14. Fourteen
Fourteen
Lacey
There’s a difference between being tired and being exhausted.
Tired means finishing a long day on set, kicking off my heels, and sinking into a pile of pillows with a glass of wine. Exhausted means waking up at 5 a.m. for hair and makeup, sitting through six back-to-back interviews, and pretending I’m not counting the minutes until I can sneak away.
We’re in the middle of the press gauntlet, locked into the brightly lit green room of some downtown studio. The People magazine shoot is later this afternoon, but before that, Nate and I have to get through this stack of carefully curated interviews.
Rachel, standing off to the side, is in full manager mode—sharp, poised, and sipping her ever-present coffee like it’s the only thing keeping her from homicide.
“Okay, we’re keeping this clean and light,” she says, scrolling through her phone. “You’re America’s sweetheart couple, remember? No tension, no awkward pauses.” Her eyes flicker to Nate. “And maybe you can try to look like you’re enjoying this a little instead of like you’re plotting your escape?”
Nate, sitting in the chair beside me, lifts a single eyebrow. “I thought brooding and mysterious was what you wanted.”
Rachel exhales through her nose. “Not today, it isn’t. I really wish Emily, your manager, could have made it. Maybe she could keep you in line.”
I smother a smile.
This is how it’s been all morning—Rachel handling damage control, Nate giving her just enough pushback to be annoying, and me caught somewhere in the middle, teetering on the edge of exhaustion and attraction—and that’s the worst part.
No matter how tired I am, no matter how many hours I spend rehearsing the answers to the same five questions, I’m still aware of Nate—his presence, his heat. The way his fingers brushed mine just slightly when he handed me my coffee earlier.
I take a slow breath and push the thoughts aside. Work now, relax later.
The door swings open, and a perky producer in a headset beams at us. “We’re ready for you.”
It’s showtime.
The first two interviews go smoothly.
We sit side by side on the plush studio couch, answering the same carefully crafted questions with the same perfect responses.
“How did you two meet?”
At a party in L.A. A total whirlwind romance.
“What’s your favorite thing about each other?”
Lacey’s laugh. Nate’s quiet strength.
“What’s one thing she does that you like to tease her about?”
Nate smirks. Only one thing? How about two: She’s always late and has a sweet tooth.
“Do you have pet names for each other?”
(That one had made Rachel’s eye twitch, but I’d covered with a quick “We keep it classic—babe and sweetheart.”)
And then, inevitably—“When’s the wedding?”
Nate squeezes my hand on cue, his voice smooth. “We’re just enjoying the engagement for now. No rush.”
Lies. Lies. Lies.
But we smile through it all, our hands linked, our gazes locked just long enough to sell the illusion.
By the third interview, I’m almost on autopilot—until the host shifts in her chair, her smile sharpening.
“So, Nate,” she says, tilting her head, “your fans love the whole rockstar image, but you’re known for being notoriously private. How does it feel to suddenly have your relationship and life so… public?”
My stomach tightens.
This is the question he hates the most.
I glance at Nate, willing him to stay calm—to give some polished, media-friendly answer.
But instead of bristling or shutting down, he just leans back, his fingers still wrapped loosely around mine.
“I won’t lie—it’s an adjustment,” he says smoothly. “But when you’ve got the right person, it’s worth it.”
It’s a perfect answer.
The host eats it up, the cameras catch my soft smile in response, and Rachel visibly relaxes.
Only I can feel the barely-there movement of Nate’s thumb, tracing a slow circle over my knuckles.
Like a secret, like he doesn’t hate this as much as he wants everyone to believe.
By the time we get to the magazine shoot, I’m running on fumes.
The People Magazine set is a dream. Their crew has created the perfect intimate ‘at home atmosphere’ that Rachel and Emily insisted will sell our story.
I should be thrilled—this is People Magazine, after all—but instead, I feel like I’m just watching myself go through the motions.
