18. Eighteen
Eighteen
Lacey
“What do you mean they want to reshoot the princess promo?” I pace my dressing room at Hollywood Studios. My phone pressed to my ear. The adaptation of ‘The Winter Princess’ is my first major project under my new contract, and everything has to be perfect.
“Marketing thinks the first take was too...” Tara hesitates, “mature. They want something more family-friendly.”
Of course, they do. Ever since the hotel incident with Nate and our subsequent ‘engagement,’ The company’s been extra vigilant about my image. Every move, every photo, and every public appearance has to scream wholesome role model, yet still convey a couple madly in love.
“Fine,” I sigh, glancing at my watch. “But I have a flight to catch tonight...”
“About that,” Tara sounds apologetic. “They want to do the reshoot tomorrow morning. And the studio heads want to review the footage early Friday morning...”
I sink into my chair, already knowing I’ll miss my Thursday flight back to Jacksonville, back to Nate. At least at his house, I can relax, be myself, and not worry about maintaining this princess-perfect image every second.
“Lacey?” Tara prompts. “The director is very insistent...”
“Push my flight to Saturday morning,” I concede. “But make it early. I have the charity gala Saturday night.”
After ending the call, I walk to the window. Hollywood Studios is everything it’s always been—bright, fast-paced, and exhausting.
I should feel at home here. After all, this is where my career has taken off, where I’ve spent years building my name, my brand, and my future. But as I stare out over the studio lot, I feel something I haven’t in a long time.
Displaced. I miss Jacksonville—and Nate.
It’s ridiculous how much I miss him after only a few days apart. But ever since I left, I’ve felt an ache in my chest that has nothing to do with exhaustion or stress. It’s a pull, a tether I didn’t expect, dragging me back toward the one place that—shockingly—feels more like home than anywhere else.
I sigh, reaching for my phone.
Me: ‘Change of plans. Looks like I won’t be back until Saturday afternoon.’
Nate: ‘Damn. Thought you’d be here sooner.’
Me: ‘ Me too. This week has been a disaster.’
Nate: ‘It’s almost over. Just get here.’
Me: ‘Rachel already has my outfit for the gala waiting at your place. At least I don’t have to stress about that.’
Nate: ‘ Good. Because I’d hate for you to be the one making us late, again.’
I huff out a laugh, imagining the grin that probably came with that text.
Me: ‘I’m never late.’
Nate: ‘You’re ALWAYS late. ‘
Me: ‘Lies!’
Nate: ‘ Can’t wait to see you.’
I blink at the message, my pulse stuttering. Nate’s never outright said that before.
The warmth spreading through me is irrational, but I don’t fight it. Instead, I stare at the words for a moment too long, and he texts again.
Nate: ‘House feels empty without you. Saw your face on a Company Store window display today. Very princess-like.’
I smile before typing back.
Me: ‘Just wait until you see the tiara they’re making me wear for promotions.’
Nate: ‘ You’ll rock it.’
And my heart does another little flip.
Glancing at the clock, I realize I need to get on set. As I leave my room, I see Jake Morrison, my co-star from The Oasis. “Jake, what are you doing here? Is Rebecca with you?”
He comes over and gives me a brief hug. “No, she’s busy with her sitcom. I had to stop by to pick up a script, then I’m on my way to Spain for filming.”
“It’s rough, isn’t it? Trying to juggle the whole two-careers thing.”
He nods ruefully. “Yeah.”
“How do you make it work?” I ask, searching his expression.
“You want the truth? Some days, we don’t. But then there are moments when it’s just the two of us...” He smiles fondly. “Moments that remind you why it’s all worth it.”
We’re interrupted when someone exits a room down the hall. “Mr. Morrison, I have your script.”
Jake smiles down at me. “It was good seeing you, Monroe. Good luck with the new movie.”
As he walks away, I think of Nate and realize Jake’s right—about all of it. We can make this work.
By the time Saturday arrives, everything that can go wrong does. My morning flight is delayed two hours. When I finally land in Jacksonville, traffic is a nightmare.
