"There has to be a mistake."

August and I stand in the middle of a single-room hotel suite, both of us staring at the king-sized bed. Yes, singular—not plural. Just the one bed.

I squeeze my eyes closed, hoping this is all some weird hallucination. That maybe I'm just overtired and delirious— maybe the suite actually has two rooms so far apart we'd have to shout to hear each other. But when I open my eyes again, it's still the same single bed. "There's been a mistake."

"It's fine, we can—"

"This has to be Andrea's room, or Rachel's, or, or, or... Ryan's room," I blurt out, cutting off whatever August was about to say. I frantically pull my phone from my bag and scroll to find Andrea's contact. "Rachel always books me a suite, and then Andrea approves it. Always with extra rooms, enough to sleep multiple people. I keep telling her I don't need something that big, but she does it every time— I'm calling her."

"Maybe she's just doing what you asked."

"I didn't mean for this time," I grind out through clenched teeth, pressing the phone to my ear as I pace around the cramped hotel room. I glance around, taking in the two little purple velvet armchairs and a loveseat that's barely big enough for two people to sit on, let alone for someone to sleep on. I know New York is famous for its small hotel rooms but this room feels like a joke.

My phone rings twice before going to voicemail, and two text messages vibrate in my hand almost instantly. The first is the paparazzi picture of August and me making out at Hansen Coffee earlier and the other is a text from Andrea that reads, "We'll discuss the matter at hand in the morning."

My jaw drops, eyes widening as I bring the phone closer, staring at the photo in disbelief. My hands tangled in his hair, his thumb on my chin, parting my lips, his other hand disappearing somewhere beneath my cardigan. It looks scandalous.

Another text pops up from Andrea: "Enjoy yourself, you seemed to be earlier."

I scoff, feeling the blush creep up my neck and into my cheeks all over again. Without a second thought, I switch off my phone, twirl around, and storm past August toward the door. "I'm going to talk to Andrea. I'm sure the front desk will give me her room number."

"Mace," he says, quickly grabbing my shoulders to stop me in my tracks before I can charge out of the room. He pulls me back, turning me to face the bed. "It's late. I'm tired. I know you're tired. You've had a long day. Do you really want to spend the next hour playing musical rooms? I really don't mind sharing."

Sharing a room is one thing. August and I have slept in the same room before, sure, fallen asleep binge-watching The Twilight Zone every night for almost three weeks straight—him on one end of the couch, me on the other, with two arm lengths, a pizza box, or a Lucy between us. But he's right; it's late, and I'm exhausted.

We barely stopped today. With my busy schedule and the tour coming up, Andrea only gave Vogue one full day of shooting. They tried to make the most of it, especially after August's little pep talk seemed to turn things around. Sebastian switched up the awkward poses and had cotton candy blue ice cream brought in. The pictures he took of me—eyes closed in bliss, laughter almost audible through the image, melting ice cream dripping from the cone to my hand as I licked the sweet cream—were dreamy, whimsical, and sexy. They made me look like the pop star everyone wanted. But most importantly, they felt like me, Maisie Rhodes.

The Vogue staff was thrilled with how things turned out—they didn't even want to take a break and ended up bringing in dinner, finishing much later than expected. So, yes, I'm exhausted, and honestly, the last thing I want to do right now is play musical rooms, as fun as that sounds.

It's just sharing a bed with August.

Maybe a year ago, I would've been fine with it. But after the way he kissed me this morning and that look he gave me afterward. I thought he was mad—the way his eyes sharpened and his jaw tightened, I was sure he was angry for crossing that line, for letting that moan slip through. But maybe I was wrong. Because he sure didn't seem angry during the shoot. With all his little touches—tucking my hair behind my ear, toying with my dress like he just couldn't help himself—catching him watching me in the mirrors, and hearing him call me subjectively beautiful, the lines are starting to blur. I'm not sure what's up or down anymore, what's fake and what's real.

Maybe I am eager, his voice was so quiet, so serious.

I can't share a bed with this man. Not after all of that. We had ground rules about this exact sort of thing—rules that we seem to be quickly plowing past.

I look back at the daunting bed, it's perfectly fluffed pillows and pristine white linens taunting me. It's laughing at me. It's Dr. Evil from Austin Powers, saying, Look at me, Maisie—Why embarrass yourself once today when you can embarrass yourself a billion more times?

My gaze shifts to the floor just below it, settling on the area rug beneath the king-sized bed for a few seconds before saying, "You can have the bed. I'll take the floor."

"Maisie," he huffs out, bringing his fingers to the crease between his brows. He stands there, watching as I toss my purse onto the velvety purple chair and begin to lower myself onto the area rug over the hardwood floor. Yes, hardwood floor, because this fancy-ass hotel is apparently too good for cushioned carpeting.

"You know what they say about a flat surface," I mumble, squirming to find a comfortable spot. I'm pretty sure this might be the world's thinnest rug.

"Mace—"

"Flat surface, better..." I scrunch my nose and stare up at the ceiling, the pretty exposed beams a temporary distraction. "Falsetto?"

"I don't think that's a saying."

"How would you know? It could be." I reach up to snag one of the pillows from the bed, and slide it under my head. It's overly fluffed and it makes my head sit at an awkward angle compared to the rest of my body. It might be worse. "I bet you've never slept on a flat surface and sang the best falsetto the next day."

"Have you?" he asks, crossing his arms in a way that makes his biceps bulge. He steps closer to me.

I turn my eyes to the ceiling, willing myself not to stare at how the soft material of his white T-shirt, the one he's worn under his knit sweater all day, stretches and strains against his biceps.

I clear my throat. "No, but there's no time like the present to try."

