Page 48 of Rockstar's Fake Engagement

Fifteen

Nate

Standing outside the Monroes’ white stucco house in St. Augustine, I’m rethinking my definition of hell. A month ago, I might have said it was crowds or watching the stock market plummet. Now? Being the center of attention at a family dinner might take the top spot.

The scent of garlic and tomatoes wafts through open windows, mixing with the sweet perfume of potted flowers that spill over the porch railing. Inside, voices rise and fall like competing instruments, all trying to be heard at once.

Lacey fidgets beside me, her sundress catching the evening breeze. I try not to stare at how the fabric clings to her curves, how the hem dances against her thighs. When she turns to faceme, worry etched across her features, the fading sunlight catches in her hair, and for a moment, I forget to breathe.

“You can still make a run for it,” she murmurs, tilting her head up to look at me, her face filled with something almost like worry. “I won’t blame you.”

I arch a brow. “That bad?”

“You don’t understand.” She shifts to face me fully. “You’re about to enter a war zone.”

I can’t help the grin that tugs at my lips. “Didn’t know dinner involved heavy artillery.”

“Just remember, my mom’s going to hug you. A lot.” Lacey wraps her hand around my arm before we proceed up the path to her parents’ house. “And she’ll try to feed you until you burst. And everyone talks at once, and—“

“Lacey.” I cover her hand with mine, stilling her nervous movements. “It’ll be fine.”

She looks up at me with those big brown eyes and bites her lip. “You say that now, but you haven’t met the Romano side of the family yet.”

Before I can respond, the front door flies open, and a whirlwind of dark hair and floral perfume descends upon us.

“Lacey! Tesoro mio!” A woman, Mrs. Monroe, whom I recognize from her FaceTime, engulfs her daughter in a tight embrace. She’s tiny, barely reaching Lacey’s shoulder, but she radiates an energy that fills the entire porch. “Running late again, I see.”

“And you must be Nate!” She turns to me, and I suddenly find myself wrapped in an equally enthusiastic hug. “Call me Maria. Welcome to the family!”

I shoot Lacey an amused look over her mother’s head. She mouths ‘sorry,’ but I’m surprised to find I don’t mind. There’s something genuinely warm about Maria’s welcome that puts me at ease.

“Thank you for having me, Mrs—, Maria,” I correct myself, recognizing her mock stern look.

“Come in, come in! Everyone’s dying to meet you. Robert!” she calls into the house. “They’re here!”

The inside of the house is exactly what I’d expect from Lacey’s childhood home—warm, inviting, and filled with family photos. A tall, quiet man emerges from what appears to be a study, reading glasses perched on his head.

“Welcome, young man,” he says, extending his hand. His handshake is firm, his manner reserved—a stark contrast to his wife’s exuberance. “Robert Monroe.”

“Nice to meet you, sir,” I say to her father, but my attention splits when Lacey shifts beside me, her bare shoulder brushingmy arm. The casual touch shouldn’t affect me this much, but everything about her seems heightened in this environment.

“Dad.” Lacey hugs her father, and I catch a glimpse of where she gets her competitive spirit when I spot several tennis trophies prominently displayed on a shelf.

“Your sister’s in the kitchen with the aunts,” Maria announces, already herding us toward the back of the house. “Blaire! Look who’s here!”

The scene is controlled chaos. Three women who look like older variations of Maria are clustered around the island, all talking at once in a mix of English and Italian, while an older version of Lacey stands at the stove, stirring something that smells amazing.

“So this is the rockstar,” Blaire says by way of greeting, her eyes sharp but not unfriendly as they assess me. Unlike Lacey’s warm brown eyes, hers are a cool grey that miss nothing.

“Nate, these are my aunts—Sophia, Lucia, and Gianna,” Maria introduces the other women, who immediately begin fussing over me.

“Too skinny,” one declares. “Here, taste the sauce.”

“Such nice arms, though,” another comments, actually reaching out to squeeze my bicep. “Good for drumming, yes?”

“Leave the poor boy alone,” Robert calls from the doorway, rescuing me. “Come watch the game with me, Nate. Let them finish cooking.”

I follow him gratefully, but not before catching Lacey’s eye. The look she gives me is equal parts apologetic and something else—something that makes my pulse quicken. The sundress she’s wearing shifts with every movement, drawing my attention. Even in the midst of her family, I’m acutely aware of her—the subtle floral scent of her perfume.

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