This is fine. No. This is good. No one will notice.

I carefully adjust the auburn wig on top of my head, tucking the last bit of my blonde hair peeking through in the front, making sure that not a single strand is visible. Taking my black-framed sunglasses, I push them up the bridge of my nose as I glance at myself in the mirror.

"Nobody will even notice, Maisie," I whisper under my breath, trying to reassure myself. "Just make it to baggage claim, and everything will be fine."

Taking a deep breath, I grasp the door handle, my other hand steadying my suitcase as I swing the door open and step out of the family bathroom. Sorry, yes, I used the family bathroom, but if anyone knew who I was, they'd understand. In fact, I'm pretty sure they would let me go ahead of them.

I merge into the bustling airport crowd, trying to keep my head down to blend in. It shouldn't be that hard, considering as soon as I got off the plane, I darted straight to the bathroom to change my outfit and put this wig on. I'm pretty sure no one saw me.

The flight from Los Angeles to Boston was, well, it was terrible. Despite being in first class, it might have been the worst flight I've ever been on. We sat on the tarmac for over an hour, sweltering in the heat with no air conditioning, because apparently, Los Angeles is hot all year round. And not only was there terrible turbulence the whole way but halfway through the flight, they ran out of water. Three excruciating hours passed without a single drop to quench my thirst, and I'm dying.

The flight attendants were nice, though. Normally, they ask for pictures and want autographs, and of course, I oblige, smiling my way through it, nodding. Yes, of course, I'd love to.

Because from the beginning of my singing career, when things began to take off, I promised myself I'd never become stuck-up or pretentious like some of the actors, singers, screenwriters I'd met who used others to get ahead. That's just not who I am. It was—still is— very important to me to be as considerate and flexible as possible, even if it feels like I'm suffocating under a thousand blankets.

Hence the reason why I'm speed-walking my way through a packed airport at eight in the morning with a wig on top of my head.

I feel my phone start to vibrate somewhere on my body and I pause, stopping in front of the NewsLink store, frantically patting down the pockets of my sweats and sweatshirt. Not finding it there, I move to the oversized bag slung on my shoulder and start digging through it. My sunglasses slip down my face in the process, and as I go to remove them, they catch on my wig, nearly dislodging it.

"Shit." I quickly readjust the wig to make sure it sits securely again.

Finally, I fish out my phone from the very bottom of the bag only to find it's my manager, Andrea, calling. I groan softly as I press the edge of the phone to my forehead.

Andrea had been asleep during my interview last night on The Tonight Show with Ricky Falcon, but I'm sure her assistant, Rachel, filled her in first thing this morning.

Clearing my throat, I hesitantly swipe right to answer the call, bringing the phone to my ear.

"Hello?" I respond in my perkiest voice. It sounds like the tone you adopt when you've gotten into trouble with your mom in high school.

"Well, you finally did it," she says through the phone.

"Good morning to you too, sunshine."

"After five years, you finally did it." I hear the sound of her sipping something, probably coffee, given how early it is.

"I don't know what you're talking about," I say, pivoting to glance at the store behind me. I spot a water bottle in one of the refrigerators stocked with beverages and I make a beeline for it. "I didn't do anything."

"Honestly, I'm surprised you lasted this long without making this big of a misstep."

"Is that supposed to be a compliment, Andrea?" I say, reaching for one of the waters.

"I do have someone specific in mind, though."

"What? No," I exclaim, my eyes widening as I pull the water bottle close to my chest. "This was all just one big complete misunderstanding."

"It's perfect really. Great exposure." She takes another sip.

"I don't need any more exposure," I say, turning to make my way toward the checkout counter. I halt immediately, nearly colliding with a teenage girl whose gaze is fixed squarely on me.

She looks shellshocked, clutching a bag of gummy worms tightly against her Maisie Rhodes concert t-shirt, the one of me holding the microphone, twirling in a circle, with the text Rhodie For Life at the bottom. I offer her a small smile, watching as her eyes dart between me and something beside me. I glance over to see she's looking at a magazine display showcasing People Magazine, the issue with my face on the front cover that reads A Pop Superstar: Her Rise to the Top.

