"I think your best look was at the Grammys that first year."

The barista at my favorite coffee shop in Greenwich swivels back and forth on her stool. Her chin rests in her hand, elbow propped on the counter between us as she looks past me, seemingly daydreaming. She doesn't seem to care about the paparazzi outside—their cameras flashing incessantly, yelling for me to turn around—and I'm not even sure she notices the growing line behind me.

"That pale flowy blue dress really made your eyes pop," she adds, widening her own eyes slightly on the word pop.

"Oh, um, thank—"

"I would have said your best outfit was at Coachella last year. You know, with the Versace bodysuit and all. But I don't think anyone remembers anything other than the fact that you fell flat on your face," she says, grimacing at me. August, who is standing so close his chest brushes against my shoulder, shielding me from most of the paparazzi, snorts out a laugh. I elbow him in the side, trying not to smile. "Did that hurt? I bet that hurt."

It did, in fact, hurt. I had a bruise on my shin for four weeks.

The owner of Hansen's Coffee suddenly appears from the doorway behind the barista, his jaw clenched as he storms over.

"I thought I told you to come get me when she got here," he whisper-yells at her, guiding her off her stool and toward the back room of the coffee shop. She pauses, trying to resist, and they start bickering back and forth—wife or sister, I'm guessing—until she finally shakes her head and walks to the back. He exhales a long, deep breath, then turns around and heads back to the register.

"Sorry about that. My sister is a, uh, really big fan," he says, clearing his throat and glancing at the line before looking out the window at the paparazzi, their flashes still going off, and then quickly back at me. "Your usual?"

"Please."

The owner quickly prepares our coffees himself—my favorite caramel kiss latte and the Americano August ordered. Once we have our drinks, Ryan guides us to the back of Hansen's Coffee, leading us through a door that opens to a little patio. It's tucked away between two brick buildings, with a view of the street, greenery twining around the fence, and lights strung from building to building, creating a cozy, hidden oasis. And while you can still see through the fence, it feels secluded enough, and fortunately for me, the paparazzi have remained at the front.

The moment I step outside onto the patio, it's like a small weight lifts off my shoulders, and I breathe a bit more freely for the first time since stepping off the plane. Even for me, this level of attention is overwhelming, and I can only imagine how August is feeling.

"Is it okay if we quickly run through everything for today's Vogue photoshoot?" Andrea asks, following us to a small table in the corner. I slide onto the bench, August sitting close beside me, while Andrea and Rachel sit across from us. "That way, you'll feel a bit more prepared before we head over."

I nod. "Sounds good."

"Great. Well, first off, they've just sent over the cover line. They were back and forth on a couple of them, but they finally decided on: Maisie Rhodes: Claiming Her Pop Crown." Andrea pauses to look up at me. "They want to officially name you the princess of pop, Maisie."

The three of them turn to look at me like I should be having some sort of a reaction. Rachel is beaming, Andrea rolling her lips to hide her excitement, and I can even see August studying my face from the edge of my peripheral.

Maybe I should be reacting—ecstatic about officially being named the princess of pop—but all I feel is pressure to be happy about it. It's not that I don't like being a singer, a pop star, or whatever. I love writing music and lyrics and the entire process of it; even performing concerts has been amazing. It's just that everything's happening so quickly.

"Oh, that's... um, wow," I stutter out, nodding my head. Andrea tilts her head slightly, raising an eyebrow. "That's, uh..."

"It's nothing we didn't already know," Andrea finishes for me when I trail off, leaving my sentence unfinished. "Your fans have been calling you that for the last year now." I nod, and she glances back down at her notes. "Why don't we move on to the schedule for the day?"

For once, I'm glad she can read me so well. She knows I'll be excited about it later. And I will be, it's just that right now, my mind is cluttered with a million other things. Like certain phone calls on planes, a certain best friend, and that best friend discovering certain feelings that are definitely not considered best friend-appropriate.

I listen to Andrea as she runs through the schedule—from wardrobe to an interview during the break, finishing with a late dinner and straight to the hotel to sleep. But my mind drifts to August.

I wonder if this is all too much for him, how behind he really is with work, how late he stayed up after sending me that text with a photo of the empty cherry-shaped cat bowls, asking, "Do we think a kitten ate this, or did Mrs. Harris steal the food, thinking we're enabling feral, rabid cats to roam our streets?"

