Page 94 of Rockstar's Fake Engagement

Some teenagers pass by, and I spot two of them wearing Wild Band concert shirts from earlier this week. They’re animatedly discussing the show, completely oblivious to the fact that the drummer they’re raving about is standing three feet away.

Nate’s eyes dance with amusement. When one girl declares him “the hottest drummer ever,” he nearly chokes, trying to contain his laughter.

“Not a word,” I whisper, elbowing him gently. “Don’t you dare blow our cover.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” But his grin is pure mischief.

At Pike Place, we weave through the crowds, sampling everything from fresh peaches to artisan cheese. Nate buys me a bouquet of wildflowers from one of the vendors, and the simple gesture makes my heart flutter more than any expensive gift ever could.

We find a quiet corner for lunch, sharing a massive sandwich and watching the market bustle. A street musician starts playing nearby—something soft and acoustic—and Nate’s fingers tap unconsciously against the table in perfect rhythm.

“I love that you can’t help yourself,” I say, nodding at his hands.

He looks down, surprised, then laughs. “Music’s in my blood—there’s no hiding it.”

“I wouldn’t want you to.” The words come out more serious than I intended.

His eyes lock with mine, intense and searching. Under the table, his leg presses against me, and even that simple contact sends warmth spreading through my body.

It makes me remember last night—The way he’d pressed me against the door the moment it closed, his kiss firm and demanding. The desperate edge to his touch, like he needed to pour all his emotions into something physical, something real.

I shiver at the memory.

“Cold?” He leans toward me, wrapping an arm around my shoulders.

“Not with you; you’re like my own personal furnace.”

My phone buzzes in my pocket. It’s probably Baire again.

Sure enough: ‘How’s Seattle? So, you met his family? Are they like ours? Scratch that—no family is like ours! LOL!’

I smile, typing back: ‘It was perfect. His mother is lovely.’

Another buzz: ‘Mom wants to know when you’re coming to Florida again. She’s planning dinner with the aunts to go over wedding venues, and Dad wants to play chess with Nate.’

Something warm and complicated unfurls in my chest. My family—loud, loving, overwhelming at times—is so different from what Nate grew up with. I think of Sunday dinners at my parents’ house.

I was lucky, I realize—so lucky to have that stability, that unconditional love.

“What’s wrong?” Nate’s voice is soft against my hair.

“Nothing.” I turn to face him, tracing his tattoos with my fingertips. “Just... thinking about family. Mine. Yours.”

His eyes darken slightly. “Seeing you with my Mom last night, how natural you were...”

My phone buzzes again:‘Don’t just leave me hanging, Lace—what should I tell Mom?”

I show Nate the message, watching his lips quirk. “That’s my family; they’re taking this engagement and running with it, despite my protests that we’re not rushing into anything.”

“They like me,” he says smugly, and there’s something in his arrogance that makes my chest feel tight.

It’s true—my parents have embraced Nate completely since that first Sunday dinner. My father still talks about their conversation about sports, and my mother brings up his name in every conversation.

“Yes, they like you,” I say, shaking my head. “I’m beginning to think they like you more than they like me.”

His arms tighten around me. “Not possible, Lace.”

“Humph.” I lean against his shoulder, remembering how natural he’d looked sitting at my parents’ crowded dinner table. “They already think of you as part of the family. They were ready to adopt you on sight.”

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