I don't know how long I've been standing in front of my shed, blankly staring at my lawnmower.

I wasn't expecting Maisie to show up after yesterday. I had been bracing myself all day, waiting for her call or text to end this whole fake dating arrangement. I was mentally preparing for rejection, especially after how she reacted at the bar. I knew this might be awkward for her, but I didn't expect her to be so... uninterested in me in that way.

The kiss was, well, that was a spur-of-the-moment, last-ditch effort to keep her from ending things. Something to prove to Maisie that this—me and her—can't be that bad together.

And now, all I can think about is how her fingers tangled in my hair, how she breathed like she was drinking me in, how her lips moved against mine like she couldn't get enough.

I keep hearing that hitch in her breath when our lips brushed together. I've heard it before, but I always assumed it meant something else entirely.

I turn, placing my hands on my hip, and glance back at the house.

Every part of me is screaming to go in there and kiss her again. I'm not sure what I expected after kissing Maisie—maybe that one kiss would be enough, that my feelings of wanting her would fade afterward. But kissing her is... intoxicating, and I'm an idiot for thinking it would be anything but. I know I should be holding back, remind myself that this is just an arrangement but my mind is racing now, plotting ways to get her to let me kiss her again.

I stride back into the house from the shed, completely forgetting the lawn and barely registering the matching cherry-shaped ceramic cat bowls placed beside my front door as I open it. The sound of her rummaging in the kitchen draws me through the short hallway to find her.

When I reach the doorway of the kitchen, I pause. She's there, quietly singing to herself—something about spearmint kisses?—as she looks through the cabinets. I lean against the door frame, watching her crouch down to rummage through the lower cabinet, then rise on tiptoes to look at the upper shelves.

"What are you doing?" I ask, breaking the quiet.

She startles, whispering, "Oh my god," then turns to face me with her hand pressed to her chest. "Announce yourself when you enter a room, August."

"Sorry," I say, a smile tugging at my lips as she spins back around to resume her search. "What are you looking for?"

"I'm looking for my vintage teacups I left here last year. I can't find them."

"They're on the top shelf, to the left," I point out. She shuffles over to the cabinet, stretching on her toes, almost balancing on the balls of her feet to reach them. She's taken off her sweatshirt, now just in her baggy jeans and a cropped t-shirt that reveals more skin than my imagination can handle at the moment. I force my eyes to shift to her hands as she struggles to reach. Walking over to help, I extend my arm over her shoulder, pressing lightly against her as I grab one of the teacups from the cupboard.

"Thanks," she whispers as my front grazes down her back. I place the cup in front of her, and she grabs it. "They're so high."

I take a half step back. "I'll move them down tomorrow."

"You don't have to do that," she says, turning towards me. We're so close her knees brush against mine, forcing her to tilt her chin up to see me.

She looks at me with those bright blue eyes, and I can't help but wonder if Maisie is thinking the same thing I am—the last time we were this close in a kitchen. That night at the party, I had nearly kissed her, just like I did outside now.

It was the start of the school year, just as the leaves began to change color. Maisie had convinced me to go to a house party with our friend, Peter Aldridge, instead of studying for an exam I had the next day. There was no way in hell I was letting Peter go to a party with Maisie by himself.

We were in the kitchen, standing in the throng of bodies trying to get drinks at the makeshift bar behind the counter. I stood behind Maisie as she shouted over some overplayed Bruno Mars song she'd been singing to earlier, asking if they had cherries to put in her rum and Coke this time. She turned around to tell me something when someone jostled me from behind, pushing us together. Something about the proximity, the haziness from all the alcohol, and the way she looked that night—my flannel she'd stolen from my closet on the way out wrapped around her, the cropped tank she was wearing, those freckles smattered across the bridge of her nose from that summer—had me leaning in. Our lips barely brushed together before Peter yanked me away, babbling about needing a partner for beer pong.