I wonder if he knows what people are saying about him online. Every Rhodie piecing together exactly what I've tried so hard to keep hidden for so long. Does he know? Does he still think this is all just for bad press?

And then my thoughts wander to Gwen. I tried closing my eyes on the plane, trying not to overthink, but my mind kept slipping back to her calling August and that picture of them.

I gave up about thirty minutes into the flight and ended up reading the book August was editing over his shoulder. Even then, the rom-com wasn't enough to distract me.

Would she even take him back after all of this? The question creeps into my mind, quickly morphing into a more unsettling: If she asked him to stop seeing me would he? Would he leave this fake relationship with me if she'd asked?

Of course he would. Why wouldn't he? He's probably counting down the days until this arrangement ends. Because I'm just his friend. I'll always be just his friend. He will go back to her, like he always does. And he'll forget me.

Slowly, the phone calls will stop, the text messages will cease, and he won't invite me over randomly for dinner anymore just because he's making breakfast pasta and knows it's my favorite. I'll start forgetting what his laugh is like, how his deep, velvety voice sounds in the mornings when he calls just to tell me he dreamt about his books coming alive and chasing me all the way to Marty's Lobster Shop. I'll forget what he smells like—his cologne. God, he always smells so good, like a blend of something soapy and cedar, fresh laundry mingled with rain-soaked wood.

I can smell it now every time he shifts in his seat, his arm grazes me, his thighs brush against mine, and I am officially and thoroughly distracted.

I watch as a wry smile pulls at the edges of Augusts lips before he whispers, "You're staring."

I quickly look down at the coffee in my hands as a furious blush heats my cheeks. "I am not staring."

"You are," Andrea chimes in from across the table. Rachel looks down at the laptop in front of her, struggling to suppress a smile. "Are you even listening?"

"I was," I say, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. "I was just... processing all the information."

"Mhmm, sure," Andrea whispers, shaking her head. She tilts her head to Rachel, eyes fixed down on her iPad. "Anything else I missed, Rachel?"

"Oh, um, yes, actually," Rachel says, glancing at her MacBook. "Maisie, your dad emailed, inviting you to dinner."

My eyes dart to Rachel as Andrea's head snaps to her. She looks up from her MacBook, her eyes slowly flicking between us, confused by the sudden attention.

Rachel—bless her—knows next to nothing about my family other than that my mom passed away before I became famous and that my dad lives somewhere in the state of Connecticut. If she knew more, she probably would have waited to tell me about the email. She would have told Andrea, and Andrea would have sat me down with my favorite donut and wrapped me up in a blanket. She would have bubble-wrapped my heart before telling me how much my father sucks ass.

"My dad?"

"Yeah, um, for dinner." She glances down at the computer, double-checking to make sure she has it right, then looks back up. "The week before the tour."

August clears his throat and shifts in his seat, Rachel scratches the spot under her ear, and Andrea turns to me, waiting for an answer. I bet they're all wondering the same thing I am: why is my father emailing my manager's assistant instead of personally calling me, his only biological daughter, to dinner himself?

I guess that's just the kind of relationship he wants with me. To be fair, we never really had much of a relationship beyond the once-a-year dinners that started when I was sixteen because I'm pretty sure my mom forced him into them after the first time she was diagnosed with cancer.

"Mace." Andrea's gentle voice pulls me from my thoughts. "You can always say no."

"No, um, that 's—um." I shake my head, forcing out my best I promise I'm okay smile. "Yes. Yes, I'd love to go. Can you tell him I'll be there and ask if there's anything I can bring?"

Andrea watches me with sympathetic eyes. I hate it when she looks at me like that, like I need to be coddled.  "Are you sure, hon?"

"Mhmm," I quickly look back down at the cup in my hands.

"I'll go with you," August offers.

"No," I say, my head snapping to look at him as I give a terse shake. It comes out clipped and blunt, and he looks a little hurt by it. I clear my throat, softening my voice as I add, "Um, no, I'll go by myself."

"Technically, you and August will still be fake dating," Andrea whispers across the table. "So it makes sense that he would go... you know, to maintain appearances."

I sigh, chewing on my lip. "I'll think about it."

"Okay," she says after a long moment, nodding before rising from her seat and gathering her things, with Rachel following suit. "I'll leave you two to finish your coffee. We'll be heading out in," she glances at her Apple Watch, "ten minutes or so. And also, just so you know, there's currently a paparazzo across the street taking pictures of you two."

