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I expect Nate to hesitate. Instead, he slides an arm around my waist, pulling me close like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“Private beach,” he says smoothly, his voice laced with just enough warmth to be dangerously convincing. “At sunset. Just the two of us.”
I barely stop myself from gaping at him. That was not in the script.
Rachel told us to stick to the story. Nate just created a whole new one.
But I recover quickly, leaning my head against his shoulder and smiling like the happiest woman alive. “It was so romantic,” I add, my voice dreamy.
More flashes. More excited whispers.
Rachel, standing just out of frame, gives me a discreet nod of approval.
“Kiss her!” someone shouts from the press line, and my heart stutters.
We hadn’t practiced this part.
But before I can react, Nate’s hand cups my cheek, his eyes this close up gleam an intense blue, and then his lips brush against mine in a kiss so soft, so maddeningly perfect, that for a single, disorienting second—I forget.
I forget that it’s fake.
I forget that I met him less than ten hours ago.
I forget that this is all a contractual illusion.
Because Nate kisses me like it means something!
Like he wants to!
And I have no idea how to process that because even though the kiss is gentle and sweet—exactly what you’d expect from a couple in love who’s mindful of their audience. There’s something else there, too, something that makes my skin tingle and my pulse race.
When we break apart, the cameras explode with flash after flash, and I have to blink against the brightness, struggling to reorient myself.
“I think,” Nate murmurs as he takes my hand in his, “this is going to be easier than I thought.”
I squeeze his hand in response, not trusting myself to speak, praying he can’t feel how my pulse is still racing. Because if that kiss was just acting, he deserves an Academy Award.
As we’re led through another round of interview questions, both of us playing our parts to perfection, smiling, laughing, and weaving the perfect love story, I can’t shake the feeling that we’re both in way over our heads.
Five
Nate
The silence of my house wraps around me like a security blanket. After two days of camera flashes, rehearsed smiles, and playing the perfect fiancé, being alone feels like coming up for air. I drop my keys on the kitchen counter and breathe in the familiar scent of home—leather, wood polish, and the lingering aroma of coffee.
My phone buzzes. Another notification about ‘Hollywood’s newest power couple.’ I should probably turn those off.
Emily’s words from our private meeting yesterday echo in my head: “The band can’t know it’s fake. The fewer people who know the truth, the better. Besides, it’s in the NDA.”
I didn’t like it. Still don’t. These guys aren’t just my bandmates—they’re family. We’ve been through everything together, from playing dive bars to selling out arenas. Lying to them feels wrong.
But Emily’s logic was solid. “You’re already the private one,” she’d pointed out. “They’ll buy that you kept this quiet. And if they believe it’s real, they’ll help sell it to everyone else.”
Emily knows I’ve always kept my personal life locked up tight. I don’t do public relationships, and I sure as hell don’t invite tabloids into my business. Besides, if she’s willing to not even tell Sam, her own husband, then I have no right to complain.
And she was right. When the news broke, the guys barely blinked.‘Classic Nate,’Vince had texted.‘Find the perfect girl and keep her all to yourself.’
But I’m sure they aren’t letting me off the hook that easily, especially Cass. My phone rings, and,