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“I guess we should be grateful.” She takes a sip of her coffee and then sets it down with sudden determination. “Okay, if we’re doing this—and it seems we are—we need a plan. A story. Rachel’s right about one thing: we’ve got less than eight hours to learn to be madly in love.”
I check my watch. 8:45 AM. “Where do we even start?”
“Well,” she says, pulling out her phone, “according to several fan sites, you grew up in Florida, started playing drums at age twelve, and joined the Wild Band right out of high school.”
“And you,” I counter, “studied acting in college and were discovered after doing a toothpaste commercial. Just recently, you were offered a very lucrative movie deal and everything that goes with it.”
“See? We’re learning already.” Her smile is a bit more genuine now. “Though we should probably know more than what Wikipedia can tell us if we’re supposedly engaged.”
She’s right. And if we’re going to pull this off, we need to be convincing—not just for the cameras but also for Family First, her studio, and everyone else who’ll be watching.
“Tell me something that’s not on Wikipedia,” I say.
Lacey tilts her head, considering. “I’m terrified of thunderstorms. Not the thunder itself—the lightning. I hide under blankets like a little kid.” She shrugs, looking almost embarrassed. “Your turn.”
“I collect vintage drumsticks,” I admit. “Not to play with—just to display. I have pairs from some of the greatest drummers in history. My pride and joy is a set Keith Moon used in ’73.”
Lacey grins, shifting in her seat. “Well, at least we won’t be the most boring fake couple ever.”
“Guess not,” I say, standing. “I need to make a few phone calls.” Then, turning around. “And Lacey? Thanks for the coffee.”
She gives me a small, wry smile. “What are fake fiancées for?”
Four
Lacey
I pride myself on being a professional. Years of auditions, countless hours on set, endless press junkets—I know how to handle pressure. But nothing in my career has prepared me for this surreal PR strategy meeting.
Rachel’s private suite at the Plaza is a whirlwind of activity. She and my lawyer huddle around a sleek conference table, laptops open and phones buzzing. Across from them sits a live laptop stream of Emily Ryder, Wild’s manager, who has taken everything in stride with sharp efficiency.
And in the middle of it all, Nate and I sit side by side. He’s no longer in a towel, but we’re both feeling just as exposed.
I glance helplessly at Rachel, who has managed some of the biggest names in Hollywood. She’s handled scandals, negotiated contracts, and navigated PR nightmares with the precision of a battlefield general. But right now? Right now, she’s looking at me like I’m an absolute idiot.
“You’re hesitating,” she says flatly, arms crossed as she leans against the marble countertop of the suite’s kitchenette. “Why?”
I rub my temples, willing away the headache pressing behind my eyes. “Because it’s insane?”
“Insane is letting the media run wild with speculation,” Rachel counters smoothly. “Or worse, letting the company decide what to do about this mess. Do you want to wake up tomorrow and find out they’ve fired you from the project because you’re suddenly ‘too controversial’ for a family film?”
I flinch, but I don’t look away. She’s not wrong. Across the room, Nate is silent, his arms folded over his chest as he listens. He hasn’t said much since this meeting began.
“You still think we can spin this some other way?” Rachel asks, her tone deceptively patient.
I do. I want to. But I know the truth: a public denial won’t kill the rumors. It will only make people more interested. The scandal will negate my contract with the company and hurt my career.
And Nate? His entire deal with Family First is built on his private, no-drama image. He’s not some reckless rockstar whothrives on bad press. This could cost him just as much as it could cost me.
I close my eyes for a second, inhale deeply, and then exhale. “What exactly is the plan?”
Rachel’s lips curve slightly as if she knew I’d come around. “First, the story needs to be airtight,” Rachel announces, commanding the room’s attention. “We’re selling a fairytale romance here, people. Six months of secret dating, leading to a private proposal last week.”
“Why secret?” Emily interjects her blue eyes shrewd. “If we’re going for authenticity—“
“Because,” Rachel cuts in smoothly, “it explains why there’s been no public hint of their relationship. Plus, the ‘hidden love’ angle plays better with the press. Private people finding love away from the spotlight? It’s perfect.”
I steal a glance at Nate. He’s the picture of calm, but I notice his fingers tapping a rhythmic pattern against his thigh—keeping time to some internal beat, maybe, or just nervous energy.