There's a bar a town over from Green Harbor, where my mom used to live, that August and I used to go to when he'd come back from college to visit. The bar had no name above the building, the drinks were always cheap, the floors perpetually sticky, and the owner never took down the Christmas lights from December. It was perfect.

I remember the third time we went to that little bar, the third time he came to see me. It was about two months after I had come home to take care of Mom. And even though we weren't seeing each other every day like we used to in classes and around campus, we'd been talking daily. I remember thinking I had him—thinking he had come home to see me, to spend time with me.

Especially after what had happened a few months prior.

We were perched at the bar, snacking on stale peanuts. August nursed his beer, worried the bartender wouldn't serve him another because of our fake IDs, while I sipped my dirty Shirley, loaded with extra cherries to mask the taste of vodka, which I never actually liked. He was watching some important football game on the TV above the liquor shelf—Patriots versus Chiefs, I think—when he suddenly said, "What do you think if I asked Gwen out?"

My head snapped toward him. He was still staring at the TV, the Christmas lights hung haphazardly on the window behind him casting a colorful glow around his thick wavy hair. It felt like my heart plummeted into my stomach. Quickly, I looked away and down at my drink, tracing the condensation on the outside of my highball glass. I'm not sure how long I was silent—it felt like a really long time—before finally managing to say, "Yeah, I think you should. She seems nice."

That same little bar, tucked between a mattress store and a 24-hour donut shop, was one of the last places August and I went out publicly before everything changed. Before my music became a constant echo over the speakers wherever I went. Before stepping out meant immediately being recognized. Before all the fame.

I've tried my best to keep my relationship with August away from the media, simply because I didn't—and still don't—want people poking into his life. I like the privacy and love how August remains relatively unknown to everyone else. Because there's a part of me, I think, that fears if the attention becomes too much, August might no longer want to be my friend.

So, I haven't been out to a bar with August since. Until today.

This morning, he texted me, "Want to practice today? Coffee?"

When I saw his text, my stomach clenched, and suddenly it felt like I couldn't swallow properly. After dinner with his parents the other night, I've been mentally spiraling. I'm not ready for this—to pretend to date my best friend, the one I'm in love with. I couldn't even bring myself to pick out an outfit from my closet and get dressed because of the nerves.

Lying starfished out on the carpeted floor of my walk-in closet, I texted him back, "How about drinks instead? Happy hour?"

Five minutes later, my phone buzzed against my stomach, "Made a reservation at that new wine bar in Back Bay. Meet you after work? Rez under Debbi."

I sit in my parked car now, closing my eyes and taking a deep breath, steeling myself before Ryan opens the door to my Escalade. When he does, I step out and keep my head down—a reflex I've developed. This isn't one of our official fake dates, so Andrea hasn't tipped off any paparazzi. No one should suspect I'm here, though it probably won't take long for word to get out.

The little wine bar August chose has indoor seating and an outdoor patio nestled along the sidewalk of busy Newbury Street. Mismatched wooden tables fill both spaces, each one occupied, with no signs of anyone settling their bills. It's busy.

Passing a hand-painted sign that reads, YOU'RE THE WINE I WANT, I walk up to the hostess stand. A few people have already noticed me, but the rich smell of salty truffle fries instantly distracts me from the attention. Because I'm starving.

"Hi," I say to the hostess who is completely engrossed in her phone, scrolling through Instagram. "I have a reservation."

"I'm sorry, there's about a forty-five-minute wait," she says, snapping her bubble gum and zooming in on a picture of—well, of me, I think, from when I fell flat on my face at Coachella last year. I wince as she giggles.

I lean forward slightly. "I should have a reservation, though."

When the hostess fails to respond to me, Ryan, who is positioned about five steps to the side of me, clears his throat. It's so obnoxiously loud that not only do I look over at him but the hostess lifts her head, frowning before briefly glancing at me and then returning her attention to her phone. She then quickly does a double-take. Her eyes widen as they fix on me and she whispers to herself, "Holy shit."

"Hi." I smile politely. "How are you?"

She doesn't respond, instead just stares at me with wide, unblinking eyes.

