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“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.”