"Okay?"

"Okay," Maisie repeats, watching me, waiting, her teeth sinking into the corner of her bubblegum-pink lips. I shift on my feet, planting my hands back on the counter beside her hips. I feel her gaze slip lower, tracing the line of my throat, lingering like she's finally letting herself really look. Her eyes drift over my shirt, stopping at the two undone buttons, almost as though she's toying with the idea of undoing the rest. A slow heat unfurls in my chest.

Half of me feels like I'm hallucinating, and the other half can't decide where to start. I want to drag my teeth between her breasts, trace the path with my tongue. Flip that little skirt of hers just to check if she's wearing those pink panties with tiny flowers again. I want to turn her around and lift her onto my kitchen table, lay her flat on her back, and see how far I can slip my hands under her skirt before she tells me to stop. I want a thousand things in a thousand different ways.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. We agreed on kissing.

I press my forehead against hers as I bring a hand up to cup her face gently, steadying her—or maybe myself, I'm not sure.

I was so certain she was going to say no, that she'd never thought about me that way. The whole drive home, I replayed what Emilia had said, wondering if she was right—if Maisie was just using me. But all I could think about was the way Maisie kissed me, the soft sighs every time I wrapped my arms around her, how she kept drifting to my side of the bed in New York. I was done pretending that I didn't want her. Done with only being able to touch her when other people were watching. I couldn't willingly walk into my house without knowing, couldn't spend a whole night sitting next to her watching a movie without asking, even if it meant wrecking myself in the process.

Slowly, I trace my thumb over her bottom lip, freeing it from her teeth. Our noses brush, and she squeezes her eyes shut like she's restless with all these little touches. I'm not making her wait on purpose; it's just that this doesn't feel real.

"August," she breathes out.

"Sorry, I know, it's just...." I brush my lips over hers teasingly. "It's just I've thought about this—about you in my kitchen like this—a lot," I confess.

"Have you?" She sounds baffled by the idea.

"I've thought about you like this in a lot of places," I murmur.

She toys with one of the buttons on my shirt. I swallow hard—once, then twice—before she whispers, "Will you tell me?"

"Tell you? Jesus, Maisie," I laugh, ragged and frazzled. I'm barely holding on by a thread, and she wants me to tell her the places I've imagined us? "Okay. Jesus, okay. You want to hear how I haven't been able to stop thinking about you since you came back to Boston? That I'm so far behind on work because I can't stop picturing you propped up on my desk? I sit there, thinking about you in that bodysuit thing you wear for your concerts, wondering how you'd look sitting right there, waiting for me." The words spill out, a flood of confessions. "How I picture you in my car, in my bed, on your jet, in that fucking studio in New York? How it drives me insane that you always taste like cherries every time I kiss you? How you're so fucking gorgeous that I can't stand the idea of anyone else looking at you, and yet somehow, I have to be okay with the fact that the entire world is watching you? I think about you in ways, Maisie, that I know I shouldn't be thinking about my best friend."

"Oh," she breathes out as a faint, rosy blush blooms across her cheeks.

One of her hands slips behind my neck, the other splaying across my chest, and a shuttered breath escapes her lips. Suddenly, I'm desperate. After all the half-touches and stolen glances, her standing in my kitchen, telling me she wants me—this feels like stepping off the edge of a very tall building.

"I think about you constantly. Is that what you wanted to hear?"

She nods quickly against my forehead, fisting my shirt tight, her fingers lightly scraping the back of my neck. My hands, once gripping the counter, glide to her waist—a weak attempt to hold back from doing everything I've been dying to do with her. I grasp her there, tight, and catch a glimpse of her bright, burning blue eyes before I pull her mouth to mine and kiss her.

This kiss isn't like the ones we've shared over the past few weeks—there's no slow build-up, no careful restraint. I'm messy with it, but so is she, just as desperate, just as needy. I bend slightly, hooking my hands beneath her thighs, lifting her onto the counter, Maisie letting out the sweetest-sounding gasp I've ever heard in my life.

