"I still don't get why you insist on buying lobster rolls every time you park at Marty's."

"Because I'm taking up prime parking whenever I come over. I'm costing the man business. It's the least thing I can do," I say, eyeing August as we turn down the side street toward his house.

He walks beside me, hands shoved deep in the pockets of his oatmeal-colored slacks, looking a little more grumblier than usual. Ever since we left his office, grabbed coffee, and got into my car, his mood's been steadily souring. The closer we got to Green Harbour, the more grumpier he seemed—rubbing at that little crease between his brows, unbuttoning the top two buttons of his shirt like they were suffocating him, gripping the steering wheel just a little too tight.

I thought maybe it had something to do with Gwen's sister, but I don't know, I didn't want to ask. He had asked me to trust him, so I am. I spent the entire thirty minutes in the car, fidgeting with the radio, pretending like his silence wasn't making me antsy.

"Why not just pay him for the parking spot?" August asks, kicking a rock along the sidewalk. "Lease it from him?"

"Because then he'll think I don't like his lobster rolls."

"But you don't like his lobster rolls."

"That's not true."

"Maisie, you've never even tried them. You have a shellfish allergy."

"Which is exactly why you should be the one carrying the box," I retort, shoving it against his chest. He laughs under his breath, shaking his head, and tugs a hand from his pocket to take the box, tucking it under his arm.

I glance over at him again, poking his side with a finger. "You're grumpy today."

He winces and brushes my hand away. "I'm not grumpy."

"Yes, you are," I insist. "You've barely said a word since the coffee shop."

His jaw had been clenched so tight, you'd think the barista personally offended him by getting our order right.

I mean, I guess I was a little disappointed too. We walked into an empty coffee shop, the barista barely glancing up as she handed over our drinks and then disappeared into the back, completely oblivious to the fact that I was Maisie Rhodes. Which, okay, normally, I'd be thrilled by the anonymity, but today, that was not what I was going for.

In fact, after we left his office, it was as if the entire city of Boston had disappeared, paparazzi included. The whole reason I came to see him today was to find an excuse to kiss him—an excuse to give this thing between us a trial run, like Andrea suggested. I even cut rehearsals short after missing my mark on my routine one too many times, my mind stuck on how August kissed me four days ago in New York—how he tasted like the finest maple syrup from Vermont.

My plan was flawless, until I realized there was no one around for me to be able to kiss him.

Everywhere I go these days, there always seems to be someone stopping me to say hi or asking for a picture. And for once in my life, I'm annoyed that no one's around. Even as we turn onto August's street, it feels like a ghost town—not even Mrs. Harris is outside, and she's always outside.

I glance around August's street, searching for any sign of a mailman, a gardener, someone walking their dog—anyone—because I'm running out of time. Tomorrow, I leave for Los Angeles, and when I come back, there'll be just one week left of this trial run with August, just one week before we go back to being just best friends. I'm planning on savoring every second of it, treating this like the real thing, pretending just for a little longer, because after that, I'll be gone on tour for eleven months.

And there's a part of me, buried deep, that's panicking that I'll never get to kiss August the way I did in New York ever again.

"What's wrong?" August asks.

My head snaps from Mrs. Harris's bay window—willing her to step outside—to August. "Hmm?"

"What's wrong?" he repeats. "You're doing that cute squinty thing you do when you're frustrated." He tries to mimic my expression but only manages to look confused.

I smile. "I'm not frustrated."

He nudges me with his shoulder. "Maisie."

"It's nothing." I shake my head as we step onto the gravel pathway leading to his house. "I was just... wondering what lobster tastes like."

"Maisie," he says again, this time like he knows I'm really lying.

"I imagine it's like that overcooked hot dog from the fair you got that one year," I say with a grimace, hearing his footsteps halt behind me. "How it was so watery it was almost flavorless. Do you remember that?"

"Maisie," he repeats, more seriously now, like whatever he's about to say next really matters.

I stop as I step onto the whale-shaped "whalecome" doormat, hearing the tone in his voice. When I turn to look at him, he's still standing there, his brows furrowed, with that stray lock of hair that keeps falling stubbornly across his forehead. His hand moves to rub the back of his neck beneath the collar of his dress shirt where the buttons are undone.

He's devastatingly handsome.

"What?" I ask, and he slowly starts walking toward me. There's a look in his brown eyes I can't quite read.

"Have you ever—" He glances between me and his front door, slowly fishing his keys out of his pocket. "Have you ever thought about us?"

"Thought about us?" I echo, as he steps onto the doormat beside me, turning to face me.

He nods. "Do you ever think about us—about you and me?"

