28. Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Eight
Lacey
Seattle’s signature rain taps against the windows, but I’m warm and content, curled into Nate’s side. Reality starts creeping in as I check the time on my phone—my flight back to L.A. leaves tomorrow afternoon. One more day. One more night.
“Why are you frowning?” Nate mumbles, pulling me closer.
“I’m trying to figure out what to do with our last day together.” I prop myself up on one elbow. “What do normal couples do in Seattle?”
He cracks open one eye. “Normal couples, again?”
“Yes. You know, touristy stuff. The Space Needle, Pike Place Market...” I scroll through my phone.
“Ooh, we could hike Mount Rainier!”
His groan reverberates through his chest. “You want me to exercise on my day off willingly?”
“Come on,” I poke his ribs, “where’s your sense of adventure?”
“I get plenty of adventure on stage. Besides,” his hand slides up my bare back, “I can think of much better ways to spend our last day together.”
I catch his wandering hand, though my body hums at his touch. “Nate Stone, are you trying to keep me in bed all day?”
“Is it working?” His sleepy grin is almost irresistible. Almost.
“Nice try.” I sit up, keeping the sheet tucked around me. “But we’re in one of the most beautiful cities in the world. I want memories that don’t involve hotel room walls.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Last night’s memories weren’t enough?”
Heat floods my cheeks as fragments from our post-dinner activities flash through my mind. The way he’d...
“What I mean is,” I clear my throat, “when I’m back in L.A. tomorrow, buried in movie scenes and scripts, I want to remember doing something uniquely Seattle with you.”
Something shifts in his expression at the mention of tomorrow. The playfulness fades, replaced by something more intense.
“Fine,” he sighs deeply, giving in, but I catch the smile tugging at his lips. “Space Needle it is. But I draw the line at hiking.”
“Deal.” I lean down to kiss him quickly, but he catches me, deepening the kiss until I’m practically melting against him.
“Though,” he murmurs against my lips, “we don’t have to leave right this second...”
An hour later, we finally make it out of bed. While Nate showers, I check my messages: another one from Blaire asking about Nate and bridesmaid dresses (seriously?), and one from Nancy thanking us for dinner.
I smile, remembering how Nate’s eyes lit up when his mother shared stories about his first drum set and how he’d actually laughed—really laughed—when Richard described teenage Nate’s attempts to arm wrestle him.
After that, Nancy had pulled out photo albums, eager to share pieces of Nate’s childhood that even he had forgotten. There were pictures of baby Nate, with those same striking blue eyes he still has. He was absolutely adorable. Then, there were photos of him as a kid playing in the park and teenage Nate, brooding and long-limbed.
“He was always making noise,” Nancy had laughed, showing us more pictures of him drumming. “But such perfect rhythm, even then.”
Looking at those photos did something to my heart—made it squeeze and flutter in ways that took me by surprise. I couldn’t help imagining what our children might look like—if our engagement were real. Would they have Nate’s eyes? My smile? His musical talent?
But our engagement is only temporary, I remind myself for the hundredth time. Even though my body still tingles from his touch last night, and even though waking up in his arms feels more natural than breathing.
“Your turn,” Nate says, emerging from the bathroom with just a towel slung low on his hips. Water droplets trail down his chest, and suddenly, the Space Needle seems a lot less appealing.
He catches me staring and smirks. “Sure you don’t want to stay in?”
“You’re insatiable.” I grab my clothes and duck into the bathroom before I can change my mind about leaving the hotel.
Under the hot spray, I try to quiet the voice in my head that keeps counting down the hours we have left.
And then what?
Back to our separate lives—to a demanding career that, while it’s always been my dream, leaves no time for a meaningful relationship? Back to ignoring the way my heart races when Nate looks at me like I’m everything?
A knock at the door interrupts my spiraling thoughts.
“Lacey? You okay in there?”
I realize I’ve been standing under the water for who knows how long. “Yeah, just... thinking.”
“About what?”
About how I might be falling for you. About how this fake relationship is starting to feel more important than my career and how terrified that makes me.
But I can’t say any of that.
“About whether we should do the Space Needle first or Pike Place Market,” I lie, my voice surprisingly steady.
There’s a pause. Then, softly, “Whatever you want, babe. Today’s all yours.”
The tenderness in his voice nearly undoes me. Because that’s the problem, isn’t it? I don’t just want today.
I want every day.
We emerge from the hotel, both dressed to blend with the tourist crowd. Nate’s traded his usual rockstar aesthetic for worn jeans and a plain gray T-shirt, a Mariners cap pulled low over his eyes. I’ve borrowed one of his hoodies—navy blue and deliciously oversized—paired with leggings and sneakers. My hair’s tucked up in a messy bun, and big sunglasses complete the disguise.
“You definitely don’t look like a glamorous movie star,” he murmurs, tugging playfully at the sleeve that nearly swallows my hand.
“That’s the point. Nobody will look twice at me in these oversized clothes.”
“I will.” His eyes darken as he pulls me close for a kiss that makes me forget we’re standing on a public sidewalk.
The Space Needle isn’t crowded this early. As we rise in the elevator, Nate stands behind me, his arms wrapped around my waist. I lean back against his chest, breathing in the clean scent of his soap mixed with the masculine scent of—him.
“Look,” I point as we reach the observation deck. The city spreads out below us, the morning fog lifting to reveal glimpses of water and mountains.
When I turn to gauge his reaction, his smile nearly stops my heart. He looks gorgeous and carefree as the wind whips his dark hair.
