One year later

Ninety-three sold-out concerts. Thirteen countries. One hundred and eighty-six hours spent in makeup chairs. Five near-wardrobe malfunctions. And one adorable kitten later, I'm finally waking up in my favorite house with my most favorite person in the world.

I've never been happier to be home—yes, August's house, because somewhere in the last year, I started unofficially thinking of it as mine too—lying in olive-green striped sheets, legs tangled together with August's.

He picked me up this morning from the tiny airport twenty minutes away, standing in the arrivals area holding a sign that read Debbi O'Connell. I couldn't help myself—I practically jumped him, throwing my arms around his neck and kissing my boyfriend right there in front of all the airport employees and, unfortunately, all the paparazzi who somehow figured out I was flying in.

They followed us all the way back to Green Harbor, cameras snapping from across the street as we disappeared inside the house. It's rare to see them here, though. This sleepy little beach town has been fiercely protective of me ever since I mentioned it in an interview for People magazine as my home, and I'm endlessly grateful for that. If anyone in town spots paparazzi, they don't take kindly to them. Even Marty from Marty's Lobster refuses to serve them—and Marty serves everyone.

I glance over at August, still sleeping beside me, his shoulder rising and falling slowly with each breath. My chest tightens with something close to relief. Between wrapping up the tour this weekend and recording the final tracks for my upcoming album—set to release in just a few months—I've missed him more than I ever thought possible. As much as he wanted to be with me every step of the way, it just wasn't feasible.

It turns out August doesn't handle long stretches of travel very well. The fleet of tour buses, the red-eye flights on my jet, the time zone changes—it was too much. He tried working remotely during the first few weeks of the tour—huge thanks to his very accommodating boss for allowing it on my behalf—but between the endless distractions and his tendency to get sick in every other city, it just wasn't working. I felt terrible for dragging him around, even though he insisted he was fine.

So, we compromised: he'd be at most of my concerts in the US on weekends, and stay with me for the weeks when I was in fun places like Paris or London.

My eyes trace the smooth curve of his shoulder as the afternoon sunlight spills into the room, playing over his muscles. I follow the streak of light down his back to where the sheet rests low on his hips. I want to press my lips against the back of his neck, wake him up just to feel his weight pinning me to the bed, tug at his hair just to hear that sound he makes that drives me wild.

The pillow we're sharing dips as August rolls his head toward me. He's shirtless, his hair an unruly mess of waves, and I watch as the corners of his full lips pull into a sleepy smile. He's delicious—a strawberry-filled donut on Saturday morning, a McFlurry at midnight, Oreos dipped in peanut butter.

"I can feel you staring at me," he murmurs, voice gravelly from sleep.

"I'm not staring at you," I lie. I've been staring at him for twenty minutes, willing him to wake up on his own. After all, I was the one who insisted he nap with me, even though he didn't want to.

"You're burning holes into my face," he teases, reaching a hand to feel my eyes, as if he can tell where I'm looking. "Shh. Go to sleep."

I swat his hand away, but he reaches for my hip instead, pulling me flush against his hard chest.

"Your family is going to be here in an hour," I mumble against his skin, tucking myself into the crook of his neck as I wrap my arms around his middle and melt. I press a kiss to his chest because I want to, and I can. And because he lets out that low, soft sound I love.

His family is coming over for dinner tonight—along with my step-sister, who I invited because, for the first time, I skipped my father's family dinner this year. It's the very first family dinner we're hosting here at August's house. I've only managed to make it to a handful of the Williams family dinners over the past year, and Lucy and Clara have been insistent I don't miss another. They're also dying to hear all the details about the last leg of the tour, even though they each went to about fifteen shows and we talk daily over text.

"It's already almost five," I add.

"An hour is plenty of time to do what I have in mind," he murmurs, pressing his lips to mine before shimmying down to kiss his way along my neck. I smile into his hair. "I missed you."

"I missed you too," I whisper back as his hand fists the fabric of my sweatshirt, slowly dragging it upward until it gathers just beneath my ribs.

"I love you so much, Maisie," he murmurs, pressing a hot, open-mouthed kiss to the space between my ribs. I arch into him.

Just as I'm about to respond, my fluffy, gray-coated, blue-eyed cat jumps onto the bed and begins to wedge herself between us. August exhales a frustrated sigh, his head falling back against the pillow, and I laugh, pulling her closer to me and pressing a kiss to her head. "I know, Betty. I miss you too."

August leans over, gently prying Betty from my arms before standing up from the bed.

"Hey," I protest, propping myself up on my elbows, watching as he walks toward the door with our cat cradled in his hands. "Bring my cat back."

"Mommy and Daddy need a minute alone," he whispers conspiratorially to Betty, who lets out an indignant meow as he sets her on the floor, closing the door firmly in front of her.

Something about the way he whispers Mommy and Daddy has me feral. And when he turns around, my eyes are instantly all over his body—from his chest down to all those hard lines of muscle, to where his jeans hang loosely on his hips. That smattering of dark hair dips under the waistband of his black boxer briefs, just barely peeking out above his jeans. God.

He steps closer, leaning in as one knee sinks into the mattress and his lips find mine. Just as he's crawling back over me, the front door slams shut with a loud fwump—so hard, I'm pretty sure I hear a picture frame hit the floor—followed by Clara's unmistakable voice ringing through the house, "We're here! I hope everyone is decent!"

August groans, flopping onto the bed next to me, his arm draped over his eyes. "How is it that everyone knows where the spare key is but me?"

