"So, this one is supposed to have a bedroom," Andrea says as she sifts through the stack of papers given to her by Joe, the sales representative from AeroLuxe Jets. She had kindly asked him to hand over the brochures on the private jets and for a bit of privacy after he was rendered speechless the moment he saw me walk into the hangar.

It turns out he's a huge Maisie Rhodes fan and has tickets for the opening night of my world tour in New Jersey this summer.

Joe is now stationed at his desk, attempting to appear busy, even though I keep catching him peeking up from his computer screen about every thirty seconds. Meanwhile, Andrea and I amble through the hangar, which serves as a showroom for their impressive fleet of jets.

It's unusually warm and sunny for April in Massachusetts, and everyone appears to be taking advantage of the beautiful weather, including AeroLuxe. Their hangar doors stand wide open, allowing the balmy sunlight to filter in and bathe the half a dozen jets parked neatly inside.

A stray strand of hair is tossed into my face by the breeze sifting through, and I quickly tuck it behind my ear before responding to Andrea, "A bedroom, really?"

"And a shower, it seems," Andrea adds, following closely behind me as I make my way up the stairs to the entrance.

"Wow," I breathe out, stepping into the jet's cabin and pausing to take in the interior. The jet boasts creamy white leather seats, light beige striped carpet, sycamore wood lining the back wall and trim work, and satin nickel glossy metal plating on the knobs and handles. I twist back to Andrea. "Do I really need a shower on a plane?"

"I'm not sure, but," she says, glancing around before settling into one of the passenger seats and running her hand over the leather, "this is really nice."

"It is." I plop into one of the chairs across from her, giving it a spin before pressing the buttons on the side to activate the TV in front of us. "This by far will be the nicest thing I've ever bought."

She swivels her chair to face me, and I steal a glance, watching her drum her olive-toned fingers on the armrest. Her lips are pressed into a thin line. "So," she starts.

"So," I echo.

"Did you speak to him?"

I immediately spin in my chair again, swiveling to face the plane's wall. Fiddling with the buttons on the side, I toggle the lights and fans above me on and off. "Hmm?"

"Did you talk to him?"

I feign innocence. "Talk to who?"

From the corner of my eye, I watch her tilting her head, shooting me a pointed look. I make a conscious effort to avoid her sharp brown eyes, knowing that one look will make me feel the need to tell her everything.

"Do you really need me to spell it out?"

I blow out a breath between my lips as I rise from the plush leather chair, reluctantly admitting, "Yeah, I talked with August."

"What did he say?" She asks, leaning forward.

"I don't know." I bend down to peer through the window of the jet, spotting Joe standing outside with his phone out, taking a picture of the jet we're currently inside of. Ryan, my bodyguard — who actually got mad at me for leaving him behind in Los Angeles the other day, warning that if I ever did it again, he'd make sure I always have at least four bodyguards with me at all times — approaches Joe. Ryan exchanges a few words, and then Joe scurries back to his desk. "Same thing he told you, I guess."

"You want to be a little more descriptive?"

"Not really," I say, walking towards the back of the plane. I pass another seating area, then a bedroom with a queen-sized bed, and finally a bathroom with a shower, before returning to where Andrea is still standing, waiting for my response.

"Maisie," she says as I brush past her, heading towards the kitchen and the cockpit at the nose of the jet.

"You don't want to see the bedroom?" I call over my shoulder, my hands busy fidgeting with everything in the kitchen. I open and close the cabinets futilely hoping that she'll get bored of me and drop the topic.

"No, I won't be the one sleeping in it."

"I would let you if you wanted to," I say, making my way to the exit of the plane.

"I know you would," she says, her lips curving into a soft smile, descending the stairs onto the glossy, epoxy-coated concrete floor below. The gentle tap of her pumps echoes behind my bright blue Adidas sneakers as we come to a halt in front of the line of jets. She shuffles through the papers again, searching for information on the next plane.

"Alright, um, this one," she gestures towards a smaller jet as we make our way towards it, ascending the short set of steps. "With this model, you have the option of either a small lounge and a shower, or you can opt for a small bathroom and a bigger lounge area."

I hum as I stroll around the cabin, examining both the front and the back. It looks almost identical, just slightly more compact.

"So, August," she prompts again, and I shoot her a glance over my shoulder, my eyes widening with a little annoyance. She's clearly not going to let this go, but I'll try to avoid it for as long as possible because I like irritating her a little bit too.

"Yes, August," I say, skimming my hands over the burgundy leather chair. "It's a wonderful time of year."

"Maisie," she scolds, halting abruptly. She places one hand on her hip, while the other clutches onto her MacBook and paperwork.

"It's usually pretty hot that time of summer."

"You know what I meant."

"Did you know it's actually the last month of winter in Australia?"

"Maisie, what did August say when you talked?" There's a hint of annoyance in her tone now.

I sink into the seat behind me, glancing up at her while nervously biting on the corner of my lip. "He said he'd do it."

Last night when I asked August, I was so obsessed with him telling me that he thought this was all a terrible idea that I didn't really consider the potential ramifications of him saying yes.

Those ramifications extending beyond just faking a relationship; we'll also need to fake other things, like romance. From hand-holding to public outings where we will be photographed together. All eyes will be on us, every Rhodie on TikTok and Instagram will be picking us apart, scrutinizing our every move. In theory, this all sounds amazing but the more I think about it the more complicated it becomes.

God, what was I thinking? I should never have gone along with this.

Please pretend to date me, August, I basically said. Because I'm not at all already desperately in love with you.

