"Mace, I don't think anyone's following us."

"Are you sure?" she asks as I glance in the rearview mirror at her; she's trying to peek above the window to look outside the car. "Once, someone followed me for over an hour before finally giving up."

I shake my head, scanning the surroundings for any signs of a tail. "There's no one following us."

"You can't be sure, though," she insists, sinking back into the seat. She lies flat across the back seats of my car, her head against the car door, concealed from any paparazzi or fans.  "Sometimes they're really good at hiding."

I watch as she adjusts my Red Sox hat she's wearing, pulling it down a bit more, and tucks a loose strand of blonde hair behind her ear before I tear my gaze from her and return my focus back to the road.

I don't ever remember her ever being this concerned about paparazzi following her. I mean, I know she's famous now, but she's never seemed this worried before.

I reach for the plastic cup in the cup holder and hold it out behind me, saying, "I got you a coffee."

"You did?" she exclaims, letting out a soft little gasp, her hand brushing against mine as she takes the cup. "Thank you. Did you get it from–"

"That little hole-in-the-wall with the C inspection grade that you like so much, yes," I say, shaking my head as I pick up my iced americano and take a sip. "Do you even know what that C grade stands for?"

She ignores me. "Is it the cinn-"

"Cinnamon sugar oat milk latte. Yes," I interject, flicking on my turn signal to switch lanes. "It stands for Marginal Compliance. Marginal, Maisie. That means they're barely meeting the inspection standards."

"But it's a passing grade, and their coffee is amazing," she insists, taking a sip and letting out a loud, dramatic moan. "Tastes like heaven."

I shake my head at her as I take another sip. "Tastes like salmonella."

I suddenly feel the hat she's wearing hit the back of my head.

"Ouch," I laugh out, rubbing the back of my head, then glance back at her through the rearview mirror again. She's busy toying with her straw, the cup resting on her stomach, her grey sweatshirt riding up from when she slid down the seat. My gaze lingers on that exposed skin just a little longer than I'd care to admit. Sure, I've seen her in far less—swimsuits during the summer, at her concert that one time I attended, on magazine covers. It's just that— it's been six months since I've seen her, and I've forgotten how... stunning she is in person.

She turns her head, her crystal-blue eyes snagging mine, and I quickly return my focus to the road.

Clearing her throat, she says, "So, Gwen didn't want to come with you to pick me up?"

I grip the steering wheel tightly. "I thought I told you we broke up." Even if we hadn't broken up, Gwen wouldn't have wanted to come anyway. "Actually, I'm positive I told you we broke up."

"Did you?" I hear her take a sip of her coffee, humming in contemplation.

"Yes, I did. I told you about it a month ago," I say, turning off the freeway. "A couple of days after your album was released. You were in your car on your way to get a smoothie or something."

"Oh yeah," she says as I stop at the light. I glance in the rearview mirror at her again; she's still looking at me but quickly shifts her gaze back to her drink. "That was a really good smoothie."

"So, you do remember me telling you?"

"Yeah, I think so."

She doesn't say anything more, and it's silent between the two of us for a beat. I know she's not saying what she wants to say. "What?"

"Nothing."

"Mace."

"It's just— I don't know. It's just, you guys are always on and off. Isn't this, like, the fourth time you've split up in the last five years? I figured you'd have gotten back together by now, I guess."

"Well, we haven't," I reply with a shrug, pressing my fingers to the spot between my eyebrows. "How was your flight by the way? You never mentioned earlier."

She lets out an exasperated sigh. "Don't try to change the subject on me."

"I'm not trying to change the subject. There's nothing more to talk about. We broke up, and that's it. We're not getting back together."

"I'm pretty sure that's exactly what you said last time," she mumbles, toying with the straw as I continue to drive.

I glance in the mirror again, noticing her drink is already half gone, and a smile tugs at the edge of my lips. "Don't you have a bodyguard now? Why didn't he fly with you if you're so worried about being recognized?"

