20. Twenty
Twenty
Lacey
The morning sun streams through Nate’s bedroom windows, warming my skin as I stretch lazily. The space beside me is empty, but I can hear movement downstairs and smell something delicious wafting up.
I find him in the kitchen, shirtless and focused on the waffle maker. My eyes trace the defined muscles of his back, following the line of his spine down to where his low-slung sleep pants rest on his hips. “I thought we were supposed to be eating healthy,” I tease, wrapping my arms around him from behind, pressing against his warm skin.
“We are.” He turns, pulling me against his chest. “I figured we could run on the beach to make up for these.”
I eye the stack of golden waffles. “How far are we running?”
“Depends on how much maple syrup you put on them.” He kisses my nose. “I’ve seen your sweet tooth in action, Lace. We might be running to Miami.”
“So worth it.” I reach for the syrup, but he holds it above my head.
“Ah-ah. Run first, then waffles.”
I pout. “That’s cruel.”
“That’s motivation.” His grin is wicked as his eyes trail down my body, lingering on where my shorts hit mid-thigh. “Besides, don’t princesses need to stay in shape?”
“Low blow, Stone.” But I’m already heading upstairs to change into my running shoes.
When I return, he’s changed clothes, and the waffles are staying warm in the oven. “Ready?”
The morning air is perfect for running—cool and crisp with a salt breeze off the ocean. We fall into an easy rhythm together, our feet matching pace on the packed sand. I can’t help but notice how his t-shirt clings to his chest as we run, the way his muscles flex with each stride. Even sweaty and breathing hard, he looks devastatingly attractive.
After an hour of running, we head to the house. By then, I’m more than ready for those waffles.
“Okay,” Nate concedes as we walk into the kitchen. “You’ve earned your sugar coma.”
I waste no time loading my plate with waffles, smearing them with butter, and drowning them in hot maple syrup. “Oh my God,” I moan after the first bite, the warm syrup making my lips sticky sweet. I catch Nate watching me, his eyes darkening as I lick syrup from my bottom lip. “These are amazing.”
“Lila’s recipe,” he states, his gaze switching to amusement as another low moan escapes my lips. “Should I leave you alone with the waffles?”
I kick him under the table. “Shut up and eat.”
He just grins and raises his blue mug to lightly tap my pink coffee mug that we picked up at the flea market.
We’re cleaning up when my phone buzzes with a text from Rachel. “Meeting in an hour,” I tell him. “Album launch party details.”
“Right.” He loads the dishwasher while I wipe down the counters. We move around each other easily, domestically. It feels natural in a way that should probably frighten me.
Rachel and Emily are already at the office when we arrive, surrounded by event plans and PR schedules.
“Good, you’re here,” Rachel looks up. “We just need to review a few details about next week’s launch.”
“It’s going to be huge,” Emily adds. “Press, industry people, fans—we’re expecting around five hundred people.”
“The whole band will be there,” Rachel explains. “And since you two are engaged, Lacey, you’ll be expected to be there, too. We’ll want photos of everyone together—the whole Wild Band family.”
My heart does a little flip at that. “Sounds perfect,” I say, and mean it. Being part of this feels right. I glance at Nate, catching him watching me. Something warm and intense flickers in his blue eyes, making my pulse skip. Even in this professional setting, with Rachel and Emily going over details, the pull between us is magnetic. I have to force myself to focus on the meeting instead of how one look from him sends heat coursing through my veins.
The meeting wraps up quickly—Rachel and Emily are efficient as always. When we leave, it’s barely noon.
“So,” Nate says as we walk to the car. “We have the whole afternoon free. What do you want to do?”
I don’t have to think about it. With a grin, I remind him of our agreement, “Something a real couple would do.”
“We are a real couple,” he says quietly, and my heart skips.
“Something normal—and fun…” I press my lips together, thinking. Then I brighten. “Bowling.”
Nate blinks. “Bowling?”
“Yeah.” I warm to my theme. “Old school. Neon lights, ugly rental shoes, terrible music blasting from the speakers.” I tilt my head. “What, afraid I’ll beat you?”
His smirk is slow and lethal. “You wish you could beat me.” He opens the car door for me, and I slide in.
Rolling my eyes, I smile smugly. “You have no idea what you’re in for, drummer boy.”
His gaze darkens at that, and suddenly, the car feels too small. Too charged.
“Wanna bet?” His voice drops low, and suddenly, I’m aware of how close we are, how the air between us crackles with possibility. This is dangerous territory.
“What are the stakes?” I manage pulse racing.
His eyes darken. “Loser does whatever the winner desires.”
The implications hang heavy between us. We both know we’re not just talking about bowling anymore.
My breath hitches. I should set limits or keep things light.
But I don’t.
Instead, I meet his gaze, my pulse pounding, and murmur, “Hope you’re ready to lose.”
His eyes flicker down to my mouth, and for one aching second, I think he might actually close the distance between us.
Instead, he exhales, putting the car in drive with a wicked grin.
I don’t know whether to feel disappointed or relieved.
But one thing’s for sure. The day is going to be very interesting.
The bowling alley is exactly what I hoped for—gloriously tacky with flashing neon and the scent of greasy pizza lingering in the air. Perfect.
“Size seven,” I tell the clerk while Nate requests his shoes. Wrinkling my nose, I sit down to put on the rental shoes. “Bowling shoes have to be the ugliest footwear ever created.”
Nate smirks, sitting beside me to lace up his own. “That’s part of the charm.”