"That sound," I whisper against the corner of her mouth, my voice shaky. "That sound you make, I'm fucking obsessed with it."

"Noted," she rasps, the word clipped as my teeth scrape down her throat. I clasp beneath her knees, spreading her legs wider, my eyes fixing down on the way her skirt hikes up—all that soft, smooth skin I've been so desperate to touch since New York. I pull, tugging her closer to the edge of the counter, sending the box of Lucy's pastries and a pile of mail tumbling to the floor, settling myself between her thighs until our hips pressed together.

Christ. My eyes squeeze shut for a half second, and almost drop to my knees right there, just from the sight of us pressed so close. I can usually hold myself together better than this.

"You okay there?" Maisie asks, breathless, winded, trying to sound coy.

I snap my eyes to hers. "Are you okay?"

"Yup," she garbles out, nodding quickly as I lean in, pressing soft, pecking kisses along the line of her collarbone. Glancing down at my hands, I slowly slide them up, teasing the hem of her skirt. I grip her thighs there, fingers biting into her skin, holding back the urge to take things further—reminding myself of what we just agreed on. She shivers against it, biting down on her lip to keep from whimpering, I think, at the tight grip I have on her. Goosebumps light up under my palms.

"Kiss me again," she murmurs as she curls her hand around my jaw, pulling me closer until her lips meet mine. Her tongue slips into my mouth with a soft sigh, and a ragged, pained groan rumbles from my chest. Heat spreads through every inch of me, and I kiss Maisie as thoroughly and intensely as I've imagined over the past few weeks, finally giving in to everything I've been holding back.

"August," she whispers between kisses.

"I know. This is fast—a lot," I pant against her skin, my nose brushing against her cheek as I press sloppy, wet kisses along her jaw, down to where her cardigan has now slipped off her shoulder and bunched at her elbow. "If you want to stop, just say so."

It is a lot. We agreed on kissing, but I'm about five seconds away from carrying her off this counter and into my bedroom. I wonder how Maisie would feel about that.

"No, August, that's not—oh," she gasps as I suck on the hollow of her throat, her legs tightening around my waist. My tongue presses against the spot, soothing it, feeling her breath hitch. Jesus, she tastes so sweet—like the powdered sugar dusted over French toast. Maisie taps me on the shoulder, trying to find her words. "August, there's—someone's—your door. They're knocking."

I shake my head, my face tucked in the crook of her neck. "No. No one's knocking."

And then I hear the pounding.

I pull back to look at Maisie—she's flushed, breathless, her lips kiss-bitten, buttery-blonde hair tousled and wild, burgundy cardigan slipping off both shoulders. She's fucking gorgeous.

Another round of pounding follows, louder this time.

I sigh, dropping my head onto Maisie's shoulder, shaking it lazily against her. She buries her face into my hair, fingers threading through it, before murmuring, "Well, okay, maybe it's more like pounding now."

Clara's voice yells through the door, "August, let us in!"

"Shit," I groan, pressing a line of kisses up along Maisie's shoulder. "If we stay quiet, she'll probably just leave."

"I know you're in there, Gus!" Clara shouts. "We saw Maisie's Mercedes at Marty's on the way over."

"And I have cinnamon rolls!" Lucy chimes in.

I stand up straight, glancing at the door, as I drag a rough hand through my hair. Through the small window, I catch Clara peeking in; her hands cupped over her brows as she squints to see inside. I quickly slide Maisie and myself to the right, slipping us out of sight.

"Maybe we should just let them in," Maisie whispers.

"No," I shake my head, listening as my sisters bicker on the other side of the door. "They're not coming in."

"August, open up!" Clara pounds on the door again. "Mom is getting your spare key. I really hope you're decent."

Maisie's eyes go wide, and I take a step back, nearly stumbling into the chair behind me, until our hips are no longer tucked tight together.

"What is your mom doing here?" she hisses, hopping off the counter, tugging her cardigan back over her shoulders. She quickly turns to smooth her hair in the reflection of the glass from the upper cabinets.

