6. Six
Six
Lacey
The ocean breeze whips through my hair as I step out of the car in front of Cass Wild’s estate. I take a second to take it all in—the clean design, with massive windows that overlook the water. It’s every bit the kind of home you’d expect from a rockstar—and very similar to Nate’s, except instead of the minimalist fortress vibe, it’s understated. It exudes a kind of warmth that feels welcoming.
I swallow hard.
“Relax,” Nate says as we walk to the front door. “They’re harmless.”
Easy for him to say. He’s not the one who has to convince his closest friends that we’re madly in love after knowing each other for less than a week. I’m the reason we’re running late. I tried on three different outfits before deciding on the first one I tried on. Designer jeans and a fitted top. Classic and comfortable.
“You okay?” Nate’s hand finds mine, and I try not to think about how natural that gesture is becoming.
“Just... preparing for my performance...” I squeeze his hand.
His lips twitch, but he doesn’t say anything, pushing open the door without knocking—because, of course, he wouldn’t need to knock—and the energy inside hits me like a wall.
Music. Laughter. The scent of something delicious cooking. It’s chaos, but the good kind—the kind that makes a place feel lived in and warm.
And then—
“Oh my God, you’re really here!” The girl—Cassidy—practically vibrates with excitement. “I’ve seen all your movies. You were amazing in ‘Summer Storm’!”
The teenage girl is followed by a tall, willowy blonde, who must be Kendrick, Cass Wild’s wife. Her daughter is a younger version of her mom.
I laugh, genuinely touched by the girl’s enthusiasm. “Thank you! That one was fun to film.”
“Let her breathe, Cassidy,” her mother says, extending her hand. “Welcome to our home. I’d apologize for my daughter, but...”
“Mom!” Cassidy protests.
“No need,” I assure them both. “It’s nice to meet you properly.”
Cassidy continues, “I follow you on Instagram. And—wait—“ She turns to Nate, scowling. “How could you not tell me?!”
Nate, to my surprise, grins. “I wanted it to be a surprise.”
Cassidy narrows her eyes. “I’ll deal with you later.” Then, she refocuses all her energy back on me. “You are so much cooler in real life!”
I smile at Cassidy. “From what I’ve read about the Wild Family—you’re pretty cool yourself.”
Her eyes widen, and then she looks around. “Oh my God, did you hear that? She thinks I’m cool!”
“That’s because you are,” Cass Wild says from the doorway, amusement twinkling in his eyes.
Even if I weren’t a fan of the Wild Band’s music, I’d recognize Cass Wild. The man radiates rockstar energy, from the tattoos peeking out from beneath his sleeves to the way he leans casually against the doorframe—completely at ease, completely in his element.
He walks toward us, hand extended, his grin easy and familiar.
“Lacey Monroe,” he says, shaking my hand. “It’s an honor to have you in our home.”
“Trust me, the honor’s mine.”
We’re led to the kitchen, where a ridiculously good-looking guy with shaggy blonde hair is currently stuffing his face with a cookie.
“Luke,” Nate supplies. “Keyboard player. Eternally hungry.”
Luke wraps his arms around a pretty curvy blonde, introducing her. “This is Lila Jeffers, my fiancée.”
“You’re the chef?” I ask with a smile.
“Yes,” Lila responds. “You’ll get to eat some of my cooking—if Luke doesn’t get to it first.”
Before I can respond, another guy enters the room.
Sam Ryder, according to the pictures I’ve seen.
He’s grinning, holding a little red-headed toddler in his arms, rocking her like he’s been doing it his whole life.
“You’ll have to forgive Cassidy,” he says. “She has no filter.”
“I resent that!” Cassidy calls.
Sam laughs, shifting the small girl in his arms. “This little one is Presley,” he adds, pressing a kiss to the baby’s head before offering me a one-armed hug. “Welcome to the family, Lacey.”
Something warm spreads through my chest.
I return his hug, laughing when Presley grabs a fistful of my hair and refuses to let go.
“Looks like she likes you,” a woman’s voice says. It’s Emily Ryder. I recognize her from the live stream during the PR meeting. Up close, she’s even more beautiful, with dark hair and bright blue eyes. I nod in greeting.
“Smart girl,” Nate says with a smile.
