Page 65 of Rockstar's Fake Engagement

He just grins and raises his blue mug to lightly tap my pink coffee mug that we picked up at the flea market.

We’re cleaning up when my phone buzzes with a text from Rachel. “Meeting in an hour,” I tell him. “Album launch party details.”

“Right.” He loads the dishwasher while I wipe down the counters. We move around each other easily, domestically. It feels natural in a way that should probably frighten me.

Rachel and Emily are already at the office when we arrive, surrounded by event plans and PR schedules.

“Good, you’re here,” Rachel looks up. “We just need to review a few details about next week’s launch.”

“It’s going to be huge,” Emily adds. “Press, industry people, fans—we’re expecting around five hundred people.”

“The whole band will be there,” Rachel explains. “And since you two are engaged, Lacey, you’ll be expected to be there, too. We’ll want photos of everyone together—the whole Wild Band family.”

My heart does a little flip at that. “Sounds perfect,” I say, and mean it. Being part of this feels right. I glance at Nate, catching him watching me. Something warm and intense flickers in his blue eyes, making my pulse skip. Even in this professional setting, with Rachel and Emily going over details, the pull between us is magnetic. I have to force myself to focus on the meeting instead of how one look from him sends heat coursing through my veins.

The meeting wraps up quickly—Rachel and Emily are efficient as always. When we leave, it’s barely noon.

“So,” Nate says as we walk to the car. “We have the whole afternoon free. What do you want to do?”

I don’t have to think about it. With a grin, I remind him of our agreement, “Something a real couple would do.”

“We are a real couple,” he says quietly, and my heart skips.

“Something normal—and fun…” I press my lips together, thinking. Then I brighten. “Bowling.”

Nate blinks. “Bowling?”

“Yeah.” I warm to my theme. “Old school. Neon lights, ugly rental shoes, terrible music blasting from the speakers.” I tilt my head. “What, afraid I’ll beat you?”

His smirk is slow and lethal. “You wish you could beat me.” He opens the car door for me, and I slide in.

Rolling my eyes, I smile smugly. “You have no idea what you’re in for, drummer boy.”

His gaze darkens at that, and suddenly, the car feels too small. Too charged.

“Wanna bet?” His voice drops low, and suddenly, I’m aware of how close we are, how the air between us crackles with possibility. This is dangerous territory.

“What are the stakes?” I manage pulse racing.

His eyes darken. “Loser does whatever the winner desires.”

The implications hang heavy between us. We both know we’re not just talking about bowling anymore.

My breath hitches. I should set limits or keep things light.

But I don’t.

Instead, I meet his gaze, my pulse pounding, and murmur, “Hope you’re ready to lose.”

His eyes flicker down to my mouth, and for one aching second, I think he might actually close the distance between us.

Instead, he exhales, putting the car in drive with a wicked grin.

I don’t know whether to feel disappointed or relieved.

But one thing’s for sure. The day is going to be very interesting.

The bowling alley is exactly what I hoped for—gloriously tacky with flashing neon and the scent of greasy pizza lingering in the air. Perfect.

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