"The reservation should be under Debbi O'Connell," I add, pointing at the tablet in front of her.

"Right. Sorry," she croaks, then looks down at the seating chart. "Um, please follow me."

She guides me through the bar, weaving between the crammed tables until we reach the ones overlooking the outdoor patio and bustling street. The windows are flung wide open, allowing the gentle spring breeze to sweep through. I twist my neck around the corner when she gestures towards a table.

And there he is.

August sits across the table, head tipped down, probably reading a book on his phone. He's wearing a cream-colored shirt, unbuttoned over a plain white t-shirt, jeans, and those tennis shoes that look like dress shoes. His hair is a bit shorter than it was a few days ago, short enough that it doesn't fall into his eyes anymore but still long enough to tumble over his forehead. I have the sudden urge to rake my fingers through it.

He looks up as if he senses me staring. His brown eyes catching mine from across the table, and my breath hitches, catching in the back of my throat.

"Debbi." He sets his phone aside and stands up. "Long time no see."

Something inside my stomach flutters, and I shove it down like every other time because this isn't a real date. "Miss me already, Gussie?"

He laughs, a low rumble in his chest. "If I told you yes, would it go to your head?"

"You saw me three days ago," I say breathlessly, the butterflies in my chest fluttering frantically. I quickly take the seat adjacent to him before he can hug me, unsure if my heart can handle that amount of fluttering in one evening.

"I did," he says with a rueful smile, taking his seat again. "I'm just not used to having you around so much anymore."

"Right, I know. And I'm sorry I'm late. I was..." panicking, freaking out, spiraling into an abyss. "...working on a new song."

"That's okay," he says, shaking his head, gesturing towards the glass in front of me. "I ordered a bottle of merlot. They don't have dirty Shirleys here; otherwise, I'd have gotten that for you. Extra cherries like always."

"Oh, thank you." I smile, nervously rearranging the fork and knife on the table before reaching for the wine. Wine is good. Wine will help. I take three large gulps of said wine. "I haven't had a dirty Shirley since the last time we went to that bar in Rock Point, by my mom's."

"Ah yes, the salmonella peanut bar."

"What is it with you and salmonella? Are you a healthy inspector now?" I laugh, setting my glass down. "I'll admit they were stale, but they certainly did not have any infectious bacteria."

"Pretty sure that's why they shut down."

"Oh, really?" I muse. "Is that why we never went back?"

"That, and I'm certain they used to serve me non-alcoholic beer because of my fake."

"My dirty Shirley always seemed to have plenty of vodka."

"Yeah, well, the bartender had a thing for you."

I blush. "He did n—"

"Hi there, welcome to All to Wine!" a server interrupts. "I have truffle fries and an order of Brussels sprouts."

August quickly grabs the basket of parmesan garlic fries from her that smell like salty, deep-fried heaven brought from angels above and sets it in the center of the table, along with some fancy-ass Brussels sprouts that I have no intention of indulging in.

The waitress briefly glances at me before turning her full attention to August. "Is there anything else I can get you, perhaps the oysters? They're exceptionally fresh today."

"I think we'll start with this, thank you." August smiles at her.

The waitress places her hand on his shoulder, saying, "Well, if you need anything, just let me know. My name is Crystal."

Once Crystal is out of earshot, I ask, staring at where her hand had been on his shoulder, "You ordered without me?"

"Well, yes," he says, pulling the fries towards him and nudging the Brussels sprouts towards me. "I had this sinking suspicion that you'd be late."

"Who, me? Late?" I place a hand on my chest. "I'd never do such a thing."

He smirks at me. "I also figured you were hungry."

I furrow my eyebrows as I reach for the basket of fries, pulling it all the way to my side. I pick the one with the most cheese on it. Thank god for August's suspicions. "Why would you think that?"

"Because you're nervous, which means you didn't eat anything today."

I scoff. "Why on earth would you think I'm nervous?"

"You texted me three hours ago saying, 'I'm nervous,'" he says, nudging the Brussels sprouts towards me again. "Followed by, 'I'm so nervous I can't eat.'"

Oh right, I did text him that, didn't I? Between August's sisters somehow figuring out my feelings for him and my nerves about going out in public today, it's a miracle I didn't black out entirely from anxiety.