"No idea," I mutter, fumbling with the buttons on my shirt—buttons she somehow managed to undo without me noticing. "Interrupting, clearly."

Maisie's eyes dart toward the door, then back to me, giving me a once-over. Her heavy-lidded gaze sweeps from my shoulders to my chest, then down to my stomach, but they stall when her eyes hit my belt, where I've thoroughly worked myself up.

"Maisie," I murmur, tilting my head as if to say now is not the time for you to look at me like that.

"Oh, right." She nods, her cheeks flushing pink before she quickly looks away, leaning over to gather the scattered mail on the floor.

The door creaks open, followed by the sound of footsteps and the familiar bickering of my sisters. I turn to grip the edge of the kitchen sink, willing myself to settle before I turn on the water and grab a dish. When I hear Clara and Lucy pausing in the doorway, I glance over my shoulder to find their eyes shifting from me and then to Maisie.

Clara frowns like she's disappointed she didn't catch us in any compromising positions and then mutters, "Did you guys not hear us knocking?"

"Oh yay, you're here." Lucy is beaming at Maisie, then looks down at the floor beneath her. Her smile fades into a pout as she spots the pastries still scattered across the floor. "My pastries..."

"Sorry, I, um," Maisie stammers, quickly bending down to pick up Lucy's pastries one by one. "I was showing August the song I'm working on, and then he, uh, accidentally dropped the box when he got excited." She squeezes her eyes shut, shaking her head. "I mean, when he liked it. The song. When he liked the song."

"Oh, well, that's okay. I made cinnamon rolls anyway," Lucy says, setting a ceramic dish on the table with a soft thud. "You're working on a new song?"

"I am, yeah," Maisie replies, and I catch the way Clara cocks her head slightly to the side as she eyes Maisie's disheveled hair, despite her attempt to smooth it out. Her gaze then shifts to me, and I quickly turn back around, grabbing another dish. "I leave tomorrow to record it."

"Don't you guys have somewhere else to be instead of loitering at my house?" I ask, my voice coming out rough and uneven. I clear my throat.

"Maisie invited us for a movie," Lucy says.

You did?" I ask, turning to Maisie, raising an eyebrow.

"I did?" Maisie questions herself, her eyebrows pinching together in confusion. Then, like she suddenly remembers. "I mean, yes, I did."

"Don't be rude to your house guests, Gus," Clara says, dropping her oversized bag on the counter and pulling open the silverware drawer. "I'll tell Mom."

"Tell me what?" Mom asks, stepping into the kitchen.

"That Lucy's been reading smutty books," Clara says, scrunching her nose, tongue poking out between her teeth.

Lucy scoffs, her face flushing bright red. "W-what? I am—Why would you even say that? I have never!"

Mom glances between them, puzzled, before shaking her head as Lucy flees to the living room. Her gaze then lands on Maisie. "Oh, Maisie! Good! I didn't think I'd see you before you left for your tour."

"Hi, Mrs. Williams," Maisie replies as I turn back to rinse the soap off a dish. I hear the quiet rustle of their hug behind me before Mom's footsteps make their way toward me.

"I brought you some dinners, August," she says, patting my back as she passes me to the fridge.

"Mom, I don't need you cooking for me."

"Well, your sister said you're not eating enough, and your fridge is always empty."

I shoot Clara a glare, but she just shrugs, saying, "There was nothing to eat when I came over the other day. And now, I have pasta, risotto, lasagna, and tiramisu to choose from."

"Maisie," my mom says as she pulls the burnt-orange Tupperwares from her reusable Hannigan's bag and starts stacking them in the fridge, "I was planning to drop off some food for you too at your apartment on my way into the office right now. I can just give it to you now, though."

"Oh, that's..." Maisie shakes her head with a small smile. "Wow, that's really nice of you. Thank you."