That was a few nights before her mom told her she was sick, and Maisie decided to go home. That next weekend, she packed up her things, left, and dropped out of college. We never brought up that night. I was never really sure if she wanted to talk about it. She seemed content not to, keeping things the way they were—the way they still are.

"It's fine," I say as she swallows, clutching the cherry and papaya cup to her chest like it's some sort of lifeline. Her eyes flick from mine to somewhere behind me. "I don't mind."

"Thanks," she mumbles.

"So I was thinking—" I start after a moment.

"You've been doing an awful lot of thinking lately," she murmurs as she sidesteps around me, creating some space between us.

I smile and step back, leaning against the wooden kitchen table positioned in the room's center. I take off my hat and toss it onto the table, watching as she fills the kettle with water. "I was thinking we should go get ice cream."

"Ice cream?" She turns off the water. I have her full attention now.

"Yeah, I think we should go to The Ice Cream Store," I say. The only ice cream in Green Harbor is literally called The Ice Cream Store.

She blinks at me, her gaze lingering suspiciously. "The Ice Cream Store?"

I nod. "Like we used to."

"You want to walk?"

"Yeah, you had dinner, right?"

She huffs out a scoff and says in a low-pitched voice that has me furrowing my brows, "Of course I have." She quickly brushes past me towards the front door, adding, "No take backs."

Shaking my head, I follow her. "Clearly a lie."

"Can I borrow your hat?" she asks, ignoring my comment as she hobbles on one foot, trying to pull on her chunky tan boot. "People are probably going to see us."

"Isn't that the point?" I ask, slipping my Nikes back on. "For people to see us together?"

"Well, yes, but..."

"Just think of this as a practice run."

"We've already had a practice run."

"And that went perfectly," I deadpan. My mind immediately flashes back to last night—Maisie patting my crotch, and heat floods south at the memory. And judging by the way her cheeks turn pink, she's remembering it too.

She quickly steps out the front door as I clear my throat.

"It's just ice cream, Mace." I lock the door behind me and turn to extend my hand for her to hold. "We'll walk there and walk back."

She hesitates, eyeing my hand before glancing out at the street. With a reluctant sigh, she finally slips her hand into mine and as we step onto the sidewalk, she murmurs, "The lawn looks nice, by the way."

I press my lips together to hide my smirk. "Thanks."

Our footsteps fall into sync as we head toward Main Street, our hands swinging back and forth gently. She glances behind her, furrowing her brows, and I can't tell if it's the sun in her eyes or if she's just resisting the urge to wrestle her hand out of mine and run back home. Her phone has pinged about three times with text messages, but she hasn't noticed, too preoccupied worrying the side of her lip.

"I think you have a text message." I finally say.

"What? Oh," Maisie mumbles, letting go of my hand to check her phone, pulling it from her back pocket. I slip my arm around her shoulders, drawing her close. I feel her stiffen for a second before relaxing into me. She glances at the screen, frowns, and then tucks the phone back into her pocket. "It's just Bridget."

I glance at her. "Your sister?"

"Step-sister," she corrects. "She's asking if I'm coming to family dinner."

Maisie rarely talks about her father and his family, but occasionally, she lets things slip, little fragments— a mention of something that happened at one of their once-a-year family dinners or things her dad has said to her. Despite knowing her for the last nine years, each time she realizes she's said something, she quickly seals it back up, burying those details away bit by bit until whatever memory she has is tucked away. She does something similar when she talks about her mom, though it's less frequent, and always happier memories.

"Are you?" I ask.

"I don't—" She begins, then sighs as we turn right onto Main. "I haven't exactly been invited yet."

"Isn't it usually next month? Over Memorial weekend, right? It might be good to see Bridget."

She gives a noncommittal hum. "Yeah, we'll see."

I nod, not at all surprised by her response when my attention shifts to two teenage girls across the street. They've stopped and are standing in front of the little bookstore, wide-eyed, whispering excitedly as one of them pulls out her phone.