“You know,” he says as we find our lane, “drumming is all about rhythm and control. Bowling’s not that different.”
I arch an eyebrow. “Are you trying to psych me out?”
“Just managing expectations.” He picks up a ball, testing its weight. “Wouldn’t want you to be too disappointed when I win.”
I grab a ball of my own. “Prepare to be destroyed,” I sass with a wink. Turning, I take a deep breath, focusing, and release the ball in a smooth motion.
It rolls down the lane… and hooks at the last second, knocking over only three pins.
“Damn.”
Nate chuckles. “Nice form.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “I’m just warming up.” I pick up my spare ball, determined to make the second shot count. I roll it, this time keeping my wrist steady, and the ball veers slightly but manages to knock down four more pins.
I put my hands on my hips. “Not my best round. But it’s early.”
Nate strolls up beside me, his expression annoyingly smug. “My turn.”
He picks up his ball, takes a step, and releases it with practiced ease.
I watch, horrified, as it rolls perfectly down the center and crashes into all ten pins.
“Are you kidding me?”
He turns, grinning. “Huh. That was easier than I remember.”
I groan. “You didn’t tell me you were good at this.”
“You never asked.”
Two frames in, and I’m starting to worry. His form is frustratingly perfect, each roll smooth and controlled. I’m not terrible, but...
Once he’s ahead by at least twenty points, I’m grumbling under my breath every time he lands another perfect shot.
“This is so unfair,” I huff, planting my hands on my hips. “I should never have made that bet before I saw you play.”
Nate leans in, his voice low and teasing. “Scared of losing, Lace?”
I swallow hard. He’s close enough that I can smell his cologne, something warm and distracting.
“I’m not scared,” I lie. “Just… reevaluating my strategy.”
His lips twitch like he knows exactly what kind of effect he’s having on me. “Uh-huh.”
I glare at him, then pick up my ball. “Watch and learn, drummer boy.”
I take a deep breath, line up my shot, and... roll another perfect gutter ball.
When we reach the final frame, I’ve improved, but Nate’s still crushing me. He lines up his last shot, and I know before the ball even leaves his hand that it’s going to be perfect.
Strike.
“That’s the game,” he says, turning to me with an arrogant grin that makes heat pool low in my stomach. His eyes darken as he steps closer, and suddenly, the tacky bowling alley feels incredibly intimate. “Ready to pay up?”
My heart stutters. All afternoon, I’ve been imagining what he might ask for, each scenario more heated than the last. “What’s your prize?”
His blue eyes darken slightly, making my stomach flip. “You’ll find out soon enough.”
I exhale slowly. It’s just a game. But the way he’s looking at me now?
It doesn’t feel like a game at all, and my breath catches.
He grins evilly. “Turn in your shoes. We have somewhere to be.”
Twenty minutes later, we pull up to a building I don’t recognize.
“Nate, what is this?”
His expression softens. “Something important.”
Then I see the sign ‘Family First.’ The charity Nate is partnering with. The reason he agreed to our fake engagement—to not endanger the endorsement.
Inside, the space is filled with kids of all ages. Some are practicing on drums, others on guitars or keyboards. A teenage girl sits at a piano, carefully picking out a melody.
“Nate!” Several children rush over, surrounding him with hugs and excited chatter.
“Hey, guys.” He high fives them, knowing each by name. “This is Lacey. She’s going to help today.”
A small girl with braids looks up at me. “Are you really a princess?”
“Sometimes,” I say, kneeling down. “But today, I’m just Lacey. Want to show me what you’re learning?”
For the next two hours, I watch Nate in his element—teaching, encouraging, and bringing music to life for these kids. He’s patient with their mistakes, celebrating their smallest victories. When a boy finally masters a basic drum pattern, Nate’s smile is brighter than any I’ve seen.
“We provide instruments and lessons,” he explains quietly while the kids practice. “Some of these families couldn’t afford it otherwise. Music saved my life once. Maybe it can save someone else’s.”
I think about the man everyone sees—the rockstar drummer—and this version, teaching a little boy how to hold drumsticks properly.
“This was your prize?” I ask. “Bringing me here?”
He shrugs, suddenly looking almost embarrassed. “I wanted you to share this part of my life. One of the most important parts.”
I reach for his hand, threading our fingers together. “I’m glad you did.”
He smiles at me. “I keep this private—out of the spotlight. I don’t want the kids ever to be exploited or used for some PR stunt.”
I nod in understanding.
“Are you gonna have lots of babies?” a small voice pipes up beside us. It’s Emma, the seven-year-old who’s learning to play the drums. She’s been following Nate and me around all afternoon. “My mom says you’re getting married.”
I feel Nate startle beside me, but his smile remains gentle. “Emma—“ he starts.
“I think you should,” she continues matter-of-factly. “Because you’re in love! And your babies would be really good at music.” She scrunches up her nose. “Plus, they could come here too, and we could all be friends and play the drums together.”
The innocence of her planning makes my throat tight. Nate’s hand tightens on mine, and when I glance at him, there’s something raw and unguarded in his expression.
He clears his throat. “That’s pretty far in the future, kiddo,” he manages, his voice a little rough.
Emma shrugs. “That’s okay. I can wait.” She beams up at us. “I’m really good at waiting.”
A crash from the drum section interrupts us, followed by laughter and apologies.
“I better go help out.” He squeezes my hand before heading over to assist.
I watch him go, my heart full. This man continues to surprise me, breaking down my defenses one layer at a time. And with each new discovery, I fall a little harder.
The bet might be over, but I feel like I’m the one who won.