"It's no problem," she says, smiling at Maisie before turning her attention to me. Her eyes narrow just a fraction, her head tilts to the side, and then she glances back at Maisie before fixing her gaze on me again. And I know she knows. She knows exactly what Maisie and I were just doing. I have no idea how she can piece it together—probably her twenty-five years as a therapist has something to do with it.

"August," my mom says, and I twist back around, pouring soap onto the sponge. "Help me with the rest of the containers in my car."

It doesn't sound like a request. It sounds like an order. I know for a fact she doesn't need help with the containers. She's obsessed with getting her ten thousand steps in every day and jumps at any opportunity to reach that goal. She even walks her neighbor's dog across the street just to rack up more steps.

"I'm doing the dishes, Mom."

"I won't ask you twice." She says it in a warning tone that suddenly makes me feel like I'm back in high school, about to be grounded for something Clara did.

I shut the water off and grab a kitchen towel to dry my hands. Maisie is in the living room now, showing Lucy a voice memo on her phone—probably the song that apparently had me excited earlier—while Clara watches Mom and me with suspense, forking a bite of a cinnamon roll straight from the ceramic dish.

"August," my mom repeats, heading toward the front door.

Clara smirks, mouthing, What did you do? as I toss the towel onto the counter and follow my mom out of the house to her car, where she's already opened the back door.

Mom starts gathering Tupperware containers from the back seat, placing them into a bag. "What are you doing, August?"

"You asked me to help you with the food," I say as she hands me the bag. I peer inside—it's the same as mine but with two extra containers of tiramisu.

She looks at me, her expression serious. "That girl in there has been through enough, and the last thing she needs is for you to be playing with her heart."

"I don't know what you're talking about." If anything, it's Maisie who has my heart and can do whatever she damn well pleases.

Mom tilts her head, giving me a look that says don't you dare try to lie to me. "She's already been through more heartbreak than most people her age. The last thing she needs is the risk of losing her best friend, too. I don't think she's even had the chance to properly mourn her mom—everything's happened so fast these past couple of years. And with her dad not really in the picture, does she even have anyone to truly lean on?"

"There are a handful, yes."

She sighs. "You know I didn't like this idea when you both first mentioned it. If this arrangement between the two of you—this fake dating thing—ends badly, it could be devastating. For both of you. And her losing you could be something she can't handle right now, especially with her tour coming up."

"She's not going to lose me," I say firmly.

"I know how much you care about her," she presses on. "Your dad and I do, too—we all do. We'd do anything for Maisie if she needed us. But from where I'm sitting, it feels like you're both treading on thin ice, and I worry someone is going to get hurt. I know she's your best friend, and it's obvious you've had strong feelings for her for a while now."

I open my mouth to protest—because I've never told anyone, especially not my mother, about how I feel about Maisie. But before I can say a word, she shoots me a pointed look and continues.

"I've stayed quiet about this long enough, trying not to overstep, but I think it's time to be honest with her about how you really feel. Especially given what was happening between you two before your sisters and I walked in. You cannot tell me that whatever that was was in the name of fake dating."

I press two fingers to the spot between my brows, exhaling as I rest my hands on my hips. Glancing back at the house through the bay window, I can see Lucy has made herself comfortable on my couch, while Clara is busy lifting Maisie's arm, tracing something along the side of her ribs—no doubt trying to talk her into a tattoo. There's no chance I'm going to be able to get them out of my house anytime soon.

Mom is right though. I know she's right. But this feels like progress we never had before—like we're moving in the right direction, even if it's just a trial period. The trial will come to an end, and I can't imagine this not continuing with the way things are going.

"And August," Mom says, pulling my attention back, "you know I'd love to have grandchildren at any point now, but use protection until you're both ready, okay?"

"Jesus, Mom." I feel the tips of my ears heat up.

"Sweetheart," she says, opening her car door, "it's what I tell all my clients."

"To use protection? Mom, you're a family therapist. You tell all your clients that?"

"Oh, honey." She smiles sympathetically, reaching up to pat my cheek twice. "That's just what I told you guys in high school so I wouldn't have angry parents complaining about me at PTA meetings. I've always been a sex therapist."