I step out of the car in my driveway, the door closing with a solid thud behind me. My house is a little cottage nestled along the North Shore of Massachusetts, in the sleepy beach town of Green Harbor, just a half-hour's drive from Boston. It's small and quaint, but it's in need of some work. Some of the grey cedar shingles need replacing, the easter egg blue door needs a fresh coat of paint and stubbornly sticks when you open it, and the Endless Summer hydrangeas have grown wild. I just haven't had the time to keep up with it all.

Despite all its problems, Maisie calls it a perfect, cozy little home fit for three little mice. I'm not entirely sure if that's a compliment, but she seems to like it when she's here.

Opening the back door to retrieve the grocery bag, I glance over at the neighboring house and spot Mrs. Harris. She's seated by her bay window, looking every bit like a character from The Golden Girls at eighty years old, with her fluffy white hair. She tilts her head down as she peers at me over her glasses. I offer her a small wave, furrowing my brows when she shakes her head disapprovingly before returning her attention to her book.

I don't know why she's never liked that I've lived here but she doesn't.

I walk along the gravel path to the front door and see that the porch light is on, which means Maisie is already here. She comes over a handful of times a month, though not as frequently when either of us is dating. When I'm with Gwen or she's seeing some guy, we tend to keep in touch through text messages and the occasional lengthy phone call on my way home from work to catch up.

When she does come over, she insists on parking her car at Marty's Lobster Shop a block away. Either she walks from there, or I pick her up when it rains. I keep telling her it seems a little excessive, but Maisie insists it's necessary. She says there are too many people, too many paparazzi watching her these days. She doesn't want anyone to know about this spot—my house—one of the few places where she can hang out without being noticed.

I slide my key into the lock, my eyes drifting down to the floor where an open can of tuna and a small bowl of water sit. Shaking my head, I push the door open.

"You better not be feeding that stray cat I told you about," I call out as I close the door behind me. I catch a glimpse of her buttery blonde hair from where she's sitting at the kitchen table, her back to me.

"I thought you said it was a kitten," she shouts back, "and you better believe I am."

"It's only going to keep coming back," I say, toeing off my shoes, setting my messenger bag down at the entry table, and making my way down the hallway.

"Exactly the point," she yells, but I'm already in the kitchen, standing behind her. She turns around, ready to yell something at me again, but startles in her chair when she sees me standing there, then says more quietly, "Oh, hi."

"I see you still remember where my spare key is hidden," I say, glancing over her shoulder at one of the boxes on the table filled with lobster rolls. "It would be nice if you told me where you actually hid it."

"Never," she grins up at me, donut in hand. "I bought lobster rolls."

"I see that. Looks like enough to feed me for a full week." Then I shift my eyes to the box of donuts sitting next to it. "And donuts?"

She swallows. "A token of appreciation."

"Appreciation?"

"For picking me up from the airport and for, um," she clears her throat, shaking her head slightly as her gaze shifts down to the boxes in front of her, leaving her sentence unfinished. "The donuts are from your sisters at Sugar Moon—"

"You saw Lucy today?"

She nods quickly, opening her mouth to continue, but I interrupt her again, now worried Lucy might have said something about my phone call with Andrea earlier that she wasn't supposed to hear. "Did she say anything?"

She shakes her head. "Just that the strawberry donuts were fresh out of the oven."

I nod. "Oh, that's good."

She furrows her brows before continuing, "Sorry, I know it's a lot of food, but I feel bad parking in front of Marty's Lobster Shop. You know how he is. He probably loses business when I park there for too long."

"I don't think he minds, Mace," I say, walking over to the counter opposite the table. I begin to unload and put away the guanciale, parmesan, and spaghetti. "I'm pretty sure he's just happy Maisie Rhodes buys his lobster rolls."

She's silent for a beat, watching me as she tears off a piece of her donut. Finally, she says, "You bought stuff for breakfast spaghetti."

"Carbonara, yes," I say around a laugh, turning towards her. "But you came over with six lobster rolls that I have to eat now."

She frowns, her front lip pushing out.

