There's a soft two-tap knock against the door to my dressing room.

August and I both freeze, my eyes snapping to the locked door. I squint at it, as if that will somehow help me listen better, because maybe I just imagined the sound. August's hand tightens around my hip like he's about to continue, but then I hear it again. His head falls to the space between my shoulders and groans.

"Ms. Rhodes?"

"Just a second," I squeak out quickly, my voice shooting up four octaves higher than usual. Whoever's on the other side doesn't seem to notice—or at least they don't comment.

"Just wanted to give you a heads-up," they call through the door. It's the producer—Glen, I think is his name. "Fifteen minutes till showtime. All good to go?"

"All go—" The words catch in my throat as August thrusts a little deeper into me, forcing out a sound that's far too close to a moan. He stills again, giving me just enough time to regain a little bit of my composure. I bet if I turned around right now to look at him, I'd see a smug grin on his face, far too pleased with himself.

I clear my throat, managing, "All good!"

I should've known better. When I told August I was nervous about going back on The Tonight Show, and he said, Let me distract you, I should have guessed he didn't mean launching into his usual spiel about the differences between The Lord of the Rings books and movies—and why the books are, in his opinion, far superior.

No, I should've known that as my boyfriend, his idea of a distraction would involve slipping his hands up my dress, peeling off my thong with agonizing slowness, spinning me around, and burying himself inside me without even a second thought.

I'll admit, though—it's far more distracting than his Lord of the Rings speeches.

He rocks into me again the moment the footsteps outside my door fade away. The table rattles, and the cat-shaped wooden sculpture wobbles precariously, followed by a framed photo of Ricky Falcon with his three cats, and a small stack of Vogue magazines featuring me on the cover with the headline Maisie Rhodes: Claiming Her Pop Crown, all sliding toward the edge. I reach instinctively to catch them but end up gripping the edge of the table tighter as August pulls out, only to drive back in.

A moan hiccups out of me before I can stifle it, and I squeeze my eyes shut, silently willing myself to stay silent.

"You need to be quiet," he murmurs, a breathy laugh brushing warm against the bare skin of my back. He presses a kiss there, and I instinctively arch into him, earning a low, guttural groan from his chest.

"I am being quiet," I manage to gasp out, my voice barely above a whisper. "You be quiet."

His quiet laugh is maddening, and I want to turn around—I want to kiss him senseless until he makes that sound he always gets embarrassed over.

He leans in closer, brushing a kiss just below my ear. Without thinking, I tilt my head to the side, granting him full access to the bare curve of my shoulder. He doesn't hesitate, pressing his lips to the spot where my neck meets my shoulder. Then he sucks—hard.

"August," I gasp, trying to scold him, but my body betrays me as I clench around him. He stills, pressing his forehead against my back, a quiet, muffled moan escaping him. "I told you no kissing—and no hickeys—before I go on."

I already have too many to hide. Anna never says anything when she has to cover them before my concerts, but I can't stop myself from blushing every time.

"I know. Sorry," he murmurs."I can't help it."

August shifts behind me, dragging his hand from my hip over the scrunched fabric of my dress—a form-fitting mini with long sleeves and a V-neckline he hasn't stopped staring at all night—until his fingers find my clit. He presses down, and I flutter again, my body trembling around him. I'm embarrassingly close already. But there's something about him fucking me here, in the green room of The Tonight Show, that just does it for me. A fantasy, if you will.

"Jesus, Maisie, you've thought about me fucking you here?"

Oh. My nose scrunches together—I must have accidentally said that out loud. I clear my throat, trying to play it off cool, but then he thrusts into me again, and I go boneless, melting against him. "Did I say that out loud?"

He huffs out a laugh. "Yeah, you did."

"I, um—maybe. Yes," I stammer, heat rushing to my face, his body moving against mine. "Yes, I have. It may be something I've thought about on more than one occasion."

He groans, and I feel it all the way down to my toes. "I want you to be full of me while you're out there, on live TV."

My jaw drops just enough to let out a half-delirious laugh. "August Williams, are you being... possessive over me?"

He slows against me, and I can almost picture the tips of his ears turning red. "Nine years, Maisie—"

"I think you've been editing too many romance books."

"—Nine years to make up for, so yes—"

"They're having you read smut now, aren't they?"

"—I'm being possessive."

"Well, you'd better hurry up then, before—Um, oh."

August nudges my legs wider with his foot, the heel of my sling-back stilettos dragging against the floor, and then does something interesting with his fingers. He moves in short, deliberate little thrusts that hit just the right spot—the one I'm convinced he's memorized over the last two weeks. And my body lights up from the friction.

I'm not going to be able to hold on much longer, and I can practically come apart right now.

"I love you," he whispers into my ear from behind, his voice deliciously rough, and I shiver against him. He's figured it out by now—that every time he says those three words while he's buried inside me, I'm ten seconds closer to falling apart. I think he's taking advantage of it now.

