6. Donny
6
Donny
The night air is crisp as we step out of the restaurant. Carmen walks beside me, unusually quiet, her gaze fixed on the pavement. Her hands fidget nervously, a stark contrast to her usual composed demeanor. As we reach the curb, I gently guide her closer, my hand at the small of her back. The warmth of her body against mine sends an electric jolt through me, a reminder of how much things have changed between us.
“Not a good first date, Sunshine?” I wink, trying to ignore how right it feels to have her near.
She stiffens, taking a small step back. The loss of contact is immediate and disappointing. “That’s not it,” she murmurs, a hint of something–regret?–in her voice.
All evening, I couldn’t help but notice Carmen’s reactions to Olive. Every time Olive approached, fingers trailing over my shoulder, flashing that flirtatious smile, Carmen’s jaw would clench, her eyes flashing with... was it jealousy?
Olive and I had a casual thing years ago, but it’s long over. Olive's flirting brings back memories of late nights and shared laughter, but it feels hollow now. My bandmates had warned me about mixing business with pleasure, their own relationships with their partners a testament to how complicated things could get.
Yet here I am, pretending to be engaged to our manager, and wishing it was real. If I’d known Olivia worked at La Belle’s, I would’ve chosen another place. But seeing Carmen’s barely concealed irritation? That was unexpectedly entertaining.
I find myself wishing her jealousy was real, not just part of our act.
“Tell me about your family,” I say while we wait for my driver to pull up to the curb.
Carmen shifts, suddenly tense. “What about them?”
“Are you close?” I press, genuinely curious.
She shrugs, avoiding my gaze. “Closer than most, I guess.”
“Siblings?”
“Three brothers, two younger sisters.” Her answers are clipped, guarded.
I can’t help but chuckle. “Wow, thanks for the detailed family history.”
Her eyes snap to mine, a mix of irritation and something softer. “We’re only doing this for another day or two. Why does my family matter to you?”
I want to say it matters because she matters, but I swallow the words. This isn’t real, I remind myself. The memory of how this all started flashes through my mind. My mother's incessant pestering about settling down, Carmen's reluctant agreement to help, the rush of excitement when she said yes.
We had agreed just long enough to get my parents off my back. But now, with every passing moment, the line between fake and real blurs a little more.
Before I can say anything else, my driver pulls in front of us, and Carmen immediately climbs into the back seat without looking back at me. I shove my hands deep into my pockets, then follow her and slip into the seat. She’s sitting as far away from me as she can, and it takes everything inside of me not to pull her closer.
Sure, Carmen is attractive, but I’ve never felt such a need to have her near like I do right now.
Instead of doing something I’m sure I’ll regret, I turn my attention out the window and watch as the Christmas decorations lining the streets pass us by. While my bandmates are enjoying the holidays with their new families, I’m wishing it would pass so I don’t have to hear another Christmas song.
Every store I go into, ever since Halloween ended, it’s all about Santa Claus and his damn reindeer. As if to confirm my thoughts, the song changes on the radio and I hear the jingling of bells before anyone even starts singing.
I groan loudly and throw my head back on the leather seat.
“Didn’t take you for a Scrooge,” Carmen says next to me.
“I’m not,” I grumble.
“Your frown says otherwise.”
It’s not that I don’t like Christmas. More so, the fact that everyone in my life has someone to spend it with, while I’m going to be sitting alone in my larger-than-life living room opening presents that I got for myself—doesn’t seem like a blast to me. Which is why I’m dreading my parents showing up. It only proves that the only people I have to spend the holiday with are people who have better things to do on the holiday.
That’s how it is when you’re an only child.
With it being only a few more weeks until Christmas is here, it doesn’t surprise me that traffic is a madhouse right now. Everyone is doing some last-minute shopping, and it shows as a few women scurry across the street, dozens of bags hanging from their arms that flail around as they race to beat the light change.
When the light ahead turns green, the cars in front of us have to wait a few more minutes for the rest of the pedestrians to hurry across the street, and even when they move, it’s only a few inches at a time. Sometimes I wonder why I chose to live in the city, when I could be in a house tucked in the middle of nowhere and nothing but silence outside my windows.
That would be nice.
Except, that’s not my dream.
