"There's a lot to go over before we get there," Andrea says from the third row of the Cadillac Escalade.

She slides to the middle seat so that she's fully visible to both Maisie and me, ensuring she has our full attention. Andrea's hair is pulled back into a tight ponytail, and she's clad in her usual business attire—a camel-colored blazer over a turtleneck and a black shirt—despite the fact that we're headed to a baseball game.

Actually, come to think of it, I'm not sure I've ever seen Andrea in anything but a blazer or some sort of blouse.

I watch as her perfectly manicured fingers swipe across her iPad screen filled with a dizzying amount of schedule notes before jotting something down with her stylus. My gaze then shifts to Maisie, who leans her head against the window, her eyes focused on the passing Victoria brownstones as we head toward Fenway Park.

Maisie's been swamped these past few days with endless rehearsals, back-to-back magazine interviews for YouTube, and filming social media updates about her upcoming tour in just four weeks. I haven't seen her since that day at the Ice Cream Store—the day we kissed. The kiss that's been playing in my mind on an endless loop since.

I watch as she nervously bites down on the side of her lip, absentmindedly twisting a strand of her wavy blonde hair around her finger.

"You okay?" I ask, and she whips her head toward me, nodding a little too quickly.

"Of course!" she replies in that high-pitched voice she uses when she's either lying or nervous. Today, I suspect it's both.

I narrow my eyes at her, silently saying, Don't lie to me. She tilts her head in return, playfully narrowing those blue eyes—so blue I want to drown in them—as if countering, Watch me.

"Mace," Andrea interrupts us, drawing both of our attention. Maisie turns sharply toward her, eyebrows raised. "Are you guys listening?"

"Oh," she shifts in her seat, sitting up straighter and nodding. "Yeah, go ahead."

"Okay," Andrea clears her throat, glancing at her notes. "So, we're heading straight to the clubhouse for a quick meet-and-greet with the team. A few of the players, one in particular, have requested photos, so we'll take care of that first. I told them you're on a tight schedule, so we won't stay long—just enough to get a group photo. Afterward, they'll escort you both to your seats in the VIP dugout box. It will be perfect for the cameras to get shots of you together. There's also a VIP lounge just a section over, and you'll have a waiter at your seats if you need food or drinks. I already informed the staff about your shellfish allergy. I'll be overseeing things from a box seat above. If it gets too hectic down there, you can come up, but let's try to stay in your seats for as long as possible."

"Now, regarding social media, I need you two to get a couple of photos for your first official post together. Something that doesn't make you both look like just friends, okay? Oh, and August, you don't have anything on social media that would be, I don't know... scandalous, do you?"

"Oh, um—" I start, but she doesn't give me time to respond.

"Never mind, I'll go through your account and let you know if you need to delete anything. And, please, for the love of God," she looks between Maisie and me, "kiss, hold hands, be all over each other. I really hope you've worked on smoothing things out since that awkward hug last week. Everyone's going to be watching. I've already tipped off the media that Maisie Rhodes will be there, so all eyes will be on you." She takes a deep breath after reading through her long-winded notes, then continues.

"August, this is for you, okay? When you exit the car, always be attentive to Maisie. Help her out first, then follow her lead. She likes to greet her fans, so if she does, stand by her and don't stray off. If you seem too distant, it might look suspicious. And if the media asks questions, deflect and steer the conversation back to her music or tour. Say something like, I'm just happy to be a part of her life and see her do what she loves Or She's amazing, and I'm lucky to share this journey with her. If they ask about how you two started dating, tell the truth—that you're best friends, just that you ended up as lovers. They'll eat that up, especially with the Bookstagram hype right now. Any questions?"

"Uh." I scratch the scruff just below my lip, then trying to lighten the mood, I joke, "Are the seats at least on the home side?"

I hear Ryan give a rare chuckle from the front seat, and Maisie places her fingers over her lips to hide her smirk. But Andrea's stone-cold face tells me she's not amused.

I clear my throat. "No questions."

"Okay, good. And August." The tone of her voice, paired with the stern look in her eyes, tells me this may be the most serious thing she'll say all night, "If you can not understand the assignment, I have no problem replacing you."

Maisie snorts, quipping, "No pressure." But then her face quickly shifts to a more serious expression as she looks over at me, suddenly worried. "But really, no pressure, Gus."

I nod at Andrea because she kind of scares me a little, and I'm afraid to find out what happens if I don't respond. Then, I give a reassuring smile back at Maisie.

