Page 80 of Rockstar's Fake Engagement

“Eat your breakfast, drummer boy.”

He chuckles, biting into his croissant, blue eyes twinkling with pure, wicked amusement as he pulls up his phone. I assume he’s checking his stock portfolio.

I focus on my food, pretending I’m not still feeling the effects of last night—the shower, the tangled sheets, the way Nate completely and utterly ruined me for anyone else.

But I can’t deny how good it feels, how much I needed this break—needed him.

The silent moment stretches between us, but reality creeps in too soon. I sigh, setting my plate aside. “I have to be at the studio in an hour.”

Nate lifts a brow. “Right. Time for America’s Sweetheart to get back to work.”

I roll my eyes, climbing out of bed. “Come with me.”

He blinks. “To the set?”

I nod, pulling on a pair of jeans and a top. “You’ve never seen me work before.”

“I’d love to go,” he admits as he stretches, cracking his neck. “You sure you want me there?”

“Of course.” I glance over my shoulder, fighting back the urge to lose myself again in his arms. Instead, I smile. “Come on, rockstar. Let’s go to the movies.”

The drive to the studio feels charged with everything we’re not saying—that these stolen hours are precious, that tonight he’ll be gone again. His hand on my thigh isn’t casual anymore—it’s possessive, like he’s trying to leave an imprint I’ll feel long after he’s gone.

The studio lot sprawls before us, a maze of soundstages and trailers. Nate whistles low as we pass through security. “So this is where the magic happens?”

“Something like that.” I flash my I.D., hyper-aware of his presence beside me. “Though usually with less brooding rockstar energy throwing everyone off balance.”

His laugh is dark velvet. “Brooding, huh?”

“Mmhmm. Very distracting.”

Inside Stage 6, the controlled chaos hits us like a wave. Crew members dart between sets, extras mill about in periodcostumes, and Leo catches my eye from the makeup chair, his expression curious as he spots Nate.

Tara materializes, schedule in hand, and nearly drops her clipboard when she sees who’s with me. “Oh my God—you’re—I mean—“ She visibly struggles to maintain her professionalism. “I’m Tara, Lacey’s assistant. And a huge fan. Your drumming on ‘Midnight Confessions’ literally gave me chills and—” She blushes furiously, glancing my way. “Sorry! Right. Scene twelve, Lacey. The garden scene. Where you receive news of your father’s death.”

I hide my smile as Nate handles her enthusiasm with easy grace. But when I lead him to the monitors, his touch on my lower back is anything but casual.

“You can watch from here,” I tell him. “It’s the best view in the house.”

His eyes drag over me, hot enough to burn. “I doubt that.”

The garden scene requires complete emotional vulnerability—grief, despair, loss. But today, with Nate watching, every nerve ending feels electrified. I’m hyperaware of his presence as I move through the scene, letting the tears flow.

“No, he can’t be gone!” The words tear from my throat, raw and broken. When Leo moves to comfort me, I catch a glimpse of Nate’s expression—dark, intense, almost predatory. It adds a new layer to my character’s distress.

“Cut!”

Between takes, Nate’s gaze never leaves me. When I pass near him during reset, his fingers brush my wrist—barely there, but enough to send shivers coursing down my spine.

“Again!” the director calls. “From the top!”

By lunch, I’m vibrating with conflicting energies—the emotional drain of the scenes and the electric awareness of Nate’s presence. In my trailer, he backs me against the door the moment it closes.

“Do you have any idea,” he growls, “how fucking incredible you are?”

His proximity short-circuits my brain. “Nate—“

“Watching you out there...” His thumb traces my bottom lip. “The way you can make people feel everything you’re feeling...”

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