I might hate the city, but I love the excitement I feel when I’m on stage with the guys. When I look out into a crowd of fans, who are bouncing around to the music, I feel nothing but pride in my chest that I’m part of the reason for that happiness. So, I deal with the city and all the chaos that comes with it.
I’m not sure how long I sit there in my head, but eventually we come to a stop outside Carmen’s complex and she eagerly jumps out—like the idea of being away from me is too good to pass up.
This is supposed to be a date. I should be following her. Ending it properly .
What does ending it properly even look like?
Before the driver can pull away, I tap his shoulder and hold my finger up as I push the door open. Carmen is already walking through the entrance, waving at the man sitting at a security desk in a small corner, and I hurry my pace to catch up to her. The elevator opens, she steps in without looking back, and I quickly push my hand between the doors before they close.
She stares at me with wide eyes. “What the hell are you doing?”
I step into the space with her and smirk. “This is a date. You didn’t think I’d just let you walk back to your apartment alone?”
Carmen’s cheeks heat and she shakes her head. “ Fake date, so it really doesn’t matter.”
“Are you always stubborn?”
“I’m not stubborn,” she mumbles, then glances at the numbers, which are going achingly slow before looking back at me. “Just want some peace and quiet.”
“Ouch.”
“Practice is early tomorrow, and you better be on time,” she says, ignoring my frown. When the doors open and I start to take a step to follow her, she holds a hand up and shakes her head. “I think I’m going to walk down the hall, thanks.”
Gone is the woman who was allowing me to wine and dine her this evening. She’s back to her usual attitude when it comes to me. Although I’d love to end this date, fake or not, with a kiss on the cheek or making sure she’s safely inside, I let her walk away without following her and sigh heavily when the doors shut.
Rejection is something I'm not used to. Why does that make her even more appealing?
I can’t complain about things too much. We learned a bit more about each at dinner — like how Carmen hates when her food touches, or that I’m very particular when it comes to mine wine consumption. I’m pretty sure we sat there for five minutes while I went over each of the wine options with Olive, which I’m sure irritated Carmen more than she let on.
My driver is waiting patiently for me when I exit the complex and slowly eases the door open for me when I step onto the crowded sidewalk. I slip in, my gaze pointing up to the plethora of windows aimed toward the road, and I wonder if Carmen is standing at hers looking down on me and what the hell is going through her mind.
Although it takes a little longer, I finally step through my house just in time for my mother’s name to flash on my phone. I swipe my finger over it, then clear my throat. “Mom, is everything okay?”
“Our vacation got bumped up, so we’ll be there first thing tomorrow.”
Tomorrow?
I thought I’d have more time to get to know Carmen, to ease her into meeting my parents for the first time, and my stomach dips with anxiety. There’s nothing I can do about it now. We’re already in this together.
“I’ve got rehearsals early tomorrow, but I can send my driver to the airport to pick you guys up and meet you at my place once I’m done.”
“That would be wonderful,” my mother says softly. “We can’t wait to see you, Donald.”
Once again, I roll my eyes at the use of my full name and keep my mouth clamped shut about it. “Can’t wait to see you, mom. Me and Carmen just walked through the door, we’re heading to bed. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Love you.”
As soon as I hang up with her, I find Carmen’s contact and send a quick text to let her know there’s been a change.
Donny: Change of plans, Sunshine. My folks are coming early. We will meet them tomorrow night.
Carmen: Tomorrow night? Well, that’s sooner than expected! Do I need to mentally prepare for any surprises?
Donny: I haven't thought about where we should eat, yet.
Carmen: That's easy. I'll make dinner. It'll be easier that way.
Donny: Wow! I didn't expect that. Thank you!
I wait for another message to come through, but it stays silent, and I run a hand through my hair before heading up the winding staircase to the second floor.
Something tells me tomorrow isn’t going to go as well as I have planned. As I climb the stairs, the weight of tomorrow's meeting settles on my shoulders. I'm caught between the excitement of seeing my parents and the fear of our charade falling apart. More than that, I'm grappling with the unsettling realization that I like this charade.
The thought of telling Carmen sends a jolt of anxiety through me. How can I express these feelings without jeopardizing this delicate bond we've forged? The stakes have never felt higher, and I've never had more to lose.
***
As we step into the elevator from the lobby, the silence between us feels heavy. Carmen presses her lips together, clearly trying to stay calm. “That was... unexpected today,” she says quietly, her voice a little tense. "I hope it doesn’t mess up our schedule too much."
