Page 32 of Rockstar's Fake Engagement

“We did good,” I manage to say. “Everyone seemed convinced.”

He takes a slow sip of his drink. “Yes, we had everyone fooled.” His voice sounds forced.

I look around, searching for a distraction. “Is that where the music happens?” I gesture to a door off the hallway.

“That’s where I keep my drums, yes. And my stick collection.”

My eyes widen. “Would you be willing to show them to me?”

He hesitates for a moment, then walks toward the room. “Of course.”

I know immediately that the room is his sanctuary—soundproofed walls lined with custom shelving displaying hundreds of drumsticks, some signed by legendary drummers, others from meaningful performances. I slowly move through the space reverently, examining his collection.

“These are from our first arena show,” he says as I read the inscription on one pair.

I turn, and in the dim light, his eyes are hidden, mysterious. “I like knowing private things about you, Nate. Not just what the public sees.”

He steps closer, and I feel the magnetic pull. I’m drawn to him by something I can’t name.

“Ask me anything,” he murmurs, his voice low.

“Why the drums?”

“Because it’s honest,” he answers without hesitation. “You can’t fake rhythm. Can’t pretend. Either you feel it, or you don’t.”

I reach out and pick up a pair of sticks, testing their weight. “Will you show me?”

He moves behind me, guiding my hands into the proper grip. He’s warm against my back, and when he leans in closer, so close I can again smell his cologne—I forget to breathe.

“Like this?” I finally whisper, swallowing hard.

“Yes, just like that.”

For a moment, we’re frozen there, the air between us electric with possibility. The pottery scene from the movie Ghost flashes through my mind, making me catch my breath, and I almost drop the sticks. One hits the snare drum, the sound sharp, and it startles me back to reality. Clearing my throat, I hurriedly step away, carefully returning the sticks to their rightful place.

“Thank you,” I say sincerely. “For sharing this with me.”

“Anytime.” His voice is gruff.

I follow him out and hesitate at the foot of the stairs. I should go up to my bed—alone. That would be the smart thing to do. Butinstead, I follow him back to the kitchen. Something inside of me doesn’t want the night to end. It still feels unfinished.

Nate slowly turns, seeming surprised that I’m still here. His eyes gleam darkly in the moonlight coming in through the windows.

“Maybe now is a good time for us to continue the discussion we started on the terrace.”

I blink uncertainly. Licking my lips, I set down my glass with slightly shaking hands. “That could be dangerous.”

“So you say.” His fingers brush my bare arm, leaving goosebumps in their wake. “But you haven’t moved away.”

He’s right. I’m still standing here, letting him get closer, letting the air between us grow thick with possibility.

“We should get some sleep,” I whisper, but I don’t move.

“Probably.” His hand slides to my waist, exactly where it was when we danced. “Is that what you want?”

No. What I want is to kiss him again. To forget about contracts and consequences and just feel. To—

He takes my hand and leads me toward the windows. “I believe our first time was at night, with the moonlight streaming in through the windows,” he says, his voice husky.

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