"You're right. No, you don't need any more exposure," Andrea continues as I quickly snatch the row of magazines from the stand and turn them all over, hiding the covers. "Think of this more as damage control."

"Damage control?" I gasp, clutching the edge of the magazine rack. My voice drops to a whisper as the teenage girl continues to stare. "It couldn't have been that bad. I mean, it wasn't that bad, right?"

Sure, I might have strayed from my script on The Tonight Show, but how could it warrant damage control? I've faced worse—like Coachella of last year. Besides, it wasn't even me who brought up the subject of a boyfriend.

"You know who would be perfect." She's not even paying attention to me now.

"No. Absolutely not," I interject firmly, making my way to the checkout line. "Don't even start thinking of people for this. It's not happening. I don't need another fake relationship."

"And I think you know who it is I have in mind. I know he'd do it."

"I know where you're going with this. Don't say it," I insist, shaking my head, stepping forward. "Because I'm not asking him."

"Why not?"

I smile up at the cashier as I place the water bottle in front of him. "Because."

"Because why? He's perfect. He's cute," she says as I pull out my wallet and hand over my card. "And he has a cute butt. I know you think so. I see you looking when you think no one else is."

I gasp, my jaw dropping slightly. "I do not."

"You do. Don't deny it."

"I'm not denying anything because it's not even true."

"Mmhmm, sure," she says before I can even finish my sentence. "Look, it's either I find someone for you to be your fake boyfriend or we use the man I know you want to use—"

"Is this really necessary?"

"—or maybe I just ask him myself."

"You wouldn't." I give the cashier a small smile, nodding my thanks when he hands me my receipt. I take a step back but he keeps looking at me, an overly bright smile on his face. I pull the fringe of the wing down on my forehead and turn to leave the store. "You're not finding me anyone because this will blow over in a few days."

"I don't know why you're freaking out. There's a simple solution to all of this. You know he'd do it in a heartbeat."

"He wouldn't do it." Except, I know he would, but there's no way I'd ask him to be my fake boyfriend—that would be a breach of friendship. Lines crossed. And I could just... never.

Shaking off the thought, I make my way towards baggage claim, unscrewing the cap of my water bottle, adding, "He's busy with work, just got that promotion, and he won't like the attention. Plus, he's still with Gwen."

"He's not."

"You don't know that," I counter, taking a sip of my water.

"Oh, but I do. Because you told me about twenty times last month when they broke up."

"Well, they're always breaking up and getting back together. I never know which it is. They're probably back together again by now."

"I doubt it."

"Andrea," I sigh out. "Do we really need damage control over this? Won't it just blow over in a few weeks?"

"Maybe. Probably." There's a pause on her end as she takes a sip of her coffee. I can picture her sitting with her mug, scrolling through TikTok, catching up on the clips of me from The Tonight Show going viral right now. "But, Maisie you told all of America last night you pretty much have a secret boyfriend. And you know how they get. They'll dig into every bit of your life until they find something. Sooner or later, they are going to piece it together."

I know she's right. My fans will piece it together and the answer is obvious here. It just—it scares me to death. It's always scared me to death.

"I know but..." I sigh pausing as I reach the baggage claim area, and start scanning for him.

It takes a moment, but then my eyes snag onto him. He's there, tucked into the corner, out of the way, with an old cardboard Amazon box cut up and labeled Debbi O'Connell. His brown wavy hair is tucked under his worn-out navy blue Boston Red Sox baseball cap—the one he's had for as long as I can remember—while a plain white t-shirt peeks underneath a light blue button-up, paired with navy blue slacks and those dress shoes that sort of look like sneakers.

And my heart lodges into my throat, and everything in my brain scrambles. Because every time I see him, it feels like the very first time—like teenage Maisie bagging August Williams' double-stuffed Oreos and his Monster at that little market where I used to work a town over from my house.

August is still looking down at his phone so he doesn't see me yet and I let my eyes linger a little long like I always do.

"You see him, don't you?" Andrea asks when I don't finish my sentence. I forgot I was still talking to her.

"No," I lie.

"You do. I can practically see your emoji heart eyes through the phone."

"No, you can't."

"How long are you going to deny it?"

"Forever. Until the end of time," I say into the phone. "I have to go."

"You're coming straight here, yeah?"

"Yeah. I'll see you soon."