And then—
“Alright, let’s get this over with. Where’s my future ex-wife?”
Vince Savage enters the room.
He’s exactly as Nate described—grumpy, rough around the edges, but undeniably attractive in that bad-boy-who-knows-he’s-hot kind of way. He smirks, raking his gaze over me.
“Vince,” Nate warns.
“What?” Vince raises a brow, turning to look at Nate. “I’m just admiring my friend’s girl. She’s a damn sight better to look at than you.”
Nate just stares at him.
I clear my throat. “Future ex-wife, huh?”
Vince grins. “Yeah. I plan on being your biggest regret.”
I smile sweetly. “You assume you’d make the cut.”
Cass bursts out laughing.
Luke drops his cookie.
Cassidy gasps like I just changed her entire worldview.
And Nate—Nate just smirks, shaking his head like he knew this was coming.
Vince stares at me for a second before breaking into a slow, approving grin. “I like her.”
“Good,” Nate says dryly. “Because she’s not your future ex-wife.”
Vince holds up his hands. “So, how did our boy manage to land one of Hollywood’s brightest stars?”
“She has terrible taste,” Nate deadpans, pulling me closer.
I look up at him, channeling every ounce of acting skill I possess. “The worst,” I agree fondly.
Something flickers in his eyes—something that makes my heart skip—before he presses a kiss to my temple.
“See what I mean?” Vince grouches.
“Behave,” Cass warns, but he’s smiling.
Vince throws his hands up. “Fine, fine. I’ll behave.” Then, with a wink, he adds, “Mostly.”
The conversation flows easily after that. These people clearly adore each other, and I find myself relaxing despite my earlier nerves. Nate keeps me close, his touch constant but subtle—a hand on my back, our fingers linked, his arm draped over my shoulders when we sit.
“So,” Cassidy asks during the meal, “how did you guys really meet? Dad says Nate’s being super secretive about it.”
I freeze for a split second, but Nate jumps in smoothly. “When I was in L.A. for that interview last year. I saw Lacey across the room at a private party and couldn’t look away.”
“He introduced himself, and we hit it off,” I add, the rehearsed story flowing naturally now. “And that was that.”
“Nate? At a Hollywood party?” Vince grins. “Now that I’d pay to see.”
“Not everybody enjoys partying like you do,” Cass points out.
The conversation devolves into stories of parties, awkward first meetings, and terrible pickup lines. I laugh at all the right moments, ask all the right questions, and play my part perfectly.
But every now and then, I catch Nate watching me with an intensity that has nothing to do with our act. And when his thumb traces patterns on my knee as we sit, I have to remind myself that this—all of this—is just for show, even if it’s starting to feel natural.
The rest of the day is a blur of laughter, teasing, and stories. When we finally get back to Nate’s house, I feel like I’ve known his friends forever.
“They like you,” Nate says as we step inside.
I smile. “I like them too.”
We walk through the house, the sound of the ocean just beyond the windows. Nate glances over at me and catches me yawning.
“Tired?”
“Yes. It’s been an enjoyable but long day.” Then, with another yawn. “Good night, Nate.”
But when I crawl into bed, I can’t sleep. My mind keeps circling back to the evening—how natural it felt being with Nate’s friends, how easily they accepted me. How real it all seemed.
The digital clock reads 2:17 AM when I finally give up. Maybe some water will help. I slip out of my room, padding barefoot down the dimly lit hallway toward the kitchen. The cool tile sends a small shiver up my spine as I step inside, grabbing a glass from the cabinet.
I fill it, take a sip—and then I see him.
Nate is standing by the massive windows, shirtless, with a tumbler of something dark in his hand.
The soft glow from the moon highlights the cut of his bare shoulders, the lean definition of his back. His dark hair is slightly disheveled, like he’s been running his fingers through it, and the sight of him—standing there, lost in thought, stirs something deep inside me.
I should turn around and go back to bed. But I don’t. Instead, I find myself drawn forward, my bare feet silent against the floor as I step closer.
“You’re up late,” I say softly.
He doesn’t startle. Just turns his head slightly, glancing at me over his shoulder. “So are you.”
I lift my glass. “I needed water.”
His gaze dips briefly to my tank top and sleep shorts—bare legs, barely-there fabric—before flicking back up to my face. Something unreadable passes through his expression before he turns his attention back to the waves.