When I eventually get to Nate’s house, I will have exactly forty-five minutes to get ready before we need to leave for the charity gala.
I burst through the door, dragging my suitcase behind me, already pulling my hair free from its travel-weary bun. “I hate planes.”
Nate comes over and gives me a quick but thorough kiss. Then murmurs, “Rough trip?”
“You have no idea,” I say as I kick off my shoes and sigh in relief. “I need to shower, fix my hair, do my makeup—“
“I could help with that,” he offers, pushing off the counter.
The look in his eyes tells me exactly what kind of help he has in mind.
I narrow my eyes. “No helping right now, Nate.”
He chuckles, not looking the least bit sorry as he watches me disappear into the bedroom.
I shower in record time, throw my hair into soft waves, and slip into the emerald-green gown Rachel had delivered. It’s sleek and backless and hugs every single one of my curves.
His dark suit is tailored to perfection, and the white shirt underneath is unbuttoned just enough to make my fingers itch to trace the exposed skin. When he sees me, his eyes darken, trailing slowly up my body in a way that makes heat pool low in my stomach.
“Damn, Lace.” His voice is low and rough. “The way you look is dangerous.”
I give him a womanly grin, walking toward him. “You look pretty lethal yourself.”
His fingers brush along my waist as I stop in front of him, his gaze still drinking me in. He exhales heavily. “We really need to start skipping these events.”
I grimace, looping my arms around his neck. “Think Rachel would believe we got food poisoning?”
His hand trails slowly and deliberately down my back. “Doubtful.”
I tilt my head. “You sure? I could be very convincing.”
His lips ghost along my jaw, just barely touching. My pulse pounds. He’s so close—
The alarm buzzes, announcing our driver. Nate curses, stepping back.
I sigh. “Rachel’s going to kill us if we’re late.”
“We should let her.”
I laugh, grabbing his hand and pulling him toward the door. “Let’s get this over with.”
The charity gala at the Riverside Museum of Art is exactly the kind of event Rachel and the company love—Philanthropic, glamorous, and perfect for their newest leading lady.
It’s been days since I’ve seen Nate. And tonight, he looks like sin wrapped in a suit, and judging by the way his eyes linger on me, he knows it.
He keeps his hand on the small of my back, guiding me through the crowd, his grip warm and firm. Every brush of his fingers against my bare back sends electricity dancing across my skin. The way he looks at me across the room, like he’s imagining peeling this dress off slowly, makes it hard to focus on polite conversation. Every time I look up, his eyes are already on me. And every time our gazes lock, something in my stomach tightens.
The rest of the band is already here—Cass and Kendrick, Sam and Emily, Luke and Lila, and of course, Vince, who is flirting with a famous model.
“Surprised you made it,” Cass teases Nate, sipping his whiskey. “Thought for sure Lacey would hold you up again.”
Nate chuckles. “She tried.” I elbow him, but he just tightens his grip around my waist, pulling me closer.
Conversation flows easily. We talk, laugh, and drink champagne. Nate’s hand never strays from my waist, his thumb brushing lazy circles against my skin.
The entire night, I feel it—that magnetic pull stretching between us.
Around ten, Nate leans in. “Ready to get out of here?”
“God, yes,” I whisper back. “Think we can sneak out the back?”
We make it halfway to the exit before Rachel materializes in front of us.
“And where do you two think you’re going? The photographers haven’t even taken one picture of Hollywood’s newest celebrity couple.”
“Rachel...” Nate starts, but she holds up a hand unmoved.
“One hour. Give me one hour of the company’s perfect actress and her rockstar fiancé, and then you can leave and,” she glances around to ensure no one’s within earshot, “do whatever you want.”
I feel Nate’s frustration, but we both know the stakes. My career, our contract—everything depends on maintaining this image.
“One hour,” he agrees.
Rachel shepherds us toward the incoming reporters. “Smile for the cameras. Mingle. Be adorable—remember you’re the company’s picture-perfect couple.”
I straighten my spine and plaster on my all-American girl princess smile—just one more hour of being perfect.
Then I can go home and just be me with Nate, behind closed doors where nobody can see.