I blame Ricky Falcon for all of this. I swear, I'm never stepping foot on the Tonight Show ever again.

"Should we go to the next one?" I rasp out before going any deeper into this rabbit hole I'm going down.

"Sure," she agrees, probably seeing the panic written on my face.

She follows me out of the jet and up the stairs of the third aircraft. It's somewhere between the size of the first two. This one has white walls, light gray seats, and walnut wood accents throughout. There's no bedroom, but there's a couch that can be converted into one if needed.

"What's wrong?" Andrea asks softly after watching me silently navigate through the cabin of the jet. I steal a glance at her. Her eyebrows are furrowed in concern, and she's clutching her MacBook to her chest. "Why are you upset about this? I thought you'd be excited about fake dating your best friend."

Hmm, I think to myself, why am I upset about this?

I don't know, maybe it's the anxiety of messing up my perfect friendship with August. The sheer horror of him finding out the truth about how I feel—that every love song I've ever written has been about him. That I've had to go back countless times and change lyrics, one after another, just because they sounded too much like him. His thick wavy chocolate-brown hair, his stupid full lips, his old raggedy Boston Red Sox hat.

I don't know, Andrea, take your pick. There's plenty to choose from.

I huff out a sigh stopping to turn around to face her. "I don't want to talk about it."

"Why not? You get to pretend to date your best friend. Go out together. Dates. Hold hands. Kiss."

"Oh god," I hadn't even considered that. I haven't mentally progressed that far. I was just imagining him holding my hand. I fall onto the couch behind me, pressing my hands to my cheeks, trying to cool them down as they heat up from just the thought. "I don't want to talk about it."

"I think it's time we do, though," she says, settling on the couch beside me.

"No, thanks."

"Maisie," she says, gently reaching to touch my arm, "you have feelings for him."

"I'm well aware of that," I say through a nervous laugh. "It's just that I refuse to act on those feelings."

"Why? I don't understand how in the last nine years of you knowing each other you have never told him. That you've done absolutely nothing about it."

"It's more complicated than that, Andrea."

"Is it though?"

"Yes," I insist. "And what about Gwen?"

"What about her?"

"What happens when they get back together?" I ask, my throat tightening at the thought.

"They broke up, right? He obviously wouldn't have agreed to this if they were still together."

Gwen and I have never been each other's biggest fans. Yes, we were somewhat friends when we first met, if you could even call it that. But as time passed, our relationship faded—especially when I left Boston College and went back home in the middle of my sophomore year, and she started dating August.

We are also nothing alike.

Where I am scatterbrained, mismatched, and feel like melted strawberry ice cream on a muggy summer day—sticky, messy, and complicated—Gwen is Jackie O. She's straight out of a J. Crew magazine, effortlessly chic, predictable, and conventional, sailing on her parents' sailboat in June on the Cape.

And I doubt she'd ever approve of August helping me out for any sort of reason, even if they're not together. Because in the end he will always go back to her, and she will inevitably find her way back to him. It's always been this way.

"I think—" I manage to say, swallowing hard against the lump in my throat as I draw my knees close to my chest, hugging them tightly. "I think he and Gwen will always find their way back to each other. If August wanted me, he would have told me by now—he wants Gwen. He always chooses Gwen."

Andrea clearly isn't pleased with that response. I can see it in the shake of her head and the purse of her lips, like she's just bitten into a lemon. "I don't think that's true, Mace. Maybe he's just waiting for you to say something."

"I've seen what he's like with Gwen." The way he reaches for her hand as they walk, how he's the one to pull her into a hug and hold her tight. He's always been confident and charming with her, never hesitating to say what he wants. And I think if I were what he wanted, or even just a passing thought, he would've said something by now.

"You're not Gwen, hon."

"Clearly."

"You're Maisie Rhodes, the princess of pop, a five-time Grammy Award winner, perfectly quirky, and best friends to someone who I don't think would ever want to lose you, in the same way you feel about him. "

"You're only saying those things because I pay you to say things like that."

"Maybe, but I think I'm right about this one," she retorts with a wry smile. "I think you're much more important to him than Gwen is."

A watery laugh bubbles out of me, and I shake my head, blinking against the prickling sensation in the corners of my eyes. "Can we change the subject now?"

"It's true," she adds.

I sigh, nuzzling further into my jeans before glancing up at her. "I think... I think this is how it's meant to be, you know? I'm just meant to be his friend. That's it. Nothing more. He's made it clear."

"I don't think that's how you truly feel."

"Of course, you don't think that's how I really feel."

"Yeah, well you're a really bad liar."

I roll my eyes at her and cast another glance around the jet, running my hand over the plush couch on either side before standing up. "I like this one, by the way."

She sighs in response, her gaze wandering around the interior of the jet as if she's just now realizing we're in a different one than before. I can't help but wonder if she's been paying any attention to jet shopping at all.

This jet seems to be a good size—cozy yet sleek. I'm not even convinced I need a larger one with a bedroom, to be honest. "How much are jets like this, anyway?"

She looks down at her stack of papers and quotes me the price. My eyes bulge at the staggering number. "Don't you think that's a bit excessive?" I question.

"No, I don't. I know how much you make. It's pennies," she retorts bluntly as we exit the plane. "You can probably head out. I'll get all the paperwork settled with Joe over there before he has a mental breakdown over you."

I snort out a laugh. "Thanks," I tell her before turning to make my way towards Ryan.

"Oh, and Maisie," she calls out, and I blink back at her.

"Yeah?"

"Don't forget, we have a planning meeting tomorrow with August." Her grin tips wide into something roguish. "I have ideas for your fake dates."