“Couldn’t sleep?” I ask, moving closer until I’m standing next to him. The only thing between us is a couple inches of midnight air.
He exhales slowly, rolling the glass in his hand. “I have a hard time falling asleep. My mind doesn’t shut off easily.” His voice is lower at night, rougher. “The waves help.”
I nod, understanding. “It was a good evening.”
“Yeah?” He turns to look at me, and in the moonlight, his eyes are darker than usual. “You seemed comfortable with them.”
“They make it easy. They clearly love you.”
“They’re family.” He pauses. “I hate lying to them.”
The confession hangs in the air between us. I touch his arm without thinking. “I know.”
His muscles tense under my fingers, but he doesn’t pull away.
For a moment, we just stand there. The air around us thickens, charged with something I can’t name. It’s strange, being here like this—away from the cameras, the pretense, the roles we’re supposed to be playing.
Here, in this quiet moment, there’s no script. No rules. Just us.
I shift, removing my hand and crossing my arms loosely over my chest. “I didn’t expect your home to be so…” I search for the right word, “Still.”
His lips quirk slightly, but there’s a hint of something guarded in his eyes. “You thought I lived in chaos?”
I shrug, taking another sip of water. “You’re a rockstar drummer in a world-famous band. It wouldn’t have been a crazy assumption.”
Nate huffs a quiet laugh. “That’s the job. This is where I breathe.”
Something in the way he says it makes my chest tighten. I get it. There is a need for separation, for space that belongs only to you. For a place that lets you shed the expectations and the weight of who the world thinks you are.
And I realize this is his true life. Not the interviews, the crowds, or the public persona. This house, this view, the quiet that fills the air—this is the true Nate.
I don’t know why, but that realization does something to me.
The silence stretches, the sound of the waves filling the space between us.
Nate turns slightly, his body angling toward me. Not close enough to touch, but close enough to feel the warmth radiating from his skin.
“You don’t have to stay up, you know,” he murmurs.
I raise a brow. “Neither do you.”
His gaze holds mine for a second too long. My breath catches. Something is happening here—something neither of us planned. I should step away. Break the tension. Say something light and easy, make a joke, anything.
But I don’t.
Instead, I take a slow, deliberate sip of my water, suddenly hyperaware of the way his eyes flick to my throat as I swallow.
“You stare a lot,” I murmur.
His lips twitch, but there’s an edge of heat in his voice when he says, “So do you.”
My pulse jumps. It’s nothing. It should be nothing. But my body betrays me. The warmth of him so close, the scent of whiskey, and something undeniably him. I swallow, turning my gaze back to the ocean, willing the rush of heat in my veins to settle.
“You know,” I say, voice lighter than I feel, “we’re supposed to be madly in love.”
Nate’s lips curve at that. “So I’ve heard.”
“Which means we probably need to be able to, I don’t know…” I tilt my head. “Flirt convincingly?”
He huffs a laugh, shaking his head. “You think we’re bad at it?”
I raise a brow. “I think you’re bad at it.”
That gets a full chuckle out of him, deep and low and unfairly sexy.
And then—before I can process it—he leans in, just a fraction, his voice dropping as he says, “You sure about that, sweetheart?”
My breath hitches. The way he says sweetheart—isn’t for the cameras. It isn’t for a headline or a staged moment for the press. It’s just for me. A slow, deliberate tease. A dare.
The air between us is suddenly too thick, the world too quiet. I hold his gaze. Letting the heat linger, letting the moment stretch. Finally, Nate lets out a slow breath, shaking his head like he’s amused. “Go to bed, Lacey.”
I grin, taking a slow step backward. “I think I just won that round.”
His smirk is pure mischief. “We’ll see.”
I turn, my heart still hammering as I retreat down the hall.
And long after I slide into bed, long after I close my eyes and listen to the waves. I remember the intense blue of his eyes, how they felt almost familiar. That’s when it hits me—I remember a flash of blue, an intense gaze. Familiar. Haunting. That was Nate I glimpsed that night at the Atlanta hotel. I shiver at the memory.
That was then, and this is now, but I can still feel his gaze—still feel the tension crackling in the air.
And l wonder if I just started a game, I might not be ready to finish.