"Right, yes, well, it's been a long time since we've," I wave the fry in my hand between us before putting it in my mouth, "gone out in public like this."

He frowns. "Yeah, I know."

"Not that I've been nervous about going out with you in the past. It's just, you know," I gesture around the bar as I pop another fry into my mouth, noting the half-dozen people staring, "a lot now."

He glances around the bar before settling on me again, watching me eat another fry. "Will you please eat something green?"

"I don't eat green things. You know this."

"Yes, I know your diet consists of caffeine and high fructose corn syrup." August shakes his head and spears a Brussels sprout with his fork. "There are bacon bits on these if that tempts you to eat something not so fried."

I wrinkle my nose at him.

He glances to the side. "I see you brought your bodyguard with you."

"Hmm? Oh," I twist to look at Ryan. He's standing close, hands folded over each other, looking just like Jesse Williams if Jesse Williams were ultra-buff and covered in tattoos. He scans the room as if my life depends on it, while half the women around stare at him—or maybe me. Or no wait, August, I think? I turn back around skeptically now. "Yeah, well, Ryan got mad at me for leaving him in L.A. the other day. So he comes everywhere now."

"Ryan," he mumbles."Where did Andrea find him anyway? Pretty sure half the women in here are looking at him."

"I don't know." I huff out a laugh, my eyes drifting around the bar. I notice a small table of three girls whispering and smiling at the back of August's head. "He does kinda look like a model though, doesn't he?"

August grumbles at that, reaching for his wine. He clearly has no idea that the other half of the women are looking directly at him.

Maybe it's the wine giving me a nice warm buzz, or maybe it's just being with August, feeling a sense of safety I haven't felt in public in a long time. But I say, "Do you even realize that the other half are staring at you?"

His eyebrows furrow as he reaches for a fry. I bat his hand away. "What are you talking about?"

"Those women," I nod towards them, sneaking a glance. One of them has her phone out now, and it's definitely not pointed at me. "They're all looking at you."

He purses his lips and glances up quickly, a smile pulling at the edges. "They're just looking at me because of you. Probably wondering why an average guy like me is out with you."

"Oh my god, you are not average," I laugh, draining the rest of my wine. "You're one of those guys, aren't you?"

"What guys?"

"The ones who have no idea how attractively hot they are."

He pauses, and so do I. My chest heats with the realization of what I just said. This is exactly why I was so nervous earlier.

His lips pull into a dirty little smirk before asking in the most deliciously rough voice, "You think I'm hot?"

"I, um—" I stammer, crossing and uncrossing my legs. "Well, I mean, of course, you're... attractive. Objectively speaking, of course."

"Objectively?"

"Yes, objectively." I reach for my glass, but it's empty. Perfect. My eyes slide to his, and I snatch it, drinking the rest of his wine too. His smirk widens.

"Like, I'm impartial to..." I continue, "unbiasedly thinking you're hot in a... detached way."

He smiles, his eyes dropping to his plate. "Gee, Maisie, I'm flattered."

"It's just that, well—" August presses a finger against my lips, physically shutting me up. My brain snags and my eyes flutter for a brief second.

So much touching these days, so hard to think straight.

"Will you stop talking?" he whispers, lowering his hand. "Someone's going to hear you, and aren't we supposed to be dating?"

I roll my eyes, ignoring the tingling on my lips from where he touched.

"And they're not looking at me—" August starts but Crystal interrupts, depositing more wine into our glasses. He smiles up at her, while I just stare at him. When she leaves, he continues, "They're looking at you because you're beautiful."

I blink, taken aback. Has he ever said that before?

"Drop-dead gorgeous, really," he adds, stealing one of my fries. "You're so beautiful it's hard to look at you sometimes."

"Oh," I breathe out.

He smirks. "Objectively speaking, of course."

Right, he's joking. Of course, he's joking. "Objectively, yeah."

He clears his throat after a moment. "Should we— I don't know, should we maybe practice?"

"Practice? Isn't that what we're doing now?"

"Well, yeah, but more."

"What do you mean? Like, what kind of more?"

