because this wasn’t supposed to happen. You weren’t supposed to make me feel...”

“Feel what?”

But we both know what. It’s in every touch, every shared look, every moment when the pretense falls away, and we’re just us. And maybe that’s what scares me most—

How easy it would be to fall completely.

Twenty

Lacey

The morning sun streams through Nate’s bedroom windows, warming my skin as I stretch lazily. The space beside me is empty, but I can hear movement downstairs and smell something delicious wafting up.

I find him in the kitchen, shirtless and focused on the waffle maker. My eyes trace the defined muscles of his back, following the line of his spine down to where his low-slung sleep pants rest on his hips. “I thought we were supposed to be eating healthy,” I tease, wrapping my arms around him from behind, pressing against his warm skin.

“We are.” He turns, pulling me against his chest. “I figured we could run on the beach to make up for these.”

I eye the stack of golden waffles. “How far are we running?”

“Depends on how much maple syrup you put on them.” He kisses my nose. “I’ve seen your sweet tooth in action, Lace. We might be running to Miami.”

“So worth it.” I reach for the syrup, but he holds it above my head.

“Ah-ah. Run first, then waffles.”

I pout. “That’s cruel.”

“That’s motivation.” His grin is wicked as his eyes trail down my body, lingering on where my shorts hit mid-thigh. “Besides, don’t princesses need to stay in shape?”

“Low blow, Stone.” But I’m already heading upstairs to change into my running shoes.

When I return, he’s changed clothes, and the waffles are staying warm in the oven. “Ready?”

The morning air is perfect for running—cool and crisp with a salt breeze off the ocean. We fall into an easy rhythm together, our feet matching pace on the packed sand. I can’t help but notice how his t-shirt clings to his chest as we run, the way his muscles flex with each stride. Even sweaty and breathing hard, he looks devastatingly attractive.

After an hour of running, we head to the house. By then, I’m more than ready for those waffles.

“Okay,” Nate concedes as we walk into the kitchen. “You’ve earned your sugar coma.”

I waste no time loading my plate with waffles, smearing them with butter, and drowning them in hot maple syrup. “Oh my God,” I moan after the first bite, the warm syrup making my lips sticky sweet. I catch Nate watching me, his eyes darkening as I lick syrup from my bottom lip. “These are amazing.”

“Lila’s recipe,” he states, his gaze switching to amusement as another low moan escapes my lips. “Should I leave you alone with the waffles?”

I kick him under the table. “Shut up and eat.”

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