"Imagine when Marty finds out you have a shellfish allergy."

"He won't find out," she says, shaking her head as she pops the piece of donut into her mouth.

"I might tell him next time I pass by so you'll stop buying rolls every time you come over."

She gasps. "You wouldn't."

"I might," I say, leaning against the counter. Gripping it behind me, I cross my feet at the ankles.

My gaze lingers on her as she chews, and I'm struck by how just the sight of her can make me feel so good. I like seeing her here, sitting in the middle of my kitchen, but truth be told, I'd like to see her in a lot of other places besides just this kitchen. Because, God, she's beautiful. She's wearing a pair of yellow gingham cotton shorts, an oversized gray pullover with some Cape Cod logo on it, and thick wool socks that look suspiciously like mine. Her hair is gathered in a messy bun, with wisps of golden blonde strands escaping around her face.

She looks so damn good.

Maisie wets her lips, biting on them briefly, before glancing down at the donut in her hand. "So, Andrea called you."

"She did," I nod, prying my eyes away from her, even though all I could do every day for the rest of my life is look at her and I'd be more than content. "You need me to date you?"

"Fake date August," she murmurs, closing her eyes for a moment. "We'd be fake dating."

"Right, for PR," I nod staring down at my sock-clad feet. "What happened to the guy you were dating?"

"Which guy?"

I cross my arms, eyebrows pinched together as I think. "Noah... Whatever his last name is."

She just stares at me. Stares and stares and stares until she finally says, "Gus, I wasn't actually dating him."

"What do you mean you weren't actually dating him?" I ask, emphasizing actually just like she does. "I saw the pictures in the magazines."

"Are you reading magazines about me now?" A small smile tucks at the corner of her lips as she brushes back a wisp of hair.

"No Mace." I push off the counter, sliding the box of lobster rolls to me as I sit in the seat across from her. "But they're kind of hard to miss at the checkout counter when I go to the grocery store. They're everywhere. You and that guy."

"That guy's name is Noah Wilde. You should know. You loved that one movie, Shadow Protocol, he was in, and I wasn't really dating him. I went out with him two times for pub–"

"Sounds like dating to me."

"Do you not like him or something?" She says through a laugh.

Shit, I think to myself. I'm not supposed to be jealous.

But of course, I don't like him. I don't like any of the guys Maisie dates. She doesn't need to know that though, because to her, I'm just her good friend.

"I just— I've heard rumors about him. Heard he's not very nice in person."

Her eyebrows furrow and she shakes her head. "Well, he was nice to me and it was only for publicity. I told you this."

"You did not tell me that."

"Yes, I did. It was for the premiere of his movie, and it just happened to match with the timing of when we announced the new album," she explains, pulling up her knees and tucking them to her chest. She rests her chin on them. "Have you listened to it yet?"

"Your album?" I ask and she nods. "Of course I have. I like the one called 'Never Mine'."

"'You Were Never Mine'," she corrects, reaching for a donut. I watch as she licks the strawberry jelly off her finger, momentarily entranced by the simple motion, before tearing my eyes away from her.

"So, no Noah?" I ask, glancing down at the lobster roll.

"No, Noah."

I hum nodding my head slowly. "Why did Andrea ask me? Why didn't you ask me yourself?"

"I didn't—I was just—" She pauses to collect her thoughts. "It was her idea. She wanted to make sure you had all the information. If you don't want to do it, that's fine. I think she's overreacting about the whole—"

"Wait," I interrupt, shaking my head as I try to backtrack. "I'm sorry, why exactly do you even need me to be your fake boyfriend?"

She hesitates. "You didn't watch it."

"Didn't watch what?" I question.

"The interview from the other night, on the Tonight Show."

"I did... sort of. It was on in the background," I admit, watching as she rips another piece of the donut off. "You're not actually planning to have donuts for dinner, are you?"

"August, you told me you watched it," she says around a chew, "and yes, I am."

"You can't have donuts for dinner."

"Absolutely, I can," she says, rolling her eyes at me before repeating, "You told me you watch it."