Both August and I glance over our shoulders to see a paparazzo with a long camera lens aimed directly at us. I quickly turn back to Andrea. I know what she's doing—giving me the freedom to kiss August if I wanted to. It's evident from the smirk on her lips and the twinkle in her eyes. I shake my head slightly, giving her a disapproving glare before she walks back into the coffee shop.

When the door to the shop shuts behind them, my eyes slip closed and I will myself to settle. I feel unanchored, like I'm drifting and stumbling through my thoughts.

I try to focus on more solidified things. The song I've almost finished writing, the recording session scheduled for next week so that I can "stay ahead of the game" before the tour begins, the traveling I'll be doing over the next eleven months, and that little bakery in Michigan I'll finally be able to go to again since I'm on tour. The one with the strawberry-filled donut made with their in-house jam.

"You good?" I open my eyes to find August's chocolate-brown eyes studying me intently.

I tilt my head slightly at him. "Are you good? I know this is a lot."

"M'fine," he says, taking the lid off his coffee. A small billow of steam rises from his blue paper cup. I watch as he takes a sip before asking, "You want to talk about it?"

"Nope," I say so quickly he can't even finish his sentence. I know he's referring to my father, and he is the last thing I want to think about.

My eyes drift toward the street as I set my coffee down when I feel August place his hand on my knee, stopping it from bouncing. "You haven't stopped shaking your legs since the plane."

"Oh." I glance down at his hand, how it swallows my knee. "Sorry. I didn't realize."

"Don't be sorry." He takes a sip of his coffee. "Are you nervous about the shoot?"

Nervous might be an understatement. I was nervous the moment I stepped onto the plane this morning, as if all the nerves I should have felt over the last two weeks but didn't, because I've been sprinting for the last few months, suddenly came crashing down on me. I have no idea why anyone would want me on the cover of Vogue. I'm not a model; I just like to sing.

And then everything with my father, Gwen calling, and all the rumors about August... Well, the photoshoot is just the cherry on top.

"I don't really like shoots," I admit as he gives my knee a small squeeze. Thank God I'm wearing jeans today; otherwise, he'd see the goosebumps light up across my legs. I pull them up to the bench, his hand sliding off as hug my legs tight to my chest. "I'm not really good at them."

His coffee hovers over his lip as he glances at me from the corner of his eye, skeptical. "I'm sure you're great at them. I've seen pictures before."

You're looking at pictures from my photoshoots? I want to ask, but of course, he is. He sees them at the checkout stand at Hannigans. Along with Clara and Lucy who probably send him random pictures and comments all the time, just like they do with me.

I bury my nose into my knees, watching as he drags his hand through his hair, a massive yawn tipping his jaw open. He rubs the crease between his eyes before looking back at me.

"You're tired," I say, muffled between my knees.

"I am," he admits.

"You should be at work."

"It's fine."

"This trip is taking up too much of your time."

"It's not," he argues with a smile, reaching for one of my ankles and gently pulling it so I'm no longer hugging my legs. He drags me closer until my legs are draped over his lap, my butt touching his thigh. One of my arms reaches over to rest on his shoulders as his left-hand slips under my cardigan to the tank top I'm wearing.

Pretend, I remind myself. Pretend, pretend, pretend.

"If it's too much with work—"

"Clara and Lucy came over last night," he interjects, as his palm slides up my thigh. And suddenly, my entire being focuses on where that hand is.

I feign a scoff, placing a hand on my chest as I try to play it cool. "Without me?"

"You were working, but I'll make sure they let you know the next time they decide to trespass into my house without my consent."

I huff out a laugh. He's so close now that if he wanted, he could brush his nose along my cheek. I fix my eyes on the thick collar of his sweater. It dips in the front where his sunglasses are resting, exposing the hollow of his throat and the smatter of chest hair peeking out. I focus on that tiny patch of skin instead of his face because when I'm this close to him, the static in my brain—all the worry, nervousness, and anxiety—seems to dissipate a bit, replaced with just August. And I'm scared I might say or do something foolish.

"They stayed late?"

"They stayed over," he says, laughing softly. "They decided it was a perfect time to watch a movie and go through and repack all my clothes for this trip."