The makeup artist swipes another layer of powder across my nose while I try not to fidget. We’ve been at this photoshoot for two hours already, and my cheeks hurt from smiling.
“Can we get another angle on the couch?” The photographer adjusts his lens. “Mr. Stone, if you could turn slightly toward Ms. Monroe...”
Nate shifts beside me, and I’m acutely aware of every point where our bodies touch. His arm burns hot where it rests along the back of the couch. The blue button-down pulls across his shoulders when he moves, and I catch myself staring at how his rolled sleeves reveal the corded muscles of his forearms, the edge of ink disappearing beneath the fabric. The stylist has artfully messed up his dark hair, giving him that just-rolled-out-of-bed look that shouldn’t be as attractive as it is.
“Perfect,” the photographer calls out. “Now, Ms. Monroe, lean into him a bit more. We want to capture that natural chemistry.”
Natural chemistry. Right. Because there’s nothing natural about having a dozen people watch you cuddle with your fake fiancé while my manager hovers in the background, analyzing every move.
But I do as instructed, settling against Nate’s side. He smells like expensive cologne and something distinctly masculine, and I have to force myself to focus on the camera instead of the way his body feels against mine.
“Beautiful!” More rapid clicks of the camera. “Mr. Stone, could you look at Ms. Monroe like she’s the only person in the room?”
I feel Nate’s quiet laugh more than I hear it. “That won’t be hard,” he murmurs, just loud enough for me to catch.
Heat creeps up my neck as I remember last night on the deck, that charged moment when we’d come so close to touching. I turn to meet his gaze, and the intensity I find there makes my breath catch.
“That’s it!” The photographer sounds delighted. “Hold that look!”
Rachel’s heels click across the hardwood as she approaches. “Let’s take five, everyone. Lacey, touch-ups.”
The spell breaks. I extract myself from Nate’s embrace, ignoring the way my skin feels cold without his touch.
“How are we doing?” I ask Rachel as the makeup artist attacks my face with more powder.
“The shots are gorgeous.” She scrolls through something on her tablet. “Good. There will be a brief interview afterward, so keep the details vague but emotional. And remember—“
“Let Nate take the lead on questions about his past,” I finish. We’ve been over this a dozen times.
“Speaking of Nate...” Rachel glances over to where he’s talking with the photographer, his easy charm on full display. “The chemistry between you two is... very convincing.”
There’s something in her tone that makes me look up sharply. “That’s the point, isn’t it?”
“Mmm.” She gives me one of those looks that makes me feel like she can see right through me. “Just remember what’s at stake here. For you.”
Before I can respond, the photographer calls us back. Nate’s waiting by a grand piano now—which is strange, given that drums are his instrument. According to Rachel, it makes for a better photo op than his drum kit. I bite my lip so as not to laugh, remembering the look on Nate’s face when she told him that.
“Alright, let’s try some shots by the piano,” the photographer directs. “Ms. Monroe, if you could perch on the edge...”
Nate’s hands on my waist feel like brands through the thin material of my dress as he helps me onto the piano.
“Now, Mr. Stone, stand close. Like you might steal a kiss at any moment.”
My pulse quickens as Nate moves even nearer. I can feel the heat radiating from his body and see the flecks of darker blue in his eyes. His thumb strokes my cheek in a gesture that feels too intimate for cameras, too real for our carefully constructed facade.
“Perfect!” More camera clicks. “The intimacy is exactly what we’re looking for.”
Intimacy. If they only knew how intimate it feels when Nate looks at me like this, like I’m something precious and dangerous all at once. How my skin tingles wherever he touches me. How last night’s almost-kiss plays on repeat in my mind.
“You okay?” he asks softly, noticing my distraction.
“Yeah.” I manage a smile. “Just tired.”
His thumb strokes my cheek, ostensibly for the camera, but the comfort feels real. “We’ve got this. Just follow my lead.”
“Always.”