"Okay, Mace, let's move on to next week's meeting with your produc—" Andrea stops mid-sentence and does a double take at Maisie, who is now adjusting the sock in her platform shoe. I watch as Andrea gives her outfit a quick once-over.

"What?" Maisie notices Andrea's pause, catches her scrutinizing eyes, and then nervously reaches to adjust the hem of her skirt.

"Is that what you're wearing to the game?" Andrea asks, pointing at her with the iPad stylus tucked between her fingers.

"What? What's wrong with what I'm wearing?" Maisie responds, looking down and smoothing out her tank top. I take a moment to really look at her outfit: a cardigan draped over her shoulders, a tank top underneath, and a short pleated black skirt that shows off her long, smooth, creamy skin, that I'm now having trouble not staring at. Maisie glances back at Andrea and then retorts, "Is that what you're wearing?"

Andrea, unfazed, shoots back, "Where's your Red Sox gear?"

Tearing my eyes away from her legs, I point out, "You look beautiful but you didn't wear Red Sox colors."

"What are you, the fashion police?" She says through a nervous laugh as her eyes flick from her outfit to mine, noticing my Red Sox hat and gray T-shirt with 'Boston' across the chest.

"You didn't even think about it, did you?"

She shakes her head. "I—no, not really. This is what they had me in for the behind-the-scenes shoot for the tour, and then I came straight here. I didn't have time to change."

Andrea gives her outfit another quick scan. "Well, we'll have to get you something from the team store when we get there. Let's wrap this up with these notes; we're almost there."

Andrea continues to go through her notes with Maisie as I sit and listen. There's the trip to New York next week, a series of interviews with major magazines, finalizing the designs for her tour merchandise, meetings with producers and label executives, and studio sessions in LA.

As she speaks, I can't help but glance at Maisie. She's nodding along, offering polite statements like, Yes, of course, that's okay, or No, I can make it work, and I'd love to. But beneath all that calm, I can see the weight of it all pressing down on her. It's got to be a lot to take in, and knowing Maisie, she's likely bottling it all up, just like she does with every other difficult thing in life.

It's only after Andrea finally finishes and settles back into her seat with her iPad, that Maisie glances at me and I realize I've been staring. She reaches out and lightly presses her finger to the crease between my eyebrows.

"Don't give me that look. I'm fine," she says softly.

"Are you, though?" I ask quietly, reaching up to smooth the spot between my brows where her finger had pressed. "Seems like you've had a long day."

She gives me a small, timid smile. "All my days are like this Gus. Stop worrying."

I frown. "I always worry."

She studies my frown as if trying to decipher a hidden message behind my concern. As if she's searching for something deeper, beyond my simple worry for her.

"Okay, we're here," Andrea announces as the car pulls up to the stadium. Maisie quickly shifts her gaze from my frown to the window. It's the players' entrance, and a crowd has gathered—half of them in Red Sox red and blue, the other half in Maisie Rhodes t-shirts. The muffled cries of the crowd are already audible from inside the car.

"Remember, you two are dating now," Andrea sings. "Let's act like it."

Maisie turns back to me, lips pressed together before whispering, "You can still back out if you want."

"Actually, he can't," Andrea interjects, leaning between us. "He signed a contract, and I've already leaked his name to the media."

Maisie shoots Andrea a sharp glare, and Andrea raises her hands in surrender, knowing full well Maisie couldn't care less about what Andrea has to say.

"I don't want to back out," I assure Maisie.

"See? He doesn't want to back out," Andrea affirms with a nod and then signals Ryan, in the front seat. "They're ready."

Ryan gets out, circles the car, and opens my door. As I step out, the crowd around us barely reacts—until I extend my hand to Maisie. The instant she takes it and emerges, the entire crowd erupts.

"Maisie Rhodes!"

"She's really here!"

"Maisie, over here!"

"Is he your boyfriend!?"

We are halfway to the entrance when Maisie stops to turn and greet her fans, just as Andrea predicted. She graciously poses for pictures with three ecstatic girls, signs a t-shirt, and scribbles her autograph on someone's Maisie Rhodes record sleeve.

The smile she gives her fans isn't the one I know—her real one. And there's something about knowing that I get her genuine smiles instead of the charming, polite thing she manages in front of everyone else that makes me feel a little buzzed.

Andrea leans in after a moment, whispering in Maisie's ear that we need to move on. She nods quickly, flashes a bright smile at her fans, and says her goodbyes.

Maisie catches my fingers with hers, then shifts to lace them together. It shouldn't feel as incredible as it does, but having her slip her hand into mine sends a warm thrill through me.