I glance from him down to the keys in his hand and then back to his face. I feel like I know what he's getting at, but I could be wrong. I have a long history of misreading these kinds of moments—like when I thought I had August all those years ago, or when I thought I was in a relationship with Henderson, only to realize I was his hookup, or all the times I believed my dad when he promised he'd show up for my birthday but never did. For all I know, August could be talking about the hotdog.

"You mean... you mean like us going to the Topsfield Fair in the fall? I won't be around this year."

"I'm serious, Maisie."

"I'm serious too," I say. He presses his lips together and looks down at the keys in his hand. "You're going to have to be a little more specific, August."

"Do you like faking things with me?"

"Faking things with you?"

He huffs out an incredulous laugh, scratching once behind his ear, and then squints into the sun. "The dating, the kissing, the touching. Do you like that with me?"

Something grips me by the ribs—panic, confusion. I open my mouth to respond, but I'm so thrown off, I don't know what to say. Has he changed his mind about all this? Does he not like doing those things with me? Is that what he's trying to say? Is this all too much? Does he want to end our arrangement early?

I know it's been a lot—especially with our photo plastered all over magazines, the paparazzi, the fans swarming outside his work. I had no idea it had gotten this bad, or I would have asked Ryan to handle things. But I'm not ready for this to end.

I blink away from his attention, down to the keys he's toying with, and snatch them out of his hand to unlock the door. Shakily, I try to fit them into the keyhole. "You're not a bad kisser, if that's what you're asking."

"That's not what I meant." August steps closer, his chest brushing against my back, and I drop the keys onto the porch. "You know that's not what I meant."

I swoop down to pick up the keys and glance over my shoulder at him, because I don't really know what he means. He's standing there, clutching the box of lobster rolls a little tighter, his eyes locked on mine with an expression so wary it borders on painful. And I don't know what he means.

I quickly shift my gaze from August to Mrs. Harris, who has conveniently chosen this moment to step out onto her porch—rather than two minutes ago when I could have just been kissing August instead of having this conversation.

She's shaking her head at us—or maybe just at me. I'm pretty sure she either hates that my last album had thirty swear words in it, compared to my squeaky clean first album with a total of zero, or she thinks I show too much skin on stage.

"Hi, Mrs. Harris!" I call out, waving a little too enthusiastically. "Lovely day, isn't it?"

She grumbles under her breath as I shove the key into the lock, twisting it before shouldering my way through the front door, August trailing behind me. I can hear the sigh he lets out, feel his eyes lingering on me as we toe off our shoes, and then he follows me into the kitchen, setting the box of lobster rolls down on the table.

"Maisie," August says just as I spot a box from Sugar Moon Bakery on the counter. I dart over, reaching for it and spinning the box around to open it.

"You saw Lucy at the bakery yesterday?" I ask, hoping he'll take the hint, drop the subject, we can just eat pastries, watch a movie, and forget about this.

"She stopped by last night."

I hum in acknowledgment, nodding as I peer into the box, letting the pastries steal my focus for a second. But then I hear him move behind me, and startle when his hands land on the counter, one on either side of me, boxing me in.

My heart lodges into my throat, and suddenly, it's like I can't breathe.

What is happening right now? This conversation has taken a complete one-eighty, and I'm totally thrown. What are we even talking about? Does he want me to admit that I think about him in a not-so-best-friend kind of way? That I have feelings—huge, messy feelings—for him? I can't tell him that. We don't talk about things like this. It's a strict no-fly zone topic. He's my best friend, and that's a line we've never even come close to touching.

I'm already clinging to the edges, desperately trying to hold onto whatever scraps of control I have left, terrified that me saying one wrong word might unravel everything.

August's voice is low, his warm breath fluttering against my hair. "You're not going to eat those for dinner, are you?"

"I-I don't know. Maybe," I say quietly, my voice garbled and strained.

"You didn't answer my question."

I pick up one of the tartlets from the box, stalling. "What was that again?"

"Do you think about us?"

I shake my head slightly, not wanting to say the wrong thing. "August..."

"Do you?" he presses, and I turn to face him, ready to argue that we shouldn't be having this conversation. But the moment I do, I find I'm still tucked between his arms, and all I can think is how close I am—close enough that it would be so easy to slip my hand behind his neck and pull him into a kiss.

My knees brush his, and I cling to the strawberry tartlet between us like it's my last line of defense, the only thing stopping me from doing something reckless. My chin tips down and I focus on the delicate, rose-shaped pattern of strawberries on top of the tartlet. Lucy's really outdone herself. I take the tiniest bite.

"Maisie," August presses.

I look up slowly, my gaze snagging on the two undone buttons of his navy blue dress shirt, the smatter of chest hair peeking out, and I can't seem to bring myself to meet his eyes.

