3. Three
Three
Nate
The Grand Hotel’s shower pressure is incredible. It almost makes up for the late-night delays, last-minute meeting reschedules, and the star struck receptionist who took forever checking me in. Something about a system glitch and confirming that the celebrity suite was ready for me. Whatever. The suite is massive, way more than I need, but I’m not complaining.
Steam fills the bathroom as I turn off the water. I hear muffled voices through the wall—probably housekeeping starting their rounds. I wrap a towel around my waist and run my fingers through my wet hair. Coffee. I need coffee.
The voices grow clearer as I approach the bedroom door. Who the hell would be in my room at this time of the morning? Did I get the time wrong for my meeting with the executive? Did they send somebody to pick me up? I curiously open the bedroom door.
I freeze in the doorway.
The scene before me is surreal. Lacey Monroe, the company’s golden girl herself, stands in the living area. She’s picture-perfect in a flowing sundress, hair styled just so, looking like she stepped out of a magazine. A photographer angles for another shot while a sharp-dressed woman in her forties gestures animatedly.
“What the hell—?” I start.
Lacey sees me first. Her head flying back in shock. Her professional smile shatters, those dark eyes going wide.
Click. Click. Click.
The photographer swings toward me, the camera whirring. I’m suddenly very aware that I’m wearing nothing but a towel, sporting day-old stubble, and looking like I just rolled out of bed.
In the same hotel suite as Lacey Monroe!
The sharply dressed woman recovers first, her horrified expression swiftly transforming into something more calculating.
“Well,” she says smoothly to the photographer, “I guess this makes for a much better story than our planned piece.”
“This isn’t—“ Lacey starts, her voice strangled.
“Don’t worry, Lacey,” the woman cuts in. “The secret was bound to come out eventually. Though I have to say,” she adds with a practiced laugh, “this wasn’t exactly how we planned to announce your engagement.”
“Engagement?” I choke out.
More camera clicks as I clutch my slipping towel.
Lacey’s face has gone pale, her perfect composure cracking. I open my mouth to protest, explain, or say anything—but the older woman is already pulling out her phone.
“I’ll handle the press release,” she says briskly. Then she gives me a pointed look. “You might want to get dressed for the formal announcement.”
The towel suddenly feels very inadequate.
And all I can think is: How the hell did I end up engaged to America’s sweetheart before my morning coffee?
The sharp-dressed woman—Rachel, I hear Lacey call her—springs into action like a general commanding troops. “Mark,” she addresses the photographer, “I’m giving you an exclusive. The full engagement announcement photo spread. The works. But these shots?” She gestures to his camera. “They stay private until we coordinate the release. Tonight. The Plaza. 5 PM.”
The photographer nods eagerly, already backing toward the door. “Of course, Ms. Bennett. Whatever you say.”
“And Mark?” Rachel’s voice could freeze hell. “If even one of these leaks before then, you’ll never work in this industry again.”
The door clicks shut behind him, and the suite plunges into tense silence. Rachel turns to us, her expression somehow both satisfied and exasperated. “Well, this is certainly not how I planned my morning.”
“Rachel,” Lacey starts, her voice tight. “You can’t possibly—“
“Can’t possibly what? Save your careers?” Rachel’s perfectly manicured nails tap against her phone. “Do either of you realize what this looks like? America’s sweetheart caught in a compromising position with...” She eyes me critically. “Who exactly are you?”
“Nate Stone.” I straighten, trying to maintain some dignity while still clutching my towel. “And this is clearly just a hotel mix-up.”
“Nate Stone?” Rachel’s eyes narrow, then widen. “The drummer from Wild? The one meeting with Family First this morning?”
Damn. She’s good.
“The same,” I confirm, watching understanding dawn on Lacey’s face. “Which is why we can all agree this is just a misunderstanding that—“
“That could torpedo Lacey’s career if handled poorly.” Rachel cuts me off. “The company doesn’t do scandals, Mr. Stone. They do fairy tales. And right now, you two will either be a scandal or the perfect romantic love story. Your choice.”
I glance at Lacey. She’s sunk onto the plush sofa, her perfect posture crumbling. “This is insane,” she whispers.
“This is damage control,” Rachel corrects. “Lacey, your new film opens in three weeks. A family film, may I remind you. And Mr. Stone, I imagine Family First won’t look kindly on their potential new face being caught in a... compromising position.”
“But we’re not—“ I begin.
“Together?” Rachel arches an eyebrow. “Tell that to the photos of you practically naked in Lacey’s hotel suite at eight in the morning.”
“My hotel suite,” I correct automatically.
“Actually,” Lacey speaks up, “it’s my suite. I checked in yesterday afternoon.”
“Which makes it worse,” Rachel points out. “Because now it looks like you invited him here.”
I run a hand through my still-wet hair, forgetting about the towel for a moment and grabbing it quickly. “This is ridiculous. We can explain—“
“That the company’s own staff couldn’t handle basic room assignments?” Rachel’s laugh is sharp. “Yes, I’m sure the company will love the publicity. And Family First? This won’t endear you to them.”
She’s right, damn it. Emily has been negotiating this endorsement deal for months. Family First, with its corporate connections and wholesome image, chose me specifically because I’ve always kept my private life private. No scandals, no tabloid drama—just the music. But one misunderstanding could ruin everything we’ve worked for.
“So what exactly are you suggesting?” I ask, already dreading the answer.
Rachel’s smile is cobra-sweet. “A romantic love story for the ages. Rockstar falls for Hollywood’s princess. Secret dating. Romantic proposal. The press will eat it up. The company and Family First both get their perfect couple, and Lacey’s career and your endorsement deal stays intact.”