Maisie clears her throat. "So, I was thinking," she says as she glances over my shoulder, pressing her nose gently into my arm. Her eyes flick towards the two girls, who seem to be saying, Is that Maisie Rhodes? She quickly averts her gaze forward, tipping her head down. "Maybe we should set some ground rules."

"Ground rules?"

"Yes." She nods firmly.

"For... how many scoops of ice cream you get?" I jest.

"No, two scoops are non-debatable."

"It's definitely debatable."

"You're debatable," she retorts with defensiveness.

I huff a laugh. "Okay, fine, two scoops. So, what are these ground rules for, then?"

"For this fake dating thing. So that lines don't become... blurry," she says, glancing at me from the corner of her eye. "If we're going to survive this pretend relationship and still be friends on the other side, I think we need to have some rules. To keep track of what's real and not."

"Survive," I laugh out. "A bit melodramatic, don't you think?"

She gawks at me. "No, it's... necessary."

"You don't think you can pretend with me?"

She laughs, that nervous laugh of hers. "I can pretend. It's you I'm worried about."

"Me?" I point to my chest, taking my arm from around her shoulder to reach for the door of The Ice Cream Shop. "You're the one—" 

"Excuse me, Maisie," a voice interrupts from the side. We turn to see a father and his daughter, both beaming with ice cream cones in hand. It's hard to tell who's more excited, the dad or the girl. "Would my daughter be able to get a picture with you?" 

"Oh, of course. I'd love to," she says warmly. I watch as Maisie quickly takes a handful of selfies with them in front of the shop, chatting and giving them her full attention. She even hugs them goodbye. 

After they leave, she exhales a breath as she looks back at me, a hint of relief in her eyes, and I smile at her as I hold the door open.

Inside, we walk up to the counter, and the employee freezes upon recognizing Maisie. "You're Maisie Rhodes," she says in awe. Maisie looks from the ice creams on display to the young girl with a soft smile. "I am," she confirms, then turns back to the ice creams. "Can I try the Cookie Monster cookie dough?"

As we settle into the heart-shaped backed chairs around a weathered wood bistro table outside the shop, ice creams in hand, the wharf, and floating fishing boats just beyond, I ask, "Is it always like this?"

Maisie, who somehow ended up with three scoops instead of two, licks her raspberry, strawberry, and purple cow ice cream before looking at me curiously. "Like what?"

"You getting recognized everywhere?" I ask, trying to wrap my head around it. I thought maybe the number of people staring at us in the wine bar was unusual, but now I'm starting to think this is her new normal. I mean, I know Maisie is famous—the magazines, her music playing everywhere, even a few coworkers mention her—but I guess I didn't realize just how big she's become. I wasn't expecting her to be stopped every time we go out, especially here in my sleepy little beach town of Green Harbor.

"Oh, um," she glances past me towards the front of the store, while I scoop up my mocha chip ice cream. "It's gotten worse since the last album. Especially after those three dates, I went on with Noah Wilde. They kinda went crazy over that."

"I thought they were fake dates," I mumble between bites.

She glances at me, a smirk playing on her lips. "They were."

I nod, swirling my spoon in my ice cream. "Do you think they'll go crazy about this? About us?"

"Andrea seems to think so."

"Okay," I straighten up in my seat, "so tell me these rules then?"

"Oh, right, um," she murmurs, scratching her eyebrow and glancing down at her ice cream cone. "I was thinking, like, no physical touch when we're not in public. For instance, no snuggling, no hand-holding, no sharing the same bed, and no flirting when we're alone—"

I rub my hand over my scruff, trying not to smile. "Oh, you've really thought this through."

She continues without missing a beat, "Absolutely no pet names, no kissing. And no, um, no..."

I lean in, our eyes catching. "No... sex?"

"I—" She blinks several times, her cheeks flushing pink. "That wasn't—" She glances past me at the maroon-colored fishing boat bobbing in the water. "We can add... sex to the list, yeah."