I give her hand a gentle squeeze, hoping to ease her nerves. "We’ll be fine. My folks just want to see us sooner, that’s all."
The soft hum of the elevator fills the space as we ride up. I can see the tension in her shoulders, but I don’t say anything. She’s doing her best to handle the situation, and I admire that about her.
When the elevator dings and the doors open to my penthouse, my mother’s voice breaks the silence. “Donald!”
Carmen stiffens next to me. She takes a deep breath, forcing a smile, but it’s not her usual one—it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. I lean in and whisper, “We’ve got this,” before stepping forward to open the door, ready to face whatever comes next.
I can feel the nervousness radiating off Carmen. Subtle discomfort is written all over her face. I reach out and gently take her hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze. We’re supposed to look like a happily engaged couple, and right now, we’re falling a bit short.
“Mom,” I greet, giving her a quick hug. I nod to my father standing beside her, then turn to Carmen with what I hope is a loving smile. “This is my fiancée, Carmen.”
My mother looks her up and down, then reaches out and pulls my fake fiancée into a hug that catches Carmen off-guard. She looks at me over my mother’s shoulder, eyebrow rising in question, and I shrug.
My mother’s face lights up with a warm smile. “It’s wonderful to finally meet you, Carmen,” she says, her voice filled with genuine delight. “Donny’s been so secretive about you. I was starting to wonder if he’d made you up!”
Carmen’s cheeks heat and the stiffness starts to alleviate. “Nope, just enjoying each other while it lasts. You know how things are in his world.”
“And what is it you do?”
“I’m the band’s manager,” she says and smiles proudly.
Carmen loves her work and enjoys talking about it more than anything else, but I’m hoping there won’t be much work to talk.
“We should get started,” I say to Carmen.
Unfortunately, Carmen insisted that we should make dinner ourselves with my mother’s arrival and I couldn’t bring myself to tell her no. My mother looks between the two of us curiously when Carmen walks up to me, but doesn’t relax into my hold, and my gut tightens at the idea of her catching on.
“Let’s get started then,” Carmen says, then she squares her shoulders and lifts up on her toes to press a quick kiss to my mouth. She waves her hand into the living room and smiles at my parents. “Please, make yourselves comfortable while I get everything started.”
It was just a peck, barely a kiss at all. So why are my lips still tingling? I can’t stop replaying the moment—the soft press of her mouth, the faint scent of her perfume. God, I want to do it again. Properly this time.
I follow Carmen to the kitchen, watching as she lays out ingredients. She’s pointedly not looking at me, a faint blush still staining her cheeks. Suddenly, an image flashes through my mind—Carmen, here in my kitchen, cooking dinner. But not for my parents or our charade. Just for us.
I walk up behind her, stopping just shy of pressing myself against her back. The air between us is charged, the memory of that kiss still fresh, lingering like smoke in the room. My gaze drops to the back of her neck, the soft tendrils of hair that have slipped free. I want to touch her, just to feel her skin under my fingertips.
“Need any help?” My voice comes out lower than I expected. She flinches slightly, but she doesn’t move away, her hands stilling over the cutting board.
“I’ve got it,” she says quickly, though her voice wavers, betraying her.
I can’t help but lean in a little closer. “That kiss,” I murmur, close enough that I’m sure she feels the warmth of my breath against her ear, “wasn’t exactly what I had in mind.”
Her breath hitches, and for a second, her hands freeze. “It was for your parents,” she replies, her voice tight. She’s trying to keep it together, but I can tell I’m getting to her.
“They’re not here now,” I whisper, letting my fingers brush ever so lightly against hers as she holds the knife. The contact is electric, sending a shock straight through me, and I hear her quick intake of breath.
For a moment, she doesn’t move. Her chest rises and falls in quick, shallow breaths. Then she pulls away, putting the knife down with a soft clink. She turns to face me, her eyes locked on mine, blazing with something I can’t quite place—anger, frustration, desire... maybe all three.
“Don’t push your luck,” she warns, her voice shaky.
The domesticity of it, the rightness, hits me like a punch to the gut.
This is dangerous. These feelings—they’re not part of the plan. But as I watch her move around my kitchen like she belongs here, I’m starting to wonder if I care about the plan at all.