I can't help but laugh, reaching over to poke his side. He flinches, batting my hand away.

"It wouldn't be any fun if you knew where it was," I say as I crawl out of bed before Clara decides to come knocking on our door (which has happened before). Leaning over, I press a quick kiss to his lips and murmur, "Put a shirt on and come downstairs."

He groans again, rolling onto his stomach in defeat. I leave him there to wallow, shaking my head with a smile as I head for the door.

When I reach the bottom of the steps, the sound of Lucy and Clara bickering drifts into the hallway, and I follow it to the kitchen doorway.

"There she is!" Clara sings out as I step into the room. But she's not talking to me—she's moving toward Betty, who struts in behind me. "You're looking divine today, Betty. I love what you've done to the hair."

"You guys are early," I say as Clara bypasses me entirely to scoop Betty off the floor.

"Are we?" Clara asks, cradling my cat like a baby as she heads back to the table she'd been sitting at a second ago. "I'm pretty sure you said to be here at four-thirty or five."

"I'm pretty sure I said six."

"No, I'm pretty sure you said four forty-two," she counters after glancing at the time on the stove.

I roll my eyes at her.

"I brought pie, though," Lucy says, pointing at the dish to show me as she shuts the silverware drawer with her hip and settles into the chair next to Clara. It's my favorite—strawberry rhubarb—and I find myself sliding into the seat next to her, smiling.

"And I brought wine," Clara adds, gesturing to the six bottles on the counter as Lucy begins cutting into the pie.

"That's... a lot of wine," I say, raising an eyebrow.

"Well, it's not like you have anywhere to go tomorrow," she says with a shrug as Lucy places a slice of pie on one of my hand-painted ceramic plates—the ones with strawberries and blueberries that I got when we were on tour in Spain. August must have put them all away here. "No tour to rush you off to tomorrow, and I know you're not flying anywhere. August told me. We are going to get tipsy and Lucy is going to tell us about her hot new neighbor she has a crush on."

Lucy scoffs, her cheeks turning pink. "I do not have a crush on my neighbor."

"Say that again after a bottle of wine, and we'll see," Clara teases.

Lucy rolls her eyes and hands me the plate. I immediately fork a piece of pie, bringing it to my mouth. It's still warm. The strawberry rhubarb filling melts into my mouth, sweet and tart all at once.

"God, I love you, Lucy," I mumble around the mouthful.

"I know you do," she says with a sweet smile.

"So," Clara says, her eyes darting around the room. "Do you like... live here now that the tour's over?"

"Oh, um, I don't know," I say, chewing quickly before swallowing. "We haven't really talked about it yet. Why? Did he—did August say something?"

"No, it's just... all your stuff is out of the closet and kind of..." She pauses, looking around, then gestures with the hand that isn't holding Betty. "Everywhere."

I glance around the kitchen and living room. My stuff is kind of everywhere: my Grammys neatly lined up on the bookshelf next to August's Dune collection, my long plaid coat hanging on the rack from the last time I was here, the guitar Andrea gave me for my birthday this year propped in the corner by the TV.

I hadn't really noticed before—when we got back from the airport; we went straight upstairs. I was practically dead on my feet after being up all night recording before my flight.

"I don't want to assume he wants me living here," I say, poking at a piece of strawberry from my pie, my fork dragging through the syrupy red filling. "I mean... I could always look into buying a house around here."

Lucy snorts, like it's the most ridiculous thing she's ever heard, and I look up at her.

"Because it's not like he's had a ring burning a hole in his pocket for the last three months," she says. Then, as if realizing what she's just let slip, her eyes widen, and she dips her head, suddenly very interested in her plate.

I freeze, my fork hovering halfway to my mouth, before glancing over at Clara. Her lips are pressed tightly together, as if trying desperately not to react—or not to say the wrong thing. I turn back to Lucy, my heart thundering in my chest. She said ring, right? I didn't just imagine that.

"He... August has what?"

Because ever since that day—when he told me he'd marry me if that's what I needed to feel secure, and I told him we should date first—I've regretted it. It only took me a total of one month to realize I didn't need more time to know. I was done dating; I was ready to marry him. I want to lock him down, call him mine forever.

But he hasn't mentioned it since. And I wasn't sure if it was because I'd been so busy or because it was August that wasn't ready.

"Lucy," I say again, this time with more force. She shoves a massive forkful of pie into her mouth. "What did you just say?"

"Nothing," she mumbles, bits of pie crust falling from her mouth. "I didn't say anything."

My eyes slide back to Clara, who is burying her face in Betty's soft gray fur. She presses a kiss to the top of the cat's head before quickly standing and murmuring, "I'm going to open a bottle of wine."

"I'll take a glass," August calls from the hallway. I turn around to him as he walks through the doorway of the kitchen. He's changed into a navy blue sweater, the sleeves pushed up his forearms, and his messy hair tucked under a newer Red Sox hat I bought to replace the one I refuse to give back.

He presses his lips into my hair before reaching for my fork and taking a bite of my pie. I watch as he chews, his brows furrowing slightly, forming my favorite little crease.

"What?" he asks.

"Nothing," I manage to rasp out, my throat suddenly dry. His brown eyes narrow at me with a look that says, I know you're lying.

And he's right. It's not nothing.

It's everything.

Because August has a ring.

———————

Do you guys miss Maisie and August as much as I do?!

No? Just me? Okay. Cool cool. 😭