A smile pulls at my lips as I shake my head, looking down at my cup of ice cream. We don't ever talk about this sort of thing. Not once have I ever heard Maisie ever mention sex in front of me. It's just something that we don't talk about. And I love how... flustered it makes her.

"Well, I want to make sure we cover all our bases."

"Gosh, you're really taking this wholeheartedly now." She hums out a laugh, looking up at the pink clouds drifting by. A few seconds later, her tone sharpening, she adds, "But I am serious."

"Mace," I start, setting my cup of ice cream down on the table. "Lines aren't going to blur. They never have before. And nothing's really changing between us except that we're pretending to be a couple in public."

But that's the thing, isn't it? I already like pretending. Probably way too much. And for me, those lines with Maisie have always been blurred. She's the one who's seen things in black and white, and I don't see her changing that anytime soon, especially not given these ground rules.

"I just—" She pauses, turning to look at me. The setting sun makes her eyes glisten. I can see the tension in her shoulders. "I just can't lose you, August. You're my best—"

"Best friend. I know." I say it so softly she has to strain to hear it. She keeps her eyes on me, as if trying to examine how I've just said those two words. Clearly, they've never meant the same for us.

I look up at her from my ice cream as she dips her eyes to hers before she finally continues. "It's just, if something were to go wrong between us, if the lines did get blurry—I don't know what I would..."

She trails off, studying the remnants of her ice cream, now almost completely gone—only a half-eaten cone left, slowly wilting from the melting ice cream. I can see the struggle in her eyes as she wrestles with the words she's hesitant to say, leaving the sentence unfinished.

Maisie always seems so put together, so grounded on the outside, that I sometimes forget how much she's lost. Her father left her and her mom before she could even remember him. Her mom passed away when she was only 19, leaving her with no grandparents, no family other than a father who's never really wanted to be a part of her life.

"Maisie," I say, reaching for her chair and pulling her closer, the legs scraping against the gravel beneath us. "No matter what, I'm not going anywhere. Okay?"

Her eyes search mine and there's a wobble at the edges of her voice when she asks, "What if you do, though? What if it's too much and—"

"I'm not going anywhere," I repeat, shaking my head gently as I reach out to tuck a strand of her buttery blonde hair behind her ear. She leans slightly into my touch. "In fact, you might have to deal with me for the rest of your life."

She laughs quietly. "You might have to deal with me for the rest of your life like the stage five clinger I am."

Gladly, I want to say.

Instead, I lean closer, our foreheads touching. My eyes drop to her parted lips involuntarily, and I watch as she bites the corner of her lip before letting it go. I lower my face towards hers, closing the small gap between us, our lips brushing softly there.

"I thought we agreed no kissing," she whispers against my lips.

"We are definitely in public," I mumble, though I'm fairly certain there's no one else around.

My hand slips from her jaw to the nape of her neck, and I brush my lips against hers again—once, twice, three times—before pressing them together. It immediately feels like a mistake because now it's never going to be enough.

Our kiss is quick, chaste, nothing more than a peck. But the coolness of her lips from the ice cream and the sweet taste of berries mixed with chocolate makes me feel like I deserve a medal for the restraint I've managed to maintain.

And instead of giving in, I pull back, closing my eyes and resting my forehead against hers briefly before withdrawing completely. I grab my melted ice cream from the table, toying with it to distract myself from the urge to kiss her again.

I watch from the corner of my eye as she brushes a wisp of hair back from her face, caught in the salty ocean breeze. When I look up fully at her after a few moments, there's some sort of pained expression on her face.

"What?" I ask, suddenly panicked that the kiss was a mistake, too soon after the last one. "What's wrong?"

Her jaw clenches. "You let me eat too much ice cream," she says, rubbing her side with mock seriousness. "Three scoops without dinner, August? Really? How could you let me eat that much?"

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