She gently squeezes, as if to ask, Is this too much?

I squeeze back, signaling, Not at all, even if it is.

We are then quickly escorted inside through a cold hallway that leads to a freight elevator, which takes us up to the clubhouse. I should be excited about being behind the scenes at Fenway Park, a place most of the public will never get to see, but there's so much going on around us that it's hard to take it all in.

We are surrounded by at least seven stadium staff members, including security, escorts, and hospitality personnel, along with Andrea, Ryan, and two other bodyguards from Ryan's team. It's a lot.

One of the hospitality staff has been walking with us the whole time, firing off questions like, "Are there any last-minute changes to Ms. Rhodes' schedule we should know about?" and "Would Ms. Rhodes like a tour of the facilities?" and "Is there anything Ms. Rhodes', uh... friend might need? Any dietary restrictions besides the shellfish?"

When we reach just outside the locker rooms, the staff gives Maisie a bit of space, allowing us to have a private moment with Andrea.

"Well, it looks like tipping off the media that you were going to be here worked," Andrea says, almost sheepishly.

"You think?" Maisie retorts. She still hasn't let go of my hand since she slipped hers into mine earlier, and I try not to read too much into it—well, not any more than I already have. "This is a lot more attention than usual, Andrea."

"Yes, well, you're very popular right now, Maisie." Andrea glances down at her buzzing phone, reads a message, then looks back up, her eyes snagging on our linked hands. I watch as her lips press into a thin line, almost... smirking? "Is there anything else you guys need before we go in? Mace, do you want me to see if I can get you a Red Sox hat or shirt or something?"

"Um, I—" Maisie starts but is cut off as a door behind Andrea opens and a head pops out.

"Is Ms. Rhodes ready?"

"I guess no time," Andrea turns to Maisie, shrugging. "You ready?"

Maisie takes a deep breath, holds it for a couple of seconds, and then exhales slowly. A radiant smile instantly spreads across her face. "Yes."

Andrea pushes the door open, and the moment we step inside, every head in the clubhouse turns to Maisie. There's a chorus of enthusiastic shouts—"Maisie!" and "Rhodes!"—echoing through the room.

Maisie releases my hand, not out of embarrassment, I don't think, but because a stream of people is already approaching her. She hugs a few of the players, shakes hands with coaches, introduces herself. Everyone seems to want a picture with her or something signed for a family member or has a daughter or wife who is a fan, and Maisie does it all with a smile on her face.

"She's a natural at this now, isn't she?" Andrea comments from my left.

"She is," I agree quietly.

This isn't the side of Maisie I'm used to seeing. Usually, we hang out at my place or wherever she's staying. In the beginning, she invited me out to events like this, but when Gwen started disapproving of how much time we spent together, Maisie stopped inviting me entirely. I always thought it was because of Gwen but now, I think I'm starting to understand why.

I've seen snippets on social media of Maisie with paparazzi, fans, and celebrities, thanks to Clara and Lucy, who are constantly sending me TikTok's and reels. But experiencing it firsthand is an entirely different story.

And suddenly, I feel completely out of place, off-balance. Walking into her fitting the other day was awkward enough, but this... These aren't just people working for her; these are professional athletes towering over her, all focused on her, practically drooling. She's always been out of my league, but now it's painfully clear.

Something twists inside me, something that feels a lot like jealousy, how I feel when she mentions going on dates with other guys. It feels a lot like wanting to take what's mine and protect it.

It doesn't bother me. I'm not jealous, I think to myself. I'm fine. This is fine.

I shove my hands into my pockets, watching from where Andrea and I stand near the entrance, trying to keep myself from storming over to her and super-gluing her to my side.

"Maisie Rhodes," Jax Reddington says, one of the MLB's most popular rookies, known for having the best batting average this season and a reputation for being a playboy. "I know this is completely out of line, but will you marry me?" The room erupts in laughter, Maisie included. Not me. Then he adds, "Or at least go on a date with me. I promise I'll be a good boy for you." One of the other players throws a baseball mitt at his head, and he quickly corrects himself, "I mean, I promise I'll be a gentleman."

"Sorry, boys, I'm taken by that handsome guy over there." Maisie gestures towards me, but the room's collective groan drowns her out before she even finishes "handsome."

No one even glances in my direction except for Maisie. Her smile falters slightly when her eyes meet mine. I must look as uncomfortable as I feel—my jaw clenched, hands balled into fists in my pockets, and eyes practically glaring at Jax.

She only holds my gaze for a second before turning to Andrea and saying, "Should we take that picture now?"

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