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We sit side by side on the plush studio couch, answering the same carefully crafted questions with the same perfect responses.
“How did you two meet?”
At a party in L.A. A total whirlwind romance.
“What’s your favorite thing about each other?”
Lacey’s laugh. Nate’s quiet strength.
“What’s one thing she does that you like to tease her about?”
Nate smirks. Only one thing? How about two: She’s always late and has a sweet tooth.
“Do you have pet names for each other?”
(That one had made Rachel’s eye twitch, but I’d covered with a quick “We keep it classic—babe and sweetheart.”)
And then, inevitably—“When’s the wedding?”
Nate squeezes my hand on cue, his voice smooth. “We’re just enjoying the engagement for now. No rush.”
Lies. Lies. Lies.
But we smile through it all, our hands linked, our gazes locked just long enough to sell the illusion.
By the third interview, I’m almost on autopilot—until the host shifts in her chair, her smile sharpening.
“So, Nate,” she says, tilting her head, “your fans love the whole rockstar image, but you’re known for being notoriously private. How does it feel to suddenly have your relationship and life so… public?”
My stomach tightens.
This is the question he hates the most.
I glance at Nate, willing him to stay calm—to give some polished, media-friendly answer.
But instead of bristling or shutting down, he just leans back, his fingers still wrapped loosely around mine.
“I won’t lie—it’s an adjustment,” he says smoothly. “But when you’ve got the right person, it’s worth it.”
It’s a perfect answer.
The host eats it up, the cameras catch my soft smile in response, and Rachel visibly relaxes.
Only I can feel the barely-there movement of Nate’s thumb, tracing a slow circle over my knuckles.
Like a secret, like he doesn’t hate this as much as he wants everyone to believe.
By the time we get to the magazine shoot, I’m running on fumes.
The People Magazine set is a dream. Their crew has created the perfect intimate ‘at home atmosphere’ that Rachel and Emily insisted will sell our story.
I should be thrilled—this is People Magazine, after all—but instead, I feel like I’m just watching myself go through the motions.
The makeup artist swipes another layer of powder across my nose while I try not to fidget. We’ve been at this photoshoot for two hours already, and my cheeks hurt from smiling.
“Can we get another angle on the couch?” The photographer adjusts his lens. “Mr. Stone, if you could turn slightly toward Ms. Monroe...”
Nate shifts beside me, and I’m acutely aware of every point where our bodies touch. His arm burns hot where it rests along the back of the couch. The blue button-down pulls across his shoulders when he moves, and I catch myself staring at how his rolled sleeves reveal the corded muscles of his forearms, the edge of ink disappearing beneath the fabric. The stylist has artfully messed up his dark hair, giving him that just-rolled-out-of-bed look that shouldn’t be as attractive as it is.