“And if we refuse?” Lacey asks quietly.
“Then, for you at least, I hope you have a backup career planned.” Rachel checks her watch. “You both have until the press conference tonight to decide. We’ll meet a few hours beforehand. If you agree to be engaged, then you better learn to act like you’re madly in love. I would suggest you start practicing immediately.” She heads for the door, then pauses. “Oh, and Mr. Stone? Please put some clothes on. Your fiancée’s reputation is at stake.”
The door closes behind her with a decisive click.
Lacey and I stare at each other in stunned silence. She’s still perched on the edge of the sofa, looking like a princess who’s suddenly found herself in the wrong fairy tale. I’m still dripping on the carpet, clutching a hotel towel like it’s the last shred of sanity in this world.
“So,” I finally say quietly, “nice to meet you.”
She looks at me for a long moment, then bursts out laughing. It’s slightly hysterical, but it breaks the tension. “This is absolutely insane,” she manages between her laughter.
“Completely crazy,” I agree, finding myself grinning despite everything. “Think anyone would believe we just met?”
“In a company hotel? With you looking like that?” She gestures to my general state of undress. “We’re lucky Rachel seems to think we can spin it as a romance, so we don’t have to deal with a sex scandal.”
“I was acceptably dressed when I thought I was alone.” I straighten, then quickly grab the slipping towel. “I didn’t know I’d be sharing a room, or I would have at least put on a robe.”
She shakes her head, but she’s smiling.
The silence stretches awkwardly, neither of us knowing where to begin.
“I’ll get dressed,” I finally say because someone has to say something. “And then we can figure this out.”
“Yes. Because apparently, we need to know how we met and fell in love before tonight.” Lacey stands, her professional composure slowly returning. “The coffee maker’s in the kitchenette. I’ll make us both a cup while you change.”
“Right.” I head back toward the bedroom, then pause. “Lacey?”
“Yes?”
“If we’re going to be engaged, you should probably know I take my coffee black.”
This time, her laugh sounds more genuine. “Good to know. I’ll have a cup waiting for you.”
In the bedroom, I find my suitcase exactly where I left it last night, untouched. At least that’s some small proof this really was just a mix-up. I pull on jeans and a black t-shirt, trying to process the last fifteen minutes.
When I emerge, Lacey’s standing by the floor-to-ceiling windows, two steaming mugs in hand. She’s staring out at the perfectly manicured company grounds, but I doubt she’s seeing any of it.
“Here you go,” she says, holding out one mug without looking at me.
“By the way, I Googled you while you were changing.” Now she does turn, a slight smile playing on her lips despite everything. “The internet knows surprisingly little about Wild Band’s drummer. Except that you’re the ‘private one’ in the band. There wasn’t anything about your family or—“
“That’s by design.” I accept the coffee, grateful for something to do with my hands. “I’ve always kept my private life private. The guys tease me about it, but...”
“But it’s worked for you,” she finishes. “Until now.”
“Until now,” I agree. “Look, I should probably call Emily, the band’s manager.” I sink into one of the plush armchairs as I continue. “Tell her what’s happened. Maybe she could smooth things over with Family First, so the deal still goes through...”
“The deal’s important to the Wild band?”
“Yes, and not just the band.” I run a hand through my now-drying hair. “They want to develop a whole line of youth music programs. Teaching kids about music and bringing instruments into communities that can’t afford them. It’s—it’s everything I’ve wanted to do with my platform.”
Lacey’s dark eyes soften with understanding. “And now it’s all hanging by a thread because of a hotel mix-up.”
“What about you?” I ask. “Your new film...”
“Opens in three weeks.” She sighs, settling onto the sofa. “It’s my first leading role in a major picture. Family-friendly, of course. The studio’s marketing it as a film for the entire family.”
“And now you’re stuck having to deal with a scandal instead.”
Her laugh holds little humor. “At least this one’s original. Up and coming actress meets rockstar drummer through hotel booking error.”
“Could be worse,” I offer. “At least we’re both single. Imagine if one of us was dating someone.”
“I guess we should be grateful.” She takes a sip of her coffee and then sets it down with sudden determination. “Okay, if we’re doing this—and it seems we are—we need a plan. A story. Rachel’s right about one thing: we’ve got less than eight hours to learn to be madly in love.”
I check my watch. 8:45 AM. “Where do we even start?”
“Well,” she says, pulling out her phone, “according to several fan sites, you grew up in Florida, started playing drums at age twelve, and joined the Wild Band right out of high school.”
“And you,” I counter, “studied acting in college and were discovered after doing a toothpaste commercial. Just recently, you were offered a very lucrative movie deal and everything that goes with it.”
“See? We’re learning already.” Her smile is a bit more genuine now. “Though we should probably know more than what Wikipedia can tell us if we’re supposedly engaged.”
She’s right. And if we’re going to pull this off, we need to be convincing—not just for the cameras but also for Family First, her studio, and everyone else who’ll be watching.
“Tell me something that’s not on Wikipedia,” I say.
Lacey tilts her head, considering. “I’m terrified of thunderstorms. Not the thunder itself—the lightning. I hide under blankets like a little kid.” She shrugs, looking almost embarrassed. “Your turn.”
“I collect vintage drumsticks,” I admit. “Not to play with—just to display. I have pairs from some of the greatest drummers in history. My pride and joy is a set Keith Moon used in ’73.”
Lacey grins, shifting in her seat. “Well, at least we won’t be the most boring fake couple ever.”
“Guess not,” I say, standing. “I need to make a few phone calls.” Then, turning around. “And Lacey? Thanks for the coffee.”
She gives me a small, wry smile. “What are fake fiancées for?”