I hang up and stow my phone back into my bag, then navigate through the small crowd clustered around the luggage carousel, moving with caution to avoid bumping into anyone or attracting attention to myself. He remains engrossed in his phone as I come to a stop roughly five feet in front of him. I haven't texted him since I landed, and he's probably checking the time of my flight, wondering why I'm not out yet.

"Excuse me, sir." I clear my throat. "Do you happen to know where I might find a driver like yourself? My friend is running late, and I can't seem to find him anywhere."

He looks up from his phone, his eyebrows furrowing slightly, making that crease between his brows. I have to resist the urge to reach up and smooth it out.

"Actually." I glance around before returning my gaze to his sign. "It doesn't seem like there's anyone by the name of Debbi here. How about being my driver instead?"

He stares at me in silence, his eyes flicking to the auburn wig I'm wearing, probably wondering why I have this ridiculous thing on.

When he doesn't say anything, I continue, "I could offer you a free Maisie Rhodes concert T-shirt in return."

He huffs as he slides his phone into his back pocket. "No thanks."

"No?" I tilt my head. "How about a VIP ticket to a Maisie Rhodes concert then?"

"No."

"Oh," I murmur, tapping my fingers against my lips as if contemplating. "How about... two VIP tickets to the concert?"

His mouth presses tight. "I don't want tickets."

"Oh, you don't? How strange," I say, rearing back slightly. "Okay, um, what if I told you I'd be willing to sign your bicep?"

A smile pulls at the edges of his lips as his eyes dip down to his sign, half of his face hidden behind the bill of his hat. He's amused with me now. "No."

"Your calf?"

His brow furrows further, and he shakes his head.

"Your... pe—"

"Maisie!" He interjects, his eyes widening. "Jesus, don't finish that sentence."

"Pec!" I exclaim, pointing to his chest. "I was going to say pectoral!"

"Good lord," he huffs out a laugh. "Please don't tell me you've signed someone's, um— down there before."

"You'd be surprised at the places I've signed," I retort.

He gives me a downright unimpressed look, but it only makes me smile. I roll my lips together, fighting to keep my grin from spilling out.

"Hi," I say softly, stepping forward.

A soft smile pulls at his lips. "Hi."

"Nice sign," I say, tapping the edge of the makeshift Amazon box sign.

"Nice wig," he says, taking a piece of it between his thumb and forefinger, giving it a gentle tug. It tips sideways a little, and I have to adjust it.

I fluff the fringe of the wig and then pop a shoulder. "Oh, thanks. I was going for a Julia look."

"Child?"

"What? No, not Child, Gus. Roberts. Julia Roberts. Haven't we watched Notting Hill enough?"

"I still don't get your obsession with that movie."

"How could I not be obsessed with it? It's literally me in Julia Roberts' form."

He huffs out a laugh, smiling. He studies my face for a second, and I feel that pull at my chest I always get when I'm around him. "You look good as a redhead. C'mere."

He pulls me in close and tucks his chin on top of my head. I fit perfectly there, folded in close to his body. I take a deep breath, inhaling the spiciness of his cologne. I could stay here forever, breathing him in. But he pulls away, as always, never lingering, leaving far before I'm ready to let go.

"How was your flight?" he asks, his brown eyes finding mine once more.

"I've had better. There—"

"Excuse me," a voice interjects from the side. I turn, taking a step back from August, only to be greeted by a group of women, a bachelorette party it looks like, all wearing bridal party sashes. They're beaming at me. "We are huge fans. Would we be able to take a picture with you?"

"Oh, um," I murmur, touching the fringe of the wig. Clearly, it wasn't as convincing as I'd hoped. I catch August's half-smile as I turn back to the woman, mustering my best smile. "Yes, of course, I'd love to."

I remove the wig, smoothing my hair with my fingers, then turn to August. I smile up at him, biting my bottom lip as I snatch the tattered baseball cap from his head. His lips press together like he's trying not to smile back at me as he watches me plop his hat on my head.

August stands by, holding my things, patiently waiting as I take a handful of pictures with the group of girls. Once I'm done, he steps forward, adjusts the hat snugly on my head, before he says, "Let's get you out of here before the rest of the mob arrives."

"Yeah let's."