"Maybe I can hold your hand," he suggests, running a hand through his perfectly tousled hair. "Or, I don't know, place my hand on your knee, kiss you?"

Did he— he wants —me—kiss—himmgn?

My brain glitches, and I think I might have died—or at least my heart stutters to a complete stop before speeding up, thundering against my chest. You'd think he just listed off ten different sex positions he'd like to try with me based on the way I've stopped breathing.

I'm still staring at him when the tips of his ears tinge pink, and he looks down, nervously adjusting the plates in front of him. "Okay, maybe not the kissing but..." He looks up at the ceiling, over my shoulder, out the window, and then finally, reluctantly, back at my face. "We should practice."

"Mmhmm." Is all I can manage.

"I'm going to put my hand on your knee."

"Okay," I garble out.

"Okay."

He grips the leg of my chair and slides me closer, our knees brushing against each other all while I just stare at his face. He then gently places his hand on my knee, his fingers grazing my bare skin until his palm is flat against it. Goosebumps rise along my skin, and it's—it's too much.

I suddenly jolt up from my chair, the sound of it scraping against the floor loudly. August looks confused, and I feel just as bewildered. I'm about to tell him I need to use the "restroom" so I can text Andrea SOS this is not going to work. But as I stand, my thighs hit the table, causing it to wobble and I watch in slow motion as his glass of wine tips over. We both reach for it, but in my haste, I only manage to tip it completely into his lap.

"Oh my god," I say, quickly grabbing my cloth napkin. "I'm sorry."

"It's fine, Maisie," he says, reaching for his own napkin, but before he can do anything, I'm already sitting back in my chair and reaching for the spill.

"No, I'm sorry. I don't know why I did that."

"Maisie, it's fine," he says, but I can't stop myself from frantically blotting my napkin over the crotch of his jeans, trying to soak up the wine.

"No, I can clean it."

"Maisie, you don't—"

"I have a really good dry cleaner."

"Maisie."

I press the napkin firmly onto his jeans. "I'll have Andrea—"

"Fuck," he strains out, grabbing me at my wrist. "Maisie."

It's the word fuck that has me pausing and swallowing hard, a whole slew of imaginings flooding through my mind. Thoughts that I usually keep confined to the darkness of my bedroom at night—images of his scruff grazing against the inside of my upper thigh.

I've heard him say fuck plenty of times of course, but the way it slips from his lips this time there's something different about it. It comes out rough and dirty. And ​​I feel it low in my belly, settling right in between my thighs.

I clench my eyes shut and shake the images out of my head, trying to clear my thoughts. I can honestly say I have no idea what I was doing just five seconds ago. Oh, wait, no, I remember. I was just petting August's crotch.

"Maisie, I suggest you stop," August whispers, still gripping my wrist. "Or this is going to be really embarrassing for both of us."

"I don't—" My eyes snap up to his, heat spreading through my chest. I can't tell if it's from embarrassment or from what he's just said that has me flushed everywhere. "I'm, um, sorry."

He releases my wrist, and I sink back into my seat. My eyes don't know where to land. The piece of hair that's fallen on his forehead. The flush of pink on the tips of his ears spreading to his face. His wet crouch. My perusal is interrupted when three different servers surround us, and start cleaning up the mess.

I'm suddenly acutely aware of how many people are now staring—practically the entire bar. I rest my elbows on the table and cover my face with my hands, peeking out to see one waiter cleaning up the broken glass on the floor, another mopping up the spilled wine, and a third handing August a rag.

Crystal, with her impeccable timing, arrives and sets down a plate of oysters on ice in the middle of the table. "Accidents happen all the time," she says. "Oysters are on the house tonight."

"Thank you so much," I rush out, just as August quickly says, "She's allergic to shellfish."

I squeeze my eyes shut and groan quietly to myself before falling back into my seat.

"Do you want to get out of here?" August whispers after Crystal apologizes and takes the plate from the table. I open my eyes to meet his. My favorite crease is between those dark-furrowed brows.

I'm just relieved he's the one to suggest it.

"Considering I've thoroughly embarrassed myself and you have red wine all over your crotch, God yes."