"That would explain the outfit," I say, reaching out to toy with the collar of his sweater because I can't help myself. I trace my finger along its edge as August swallows, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat.

"You don't like it."

"I love it actually," I say, meeting his warm brown eyes. "Lucy helped you?"

"Clara, actually." He glances past me toward the street, his hand on my waist slipping just beneath my shirt, where his thumb brushes against my bare skin. It's an innocent touch, really, but it feels like so much more. "It wasn't so much helping as it was forcing her way into my room and telling me a celebrity like Maisie can't be seen dating a guy that dresses like an English teacher who wears multipurpose sneaker-slash-dress shoes." I snort out a laugh, and he looks at me, amused. "I was still trying to get them out before I left this morning."

"Any luck?"

"Lucy was sprawled out on the guest bed with every blanket she could find, and Clara was still sleeping on the couch." He shakes his head, like he's done talking about his sisters, and uses his hands on my waist and hip to pull me closer, tucking me into his body. He tilts his head down, mouth a whisper away from mine. "I'm going to kiss you now."

I want to laugh at his abruptness, but when his nose brushes mine, all I can manage is a whisper, "Are you always going to announce it before you kiss me?"

"I just want to make sure you're comfortable with it."

"I don't think I've ever not been comfortable with you, August," I confess against his lips, my voice sounding like sandpaper, and I instantly regret saying it.

I feel his lips tip into a smile as his hand flexes on my thigh, sparks flying up my spine. He whispers, "Noted."

When he nudges my nose again, I can't take it anymore. I slip my hand to the back of his neck and lean forward, catching his mouth with mine, pressing my lips to his, desperate for him to kiss me again. My body melts into him as his lips move against mine, his hands sliding from my thigh to cradle my jaw.

Like this, he says with his mouth against mine. He thumbs my chin, tipping my mouth to part open, and I suck in a breath through my nose, surprised when his tongue slips into my mouth. His tongue glides against mine until everything slows into wet heat. He tastes of the cinnamon he sprinkled into his coffee earlier, the dash of maple he asked for with it—like warm cinnamon pancakes, drizzled with maple syrup on a Sunday morning.

I lift my hand, threading my fingers into his wavy hair, tilting my mouth more firmly against his. His grip tightens on my waist, pulling me closer, while his other hand cradles my neck. He breaks away from my mouth, dipping to brush his lips just below my jaw, finding the pulse in my neck. He kisses me there once, and I'm practically squirming on top of him.

I feel it everywhere—in my pulse, on my bruised lips, in the heat of my chest, my neck where he kisses me again, the spot right in between my thighs.

I'm trying to stay composed because we're in public, and this is supposed to just "look good" for the paparazzi. I also refuse to look like Timothée Chalamet and Lily-Rose Depp swallowing each other's faces. It might be too late for that, though. Considering I've never been caught making out with anyone before, these photos are sure to be plastered everywhere when they come out.

But when his fingers bite onto my hips and he drags wet kisses over the hollow of my throat, I shiver, and the noise that escapes my lips can only be described as the most obscene moan.

He freezes, and so do I, my eyes widening as heat spreads across my chest and into my face. This isn't supposed to happen. This is pretend, fake. I'm not supposed to be feeling things for him, not like this. Especially not like this. At least he thinks I'm not supposed to be.

He pulls back, searching my face, which I'm sure looks as red as a tomato.

"I'm sorry. I—" I stammer, licking my lips nervously and rolling them together. They still taste like cinnamon, like him. "I didn't mean to—"

"Maisie," he whispers, his jaw clenching, his brown eyes sharpening like they do when he's upset with me—okay, he's upset. Oh god, he's upset. I quickly look past him to the brick building.

"I'm sorry. I—I think I just got carried away."

"Maisie—" He clears the husk from his voice. "Mace, I think—"

"Are you guys ready?" Andrea's voice interrupts as she swings open the coffee shop door, poking her head through. And thank God, because I'm not ready to hear him finish that sentence, the one I know will end with something like, I think we should stop fake dating. "They're expecting us there in ten minutes."

I nod eagerly, slipping my legs off August and standing on my wobbly feet. "Ready!"

——————

For those who've been here since Broken Rules, did we all catch Nora's appearance? God, I miss her. She's so fun to write.

p.s.. Maisie gets naked in front of August in the next chapter so don't miss that.