"I know, sorry, I got distracted," I admit, taking one of the lobster rolls from the box. "Tell me what happened?"

"Well," she swallows, turning her gaze down to study the grooves of the kitchen table. "I might have mentioned that the album was inspired by someone... close to me."

"And that's not true," I state. It's not a question. I'm well aware of her dating history. She's never been in a relationship for longer than a month or two and never seems overly attached to whoever it is she's dating, apparently like Noah Wilde.

"It's... not the point. The point is, I went on national television and told the world that I pretty much have a boyfriend no one knows about when I don't."

"And why exactly does it matter what everyone thinks?" I question, taking a bite of the creamy lobster roll.

She looks down at the donut, biting on the side of her lip. "Um, Andrea just thinks it will be good publicity before the tour."

I hum, nodding as I chew, and then ask, "Why would you say you have a boyfriend anyway?"

"Well, I— It just came out wrong I guess."

"So now you're asking me?"

"It's not like I have this long list of guys to choose from, Gus. I think Andrea is making a big deal out of this anyway. I'm positive it will all blow over in a few weeks, and I'm sure I can—"

"I already told her I would," I interject, taking another bite of the roll.

"You did?" she asks surprised, finally looking up to meet my gaze, those crystal-blue eyes of hers are as serious as ever. With the setting sun filtering through the window above the sink, it hits her eyes at just the right angle, making those shades of blue almost appear translucent.

I nod. "Yeah."

"Oh, well, good," she nods, her eyes skimming across every detail of my face as if to make sure I'm not lying to her. I narrow my eyes playfully in response. "Thanks for that."

"You're welcome," I say, pressing my lips together to suppress a smile, then hiding it by taking another bite of the lobster roll.

She watches me for a moment, then blinks away, looking out the window above the farmhouse sink. She chews on her bottom lip again before asking, "But I mean— are you sure?"

"Yeah." I shrug.

"Because that means we have to, like, pretend to date."

I huff out a laugh. "Yes, I understand that."

"Like, do dating-type things."

"I know."

"Hold hands and stuff."

"And stuff," I add, glancing up to see her cheeks tinged with a delicate shade of pink.

She quickly averts her gaze from mine looking down at the hardwood floors. "You're going to be okay with that? With... doing that kind of stuff?"

"Holding your hand, Maisie?" I say, smiling. "Yes, I think I'll survive."

"It's not just that though. You'll be— You'll be all over social media, magazines. People around you will think that we're actually dating."

"Isn't that the point?" I ask, placing the roll down and using one of the napkins tucked beneath the box to wipe my hand clean.

"Well..." She shifts her focus past me through the window again. "Yeah, but are you going to be okay with that?"

"Maisie, yes."

After a moment's pause, she adds, "Will you just promise me that if it becomes too much, you'll at least let me know and we can stop?"

"Of course," I respond, rising from my seat and heading to the fridge to grab the eggs, parmesan, and guanciale again. "But it won't be too much."

She watches as I pull out a pot and begin filling it with water. "What are you doing?"

"Making you breakfast pasta," I tell her.

"What? No, I have donuts," she protests, grabbing the box and tilting it toward me as if I hadn't already noticed the four donuts still inside.

I shake my head at her, turning the stove on. "You're not eating donuts for dinner, Mace."

"I told you I was."

"Let me rephrase that. I won't let you eat half a dozen donuts for dinner because I don't want to hear you blame me later if you feel sick from eating half a dozen donuts for dinner."

She scrunches her nose. "I wouldn't do that."

"Definitely have before," I say, reaching over her shoulder and plucking one of the donuts out of the box. I hold it between my teeth as I open the box of noodles. Then, turning back to Maisie, I take a bite and change the subject before she has a chance to overthink this fake dating thing anymore. "My mom wants to know if you're coming to Sunday night dinner since you're in town next weekend."

"Oh," her head pops up to meet mine, nodding. "Yeah, of course, I'll be there. I'd love to go."

"Good," I say more quietly, then turn back to the boiling water. "They all miss you."