"You're not sleeping on the floor."

"Yes, I am," I assert, peeking at him from the corner of my eye. "It's the least I can do, Gus. I dragged you all the way out here to New York to help me with this fake dating thing just so that rumors of me don't run wild, all while knowing you're busy with actual real-life work."

"I'm not that busy," he says, and I roll my eyes, knowing he's just trying to keep me from worrying. Every time I glanced at him during the shoot, he was busy, tucked in that little corner by the snacks, responding to emails or reading manuscripts on his laptop—except of course when I'd catch him looking at me.

I squeeze my eyes shut, trying not to overthink it. Because now that the shoot is over, I finally have time to process everything from today, and boy, is it a lot to unpack. My plan was to lock myself in my hotel room, stare into the darkness, and overanalyze every little detail about August until I fell asleep.

I groan internally, wiggling on the rug, trying to get comfortable again. I might as well be lying on a concrete floor.

"What are you doing?" He asks.

"Trying to decide which parts of the rug have more fluff." The answer is none.

"Maisie, come on. We've shared a bed before."

I huff out a laugh. "Uh, no sir, we have not."

I'd definitely remember if we had. I probably wouldn't be able to sleep with him that close. I'd lie there, stiff as a board, staring at the ceiling, afraid I'd make a move on him in my sleep. I'd wait until the sun rose just so it didn't seem unreasonable for me to get out of bed.

"I'm sure after nine years there's been at least one time we've shared a bed," he insists.

"You must be confusing me with Gwen," I retort, wincing the moment the words leave my mouth. I squeeze my eyes shut.

Careful, Maisie, I think to myself. Your insecurities are showing.

"Why do you always say her name like that?" he grumbles quietly. There's an edge in his voice and I snap my eyes open to find him standing directly over me.

"That is her name, Gus. It is Gwendolyn," I say, scrunching my nose, knowing I just did it again.

"See? That." He points to my face. "You did it again."

"I did not."

"You both have never liked each other."

I scoff at him, partially because he's just admitted to me that she doesn't like me—which, okay, to be fair, I kinda already knew that but he's never outright said it to my face—and also because he's accusing me of not liking her back.

"It's not that I don't like her, it's just that..." I don't like her. That's it. She took away the one thing—the one person—I wanted most in life and then hated that we were friends. "It's not that I don't like her, August, it's just that—what are you doing?"

I twist my head to find him halfway onto the floor beside me, my eyes widening as he settles down on the hardwoods. "If you're sleeping on the floor, so am I."

"Don't be ridiculous."

A laugh bubbles out of him. "You think I'm being ridiculous?"

I scrunch my nose, scooting away from him to make room for his broad shoulders and six-foot-three frame, but there's barely any space between him and the bed. "Yes."

"Look, if you really don't want to share a bed, that's fine," he says, staring up at the ceiling. I swat at the overly fluffed pillow to see him fully. "But I'm not letting Maisie Rhodes, princess of pop, sleep on the floor—Jesus, Maisie this floor is rock hard."

I roll my eyes toward the ceiling. "Don't call me princess of pop. It's weird."

"Your Rhodies would murder me if they found out I let you sleep on the floor," he continues.

I whip my head to him, suddenly worried he's listening to all the rumors about my songs being about him. He's still just staring at the ceiling, hands folded on his stomach, feet crossed at the ankles. He turns to look at me. "Have you—um, do you pay attention to what people say about me—us?"

"What? Like your fans?" I nod quickly against the pillow as his eyebrows pinch together. "No. I'm sure they would murder me though."

I turn back to look at the ceiling, the sudden knot of nervousness easing in my chest. "Not on Ryan's watch. He wouldn't allow it."

"Well, the fact is, I'm not letting my best friend sleep on the floor. So get your ass into the bed."

"No, you get your ass into the bed because I'm not moving."

"Well, I guess we're both here tonight then, because if you're sleeping on the floor, so am I."

"Fine."

"Okay."

"Alright."

"Perfect." He lets out a frustrated huff of a laugh, kicks off his shoes, and sprawls his legs across the floor. I watch as he laces his fingers behind his head and closes his eyes, taking the opportunity to study his profile. Smattered freckles across the bridge of his nose, that crease between his brows that does seem as creasy today, despite all the time he spent staring at his computer. His full, plump lips—that I now wish I had bitten and sucked them into my mouth earlier at Hansen's Coffee. He looks so peaceful, and... I think he's actually falling asleep.

"Do you need a pillow?" I ask when he shifts his neck. "You look uncomfortable. Maybe you should just sleep on the bed."

He hums out a laugh, placing his large hand directly over my face to turn my head away from staring at him. "Shh. Stop staring at me. I'm trying to sleep."

I sigh, staring up at the ceiling. I can do this. He's my best friend and it's just a bed. It's just a bed. Because there's no way I'm going to be able to fall asleep on this floor, and there's definitely no way I'm letting him sleep here. There is, however, a definite possibility that Andrea will be fired by tomorrow afternoon.

This is fine, I reassure myself, squeezing my eyes closed. Everything will be fine.

"Fine, August. I'll share the bed with you."

I can hear the smile in his voice before he even says a word. "Don't sound too excited, Mace."

"I'm clearly ecstatic about it." I flash him a toothy smile as he gets up from his spot on the floor and offers me his hand. He pulls me up until my toes are brushing against his.

I glance up at him, as he tucks his hands into his pockets, an earnest look on his face as he says, "I really don't mind sleeping on the floor if you want."

"No," I shake my head, glancing back at the bed, rubbing my lower back. Dr. Evils is still laughing at me. "I'm not letting you sleep on the floor. I'm pretty sure I just slipped a disc just from lying there."