I could tell August a lot of things. I could tell him I've been thinking about him since the first time I saw him at Hannigan's Market, bagging groceries all those years ago. How I used to cancel my plans whenever he'd come to visit his parents in Green Harbor during that year I came home to take care of Mom. That I wanted so badly to tell him, in that nameless dive bar in Rock Point, to choose me instead of Gwen. I could confess that every love song I've ever written has been about him. Admit that I think I fell in love with him the moment he walked up to me, called me the wrong name, and bought me a donut. Maybe even before that.

My lips part to say something, but nothing comes out.

And the longer I stay silent, the more his expression falls, like I can feel him slipping through my fingers. His eyes drop to our feet, the tips of his ears tinge pink, and his lips press into a firm line. He grips the counter beside me, his hands flexing against it before he pushes himself away, creating a small gap between us.

"Of course I've thought about us," I rush out, the words tumbling from my lips. It's such a tiny fragment of the truth that slips through, hardly enough to release the barest amount of pressure in my chest. "How could I not?"

Those eyes of his snap back to mine, sweeping over my face, searching every detail, like he's trying to decide if he heard me correctly. It takes a moment, but then he steps closer, and I have to tip my head up to hold his gaze. I'm so close now that I can see his pupils dilate, the intensity of his expression.

"You have?"

I swallow hard. "I have."

He pauses, giving me a long, pensive look before saying, "And I don't just mean us going to the fair—"

"I'm getting that," I whisper.

"Maisie, I think—" he starts, hesitating, as he looks past me at the box of pastries on the counter. "I think we should..."

God, August, I whisper to myself. Finish that sentence. We should what? What do you think we should do?

"What do you think?" I nearly choke out.

His eyes dart back to me, then down to the tartlet still between my fingers. "I don't think we should stop."

I blink, shaking my head because I'm not following. "We shouldn't stop?"

"Are you going to keep repeating everything I say?" He takes the tartlet from my hand, setting it gently on the counter.

"You're going to have to spell it out for me, August, because right now, it feels like we could be talking about two completely different things."

He takes a deep breath, his eyes locked on mine. "I think we should keep doing what we're doing. I've liked kissing you in public these last few weeks, and I think you have too, right?"

I nod quickly, hardly believing I'm admitting this to him—something I never thought I'd have the courage to do, something I was certain I'd take to the grave.

I see the corners of his lips twitch in a smile, like me admitting it pleases him, like it is the best thing he's heard since the day he found out they were remaking Dune.

He quickly continues, "Maybe, for the rest of this whole fake relationship—the few weeks we have left—we don't need to stop just because we're alone."

"We don't have to stop."

"We could keep, um, pretending, even when we're not in public," he says, reaching for a strand of my hair. He rubs it between his thumb and forefinger, giving it a gentle tug.

"And what about after?" I whisper back.

"After?" His brows knit together and there's a flick of confusion so brief that when I blink, it's gone—like I imagined it. "Maybe we just see how it goes."

I don't like the sound of that—the uncertainty, the lack of a clear yes or no. But I suppose that's what a trial period is for: a time to test things out, and then, if it doesn't work out or when the time on this trial period expires, we just go back to how things were before. Right?

I must be making a face because he quickly adds, "Nothing's going to change between us. Nothing has so far, right? We'll just get to kiss each other whenever we want. I'll still be your best friend, and you'll still be mine."

"Like a trial period," I say, needing to know that we're on the same page.

He glances behind me at the cabinet above my head, considering it. "Yeah, like a trial period."

"And you'll still be my best friend even after?"

"Even after," he promises.

My eyes drift past him to the counter on the far side of the room, where my vintage tea mugs sit neatly by the kettle—the ones he promised to move lower so I could reach them. Then to the bag of cat food he must've picked up at the store, propped against the coat rack by the front door for the kitten living outside that may or may not actually be a raccoon.

I finally look back at August, still leaning close, with a look so earnest on his face it makes my chest hurt a little. He's just standing there, waiting for me to say something. August, waiting for me to tell him I think this is a good idea. Waiting for me to kiss him here in his kitchen.

This was exactly what I wanted—a trial period. So I'm not sure why I'm hesitating. I've wanted August for as long as I can remember, and I want this itch, this feeling crawling beneath my skin, to finally go away. To know what it's like to kiss him whenever I want. To feel his hands on my body. For once in my life, I think I want to make a selfish decision, even if it comes with big consequences.

Because August promised. He promised everything would be okay, that we'd still be best friends, even after this arrangement ends. And when August makes a promise, I know he means it.

"Okay," I tell him.

———————

Leaving you on a cliffhanger until next week 😈 But trust me, the next few chapters are going to be so worth it.

How are we feeling about August and Maisie's version of this little trial run? Let me hear all your thoughts, feelings, and any predictions.

Also, what is the deal with Mrs. Harris? lol

Tysm for reading, commenting, and voting ❤️