Something flashes in his eyes at that, but before I can decipher it, Rachel announces the arrival of the People Magazine reporter. And the photographer yells, “That’s a wrap.”
“Ready?” Nate asks, helping me down from the piano.
No, I want to say. I’m not ready for more pretending, more careful scripts, more walking the line between real and fake. I’m not ready for how natural it feels to play the role of a woman in love when I’m starting to suspect—
Instead, I squeeze his hand and put on my best camera-ready smile. “Ready.”
The reporter settles into one of the armchairs while we take our position on the couch. Nate’s arm slides around me automatically, and I lean into him like I’ve been doing this forever.
“So,” the reporter begins, tablet at the ready, “tell me how America’s favorite new couple met...”
An hour later, we’re finally done.
The exhaustion hits me as soon as we’re in the car, and I let my head fall back against the seat. Nate’s thigh presses against mine in the confined space, and despite my fatigue, my body hums with awareness of him. His leather jacket softly creaks as he shifts, and his scent surrounds me, making it hard to remember why we’re supposed to be keeping our distance.
“You alive?” Nate asks, smiling down at me.
“Barely.” I sigh. “If I ever agree to this many interviews in one day again, just—take me out. Humanely.”
Nate chuckles, low and warm. “Noted.”
Rachel slides into the front passenger seat, tossing a folder into her bag. “Well, that was a success. No PR fires, no awkward moments.” She glances at Nate in the rearview mirror. “And you almost looked like you enjoyed it.”
He hums noncommittally, staring out the window.
Emily turns to me. “You’re still good for dinner with your parents tomorrow night?”
I groan. I’d almost forgotten about that. “Yeah. Can’t exactly bail now.”
Nate’s gaze flicks to me. “I’m expected too, right?”
“Yes,” I confirm. “Parents, sister, my entire extended family, which consists of more than just a few aunts.”
His lips quirk. “Sounds intense.”
“Oh, it will be.” I rub my temples, already anticipating the chaos. “You ready to be grilled by all of them, including being questioned by my older sister?”
His smirk deepens. “Bring it.”
I shake my head, laughing despite myself.
He has no idea what he’s in for.
When we arrive at his home, the sun is setting. My shoulders ache from maintaining perfect posture all day, and my face feels stiff from all the smiling. Nate closes the door behind Rachel, who’s still rattling off reminders about tomorrow’s dinner with my family. The silence that follows is blissful.
“You look exhausted,” he says, coming up behind me. His hands land on my shoulders, and I nearly moan when his thumbs find a particularly tight knot.
“That feels amazing,” I manage, letting my head fall forward as he works the tension from my muscles. “Where did you learn to do that?”
“Drummer, remember? Know a thing or two about sore muscles.”
His fingers squeeze my shoulders, and this time, I do moan and then flush with embarrassment. His touch is so sure and strong, yet somehow gentle, and when he finds another particularly tight knot, my whole body melts back against him. His warmth seeps through my clothes, and I have to bite my lip to keep from making more sounds that would definitely cross our professional boundaries.
I should probably stop him—this feels decidedly more intimate than our staged photos earlier—but I can’t bring myself to pull away.
“Tell you what,” he says after a few minutes, “why don’t you go take a hot bath while I order dinner? You’ve still got that lavender stuff you left here last time.”
The fact that he remembers my favorite bath soak does something warm and dangerous to my insides. “You don’t mind?”
“Go.” He gives my shoulders a final squeeze. “Take your time. Decompress.”
Twenty minutes later, I’m submerged in perfectly hot water, surrounded by lavender-scented bubbles. I can hear Nate moving around downstairs, the familiar sounds of him in the kitchen mixing with the soft music he’s put on.
It hits me how domestic this feels. How easy it would be to let myself believe this is true—the caring fiancé, the shared home, the quiet moments between the chaos. But tomorrow, we have to convince my family this is all genuine, and I’m starting to worry that won’t be the hard part.
The hard part will be remembering it isn’t.