"God," she mutters, sliding down until her head rests on the seat, knees bent and eyes fixed on the car ceiling. "You sound just like Andrea."

"Well, maybe she has a point. People did notice you back there," I say as I pull into one of the parking spots in front of the address to the warehouse I was given. "We're here, by the way."

"Oh," she says, sitting up and peering out the window at the warehouse. "That was quick."

I turn off the engine and unbuckle my seat belt, twisting around in my seat to face her. "Wasn't that far from the airport."

"Well, thanks for picking me up," she begins, reaching for her bag and gathering her auburn wig and wallet to put away. "I know you probably had to work this morning."

"It's no problem," I say, shaking my head.

"Which reminds me." She pauses to glance at me as she finishes the last bit of her coffee, she asks, "How are you liking your new promotion?"

"It's good." I nod, gazing past her through the car window. "There's a lot more reading, editing, emailing involved."

"What's your new title now?" she asks.

"Editor."

"Wow, so fancy," she remarks playfully. "August Williams, Editor for HarborCrest Publishing House."

"Well, it's definitely an upgrade from assistant editor."

"It is," she agrees, and then after a moment, "You have, like, a real grown-up job now."

"And what do you think you have, exactly?"

"A fake one," she says without missing a beat and a wry smile. "Where people think I'm actually talented, and pay me to sing for them."

"You make it sound like you're a wedding singer."

She tilts her head. "Pretty much the same thing, Gus."

"Just with about thirty thousand extra people staring at you," I add. She rolls her eyes at me. "You're very talented, Maisie."

"That," she points a finger at me, "is completely subjective. Just ask any member of the Maisie Rhodes Hate Club on Reddit."

I shake my head. "Is that a thing?"

"I don't know, probably. I'm pretty sure Andrea somehow blocks Reddit on my phone," she shrugs, scooting closer and resting her shoulder and head against the passenger seat as she looks at me. "Well, anyway, thanks for picking me up."

"Of course." We're so close now that I can smell her perfume again. It's something subtle, expensive, intoxicating, like fresh flowers on a spring day. I want to lean my face right into it. Tuck my nose into the space below her ear where it's strongest.

Everything about Maisie now is different, more put together than the Maisie I knew in college. The Maisie who was always late for class but never without her cotton candy-colored notebook so she could doodle during class. The one who, if she liked a sweater, would buy it in every color and wear them in rotation throughout the week.

She's different but still the same at her core. The quirkiness that defines Maisie Rhodes hasn't changed since those things changed in these last five years. She's just refined, polished—honed into a celebrity, a pop-star, or whatever it is you want to call it. She's out of my league now, she always has been. But she's still that same Maisie Rhodes I knew back then.

I watch as she wets her bottom lip and then bites down on one side, and that's when I realize I've stared a bit longer than I should have. I tear my eyes away from her and fix my gaze on the giant-sized warehouse we're parked in front of, clearing my throat and rubbing my hands against my slacks.

"Want to come in?" She asks, sitting up a little, looking out the window. "See the stage for the concert? Help me avoid Andrea getting mad at me."

I tilt my head, curious. "Why would Andrea be mad at you?"

She searches my face almost looking for something specific in my expression. "Did you watch the interview last night?"

I scratch my eyebrow. Did I turn my TV on to watch her on the Tonight Show? Yes. Did I turn off the volume when she started talking about her last boyfriend, Noah, and his new movie and how even though they are not together she still likes him very much? Also yes. "Um, yeah."

"Oh," she says, still searching my face before blinking and clearing her throat. "Right. Well, I might have said something I wasn't supposed to." She waves it off and reaches for the car door handle.

"I see," I murmur, glancing down at my watch to check the time. I'm late. "I can come in for a few minutes, but I need to head to work soon."

I should have been in the office about forty-five minutes ago. Yes, while the new position gives me a bit more flexibility, and I'm sure if anyone knew who I was with, it would be okay. But I'm still in the early days, and I really should get back to work. It's just— I can't bring myself to leave her.

She smiles, popping open the car door and saying, "Okay."