We wander the deck slowly, and I catch him watching me more than the view. Every time our eyes meet, electricity zips through my veins. It’s ridiculous how affected I still am by him, how one look can make me forget to breathe.
“What?” I ask after the third time I catch him staring.
He shakes his head, reaching out to tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “Just... memorizing.”
Some teenagers pass by, and I spot two of them wearing Wild Band concert shirts from earlier this week. They’re animatedly discussing the show, completely oblivious to the fact that the drummer they’re raving about is standing three feet away.
Nate’s eyes dance with amusement. When one girl declares him “the hottest drummer ever,” he nearly chokes, trying to contain his laughter.
“Not a word,” I whisper, elbowing him gently. “Don’t you dare blow our cover.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” But his grin is pure mischief.
At Pike Place, we weave through the crowds, sampling everything from fresh peaches to artisan cheese. Nate buys me a bouquet of wildflowers from one of the vendors, and the simple gesture makes my heart flutter more than any expensive gift ever could.
We find a quiet corner for lunch, sharing a massive sandwich and watching the market bustle. A street musician starts playing nearby—something soft and acoustic—and Nate’s fingers tap unconsciously against the table in perfect rhythm.
“I love that you can’t help yourself,” I say, nodding at his hands.
He looks down, surprised, then laughs. “Music’s in my blood—there’s no hiding it.”
“I wouldn’t want you to.” The words come out more serious than I intended.
His eyes lock with mine, intense and searching. Under the table, his leg presses against me, and even that simple contact sends warmth spreading through my body.
It makes me remember last night—The way he’d pressed me against the door the moment it closed, his kiss firm and demanding. The desperate edge to his touch, like he needed to pour all his emotions into something physical, something real.
I shiver at the memory.
“Cold?” He leans toward me, wrapping an arm around my shoulders.
“Not with you; you’re like my own personal furnace.”
My phone buzzes in my pocket. It’s probably Baire again.
Sure enough: ‘ How’s Seattle? So, you met his family? Are they like ours? Scratch that—no family is like ours! LOL!’
I smile, typing back: ‘ It was perfect. His mother is lovely.’
Another buzz: ‘ Mom wants to know when you’re coming to Florida again. She’s planning dinner with the aunts to go over wedding venues, and Dad wants to play chess with Nate.’
Something warm and complicated unfurls in my chest. My family—loud, loving, overwhelming at times—is so different from what Nate grew up with. I think of Sunday dinners at my parents’ house.
I was lucky, I realize—so lucky to have that stability, that unconditional love.
“What’s wrong?” Nate’s voice is soft against my hair.
“Nothing.” I turn to face him, tracing his tattoos with my fingertips. “Just... thinking about family. Mine. Yours.”
His eyes darken slightly. “Seeing you with my Mom last night, how natural you were...”
My phone buzzes again: ‘Don’t just leave me hanging, Lace—what should I tell Mom?”
I show Nate the message, watching his lips quirk. “That’s my family; they’re taking this engagement and running with it, despite my protests that we’re not rushing into anything.”
“They like me,” he says smugly, and there’s something in his arrogance that makes my chest feel tight.
It’s true—my parents have embraced Nate completely since that first Sunday dinner. My father still talks about their conversation about sports, and my mother brings up his name in every conversation.
“Yes, they like you,” I say, shaking my head. “I’m beginning to think they like you more than they like me.”
His arms tighten around me. “Not possible, Lace.”
“Humph.” I lean against his shoulder, remembering how natural he’d looked sitting at my parents’ crowded dinner table. “They already think of you as part of the family. They were ready to adopt you on sight.”
He looks over at me with a sudden frown. “What’s going to happen once the six months are over?”
His words hit me like a physical blow, piercing through the sweetness of the moment and sending a sharp pang through my chest. I know we’re just making the best of a situation that was forced on us, but hearing him say it so plainly—like there’s still an inevitable expiration date—makes my stomach twist.
I swallow hard, trying to ignore the sudden tightness in my throat. I should laugh it off, tease him about my mother never letting him go, about how my father considers him his best chess rival. But I can’t. Because I realize I don’t have an answer. I don’t know what will happen after six months, and the thought leaves me feeling unsteady, like I’m standing on the edge of a dangerous precipice. Something I might not survive falling into.
But I can’t voice my concerns, so instead, I force a light laugh that sounds hollow even to my ears and pull away slightly, needing space to rebuild my walls. “I guess I’ll have to tell them you turned out to be a terrible person. Maybe mention your secret gambling addiction or that you stole your collection of vintage drumsticks.”
He doesn’t laugh at my weak attempts at humor. Instead, his jaw tightens, and something flashes in his eyes—something that looks almost like pain. His arm flexes around my shoulder, drawing me closer instead of letting me create that distance I desperately need.
“Don’t,” he says, his voice rough. “Don’t joke about it like that.”
The intensity of his expression steals my breath. For a moment, neither of us speaks, and I’m hyperaware of every point where our bodies touch: the way his thumb draws small circles against my hip, the way his chest rises and falls beside me.
“Nate...” I start, but I don’t know how to finish. Because what can I say? That the thought of him walking away in six months makes me feel physically ill?
He closes his eyes briefly like he’s fighting some internal battle. When he opens them again, that intensity is masked behind a careful smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
“Come on,” he says, his voice deliberately lighter. “I think I saw a cheese vendor back there. Let’s see if they have that weird French stuff you like.”
But his hand stays pressed against my lower back as we walk, and I can’t help but notice how he holds me a little closer than before.