Page 77 of Rockstar's Fake Engagement

“So,” Lacey’s sister drawls, “are you as miserable as my sister?”

My heart stumbles. “What?”

“Because, let me tell you, she’s a wreck. The company’s got her running ragged—appearances, script readings, interviews. But that’s not why she’s miserable.” Blaire pauses meaningfully. “She misses you. Like, pathetically misses you.”

I grip the phone tighter. “Is she—“

“She’s actually got a free evening tonight. The company’s handlers are occupied with some crisis involving another actor,and Rachel’s in New York.” There’s a smile in Blaire’s voice. “Just thought you might want to know.”

The decision takes about two seconds.

“Thanks, Blaire. I owe you.”

I’m already pulling up flight schedules before we hang up. There’s one leaving in ninety minutes. Perfect.

A quick text to Cass: ‘Taking care of something. Back before tour. Cover for me with Emily.’

His response is immediate:‘About damn time. Go get her!’

I throw some clothes in a bag, grab my wallet, and pause only long enough to put on a baseball cap and dark glasses. The last thing I need is to be recognized and have this get back to Rachel.

The drive to the airport is a blur of anticipation and planning. Security is quick—being a frequent flyer has its perks—I keep my baseball cap low and my hoodie up, avoiding as much attention as possible.

The flight is nearly full, but soon I’m settled in first class, grateful for the window seat and trying to calm my racing pulse.

As the plane takes off, memories of the last time we were together come flooding back, but this time, I let them come.

The way she’d looked that morning before everything went wrong, wearing my t-shirt, her hair a mess, making coffee in my kitchen like she belonged there.

The text she’d sent after her meeting with Rachel:‘They’re not happy. Already at the airport, boarding my flight. Sorry, wish I could have said goodbye.’

The ache in my chest when all our communication dissolved into short texts and missed calls.

“Can I get you anything to drink, sir?”

I blink, realizing we’re already at cruising altitude. “Just water, thanks.”

Seven hours. Seven hours until I see her.

The flight feels endless, but finally, finally, we touch down at LAX. I navigate through the terminal, keeping my head down, and grab the first available taxi.

“Address?” the driver asks.

I give him Lacey’s place, then watch Los Angeles slide by through dirty windows. The sun is setting, painting the sky in pinks and oranges.

The taxi pulls up to her building forty minutes later. My hands are actually shaking as I pay the fare and grab my bag.

The doorman checks my I.D. and waves me through with a knowing smile. The elevator ride to her floor seems to take forever.

And then I’m standing at her door. I knock before I can overthink it. There’s a pause, then footsteps. The door opens, and she’s wearing her signature yoga pants and an oversized t-shirt, her hair piled messily on top of her head, and she’s the loveliest thing I’ve ever seen.

Her eyes go wide. “Nate?”

“Hi,” I manage, drinking in the sight of her.

“What are you—How did you—“ She stops, shaking her head. Then she grabs the front of my hoodie and pulls me inside, kicking the door shut behind us.

The moment it closes, she’s in my arms, and everything else falls away.

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