After we pose for multiple photos, Nate leans down, voice dropping to a whisper only I can hear. “Ten minutes. Then we’re sneaking out the back.”
I suppress a laugh. “Deal.”
I catch his eye, and the heat in his gaze makes my breath catch. Ten minutes suddenly feels like an eternity.
I make small talk with the other guest, smile for more photos, and field questions about ‘The Winter Princess’ with practiced ease, all while hyper-aware of Nate’s presence beside me and his occasional touches driving me mad.
Only one minute to go.
I watch the seconds tick by on the ornate clock above the museum’s entrance.
Nate’s hand finds the small of my back. “Would you like to get some air?” he asks, loud enough for those nearby to hear.
I nod demurely, every bit the company princess. “That would be lovely.”
We make our exit look casual, strolling toward the terrace. But instead of turning right, we slip left down a darkened hallway. Nate creates a subtle barrier shielding me from any potential followers.
“Run,” Nate whispers, grabbing my hand.
We dash through the museum’s back corridors, stifling laughter like teenagers sneaking out of prom. The cool night air hits us as we burst through the service entrance, and Nate’s driver already has the car waiting.
“Go, go, go,” I urge as we slide into the backseat, just as Rachel’s voice can be heard from somewhere close by. “Drive!”
The car pulls away smoothly, and we collapse against the leather seats, breathless and grinning.
“That was close,” Nate says, but his eyes are dark with something that has nothing to do with our escape.
“Too close.” I reach for him, propriety forgotten now that we’re alone. “I’ve missed you.”
His lips find mine, and our days of being apart, with too much distance between us, evaporate. I climb onto his lap, the silk of my dress sliding up my thighs as his hands grip my waist. The privacy screen is up, but the thrill of semi-public intimacy makes every touch more intense. His lips find that sensitive spot below my ear that makes me gasp.
“Ms. Monroe,” he murmurs against my neck, “this is not very company appropriate.”
“Shut up,” I gasp as his teeth graze my skin. “No princess talk right now.”
The drive home feels endless, even with the privacy screen up. By the time we arrive, we’re both desperate. Nate practically carries me through the front door, my arms around his neck, my body dangling like an ornament.
“Six days apart,” he groans between kisses. “Never again.”
“Too long,” I agree, working at his bow tie. “Way too long.”
We leave a trail of formal wear from the foyer to his bedroom—his jacket, my shoes, his shirt, various pieces of jewelry. I’ll probably have to search for my earrings tomorrow.
“God, you’re beautiful,” he breathes when he finally gets me out of the dress, his calloused fingers trailing fire across my bare skin. The contrast between his rough hands and gentle touch makes me shiver.
I laugh, pulling him down to me. “Proper company princess by day...” I flip us so I’m straddling him. “But it’s night, and right now, I just want to be yours.”
His hands span my waist, eyes dark with desire. “Mine.”
The word hangs between us, heavy with meaning neither of us is ready to address. Instead, I lean down to kiss him, pouring everything I can’t say into it.
We take our time making up for our six days and nights apart with touches, kisses, and whispered words. Every brush of his fingers erases another moment of being the picture-perfect couple, of being the proper company princess, until I’m just me and he’s just Nate, and nothing else matters.
Later, curled into his side, I trace patterns on his chest. “We’re going to be in so much trouble tomorrow.”
“I don’t care.” He kisses my temple. “Rachel will survive.”
“My career might not.”
He tightens his arms around me. “Nobody owns you, Lace. Not really.”
“No,” I agree softly, thinking of contract clauses, image requirements, and all the reasons this started. “But they do own my career.”
“For now.” He tilts my chin up to look at him. “But tonight? Tonight is ours.”
I kiss him because he’s right, because in this moment I don’t want to think about contracts or pretense or anything beyond this bed and his arms around me.
“Just ours,” I echo against his lips and feel him smile.
Outside these walls, I’ll go back to being the company’s newest star, and he’ll be the edgy yet respectable rockstar. We’ll play our parts and smile for cameras and maintain appropriate distances.
But here, we’re just us—enjoying our fake engagement with benefits.
And that’s enough… for now.