"God, Gus," I bite back a moan as my insides flutter, my stomach tightens, and my knees start to wobble. His hands tighten on me, pressing me into the table just enough to hold me steady as my body finally lets go.

"I love you, Maisie girl," he says as I come, gasping his name out. Heat tugs deep, a blissful pulse that crashes over me again and again, so consuming I have to shut my eyes against it. My fingers curl tighter around the edge of the table, anchoring me so that I don't get swept away completely.

He doesn't stop, guiding me through every wave of pleasure until his rhythm stutters—messy and uncoordinated—and he follows me right over the edge, groaning into the crook of my neck.

We collapse against the table, August's weight half draped over me. His body is taut, his breath still uneven against me, and my dress—now tangled and probably has wrinkled lines on it—digs uncomfortably into my stomach. And my left leg has a cramp.

But I am relaxed and entirely, perfectly undone.

August shifts, lifting his arm from around my waist, and I let out a small, displeased little huff. He laughs, pressing a quick kiss to the back of my neck.

"Let me get you cleaned up," he murmurs.

It's been two weeks of this. Two weeks since my tour started. Two weeks since I told my best friend I love him. Two weeks of August. And while I've been floating in bliss, the rest of the world has been a little... less understanding. They're still convinced I've taken back and forgiven my so-called cheating boyfriend, devastated on my behalf and clinging to the narrative. Even after Gwen—likely harassed one too many times—posted on Instagram, without even telling August or me first, that she didn't kiss or have any kind of affair with him.

Andrea and my publicist team keep insisting I don't owe anyone an explanation, but it's hard to ignore the noise. And my fans are so invested that I feel like I owe them at least something.

I also just want them to stop hating on the man I'm in love with.

August pulls a rag from the bathroom of the green room we're in and gently cleans me up like he always does, his hands steady and careful as he helps me slip my thong back on, adjusting my dress so it falls just right. He's so gentle it makes my chest ache.

When he straightens, our eyes meet, and I smile at him. I feel like I'm dreaming, like I've plucked him straight out of one of my best dreams and made it real. He's wearing a simple black long-sleeve polo with the top two buttons undone, a dusting of chest hair peeking out, paired with tan slacks and perfectly wavy hair. I watch as his lips tilt into a quiet smile, brown eyes soft and gooey.

"Pretty," he murmurs, brushing a wisp of hair behind my ear, careful not to touch my face or disturb my makeup.

I roll my eyes playfully. "So obsessed with me."

August shakes his head, exasperated by me, as he zips himself back into his slacks.

Another knock sounds at the door, followed by the same voice as before. "Ms. Rhodes, we're ready for you."

"Shall we?" August asks, extending his hand toward me.

I slide my fingers through his, threading them together until our palms press tight against each other. "We shall."

With a deep breath, I push open the dressing room door. Across the hall, Ryan stands with his hands clasped behind his back, a surly expression aimed squarely at Glen, who's scribbling something on his clipboard. When he realizes I'm standing right there, he gestures for us to follow, and August and I fall into step beside him, weaving through the bustling backstage area as the hum of the live audience grows louder on our way to the studio set.

Glen rushes through the outline for tonight's show—the games I'll be playing with Ricky, the segments I'm involved in, and a quick review of the questions I won't be answering. Questions about my mom, my father, and my stepmom.

Andrea and I came up with the list to sidestep any awkwardness or overly personal prodding—intrusive questions like why I don't speak to my father anymore, why he wasn't around before, or why I've stopped going to family dinners—despite the fact that Bridget and I text more often than not these days. It's just I don't want to end up in another situation like the one with August, even though that worked out for the best.

When we reach the backstage area, Glen says, "You'll wait here until Ricky announces you. James, our intern, will cue you on when to step out."

I glance over at James. He offers me a nervous smile, stretches out his hand like he's going to shake mine, but then pulls it back quickly, as though second-guessing himself. He looks more nervous than I feel, and I'm about to go on The Tonight Show.

"I'll take August to his seat," Glen adds, sliding his pen behind his ear. "If you need anything, just let anyone know."

"Love you," August says, pressing a soft kiss to the top of my head before tipping his chin down to meet my eyes. "You're going to do great. You don't look nervous at all anymore. You're way more relaxed."

A laugh bubbles out of me. "I don't?"

"Nope," he says, already turning to follow Glen, who is already disappearing out of sight, toward the seating area. "We should really think about making this part of the pre-show ritual before your concerts."

"Is that right?" I ask, narrowing my eyes with a playful smile.

"Yes, I hear it helps tremendously with not only nerves but creativity, too. We should definitely test it out."

"For the sake of the tour?"

"For the sake of the tour, yes."

I laugh as he rounds the corner, and I twist back to James. He pushes up his thick-framed glasses, offering me a nervous smile before quickly redirecting his gaze, making sure he's not staring.

I can hear the audience, Ricky getting settled at his desk, someone sprinting past the curtain, shouting, "Where's the cards for the Q&A?" Then the countdown begins, a director's voice cutting through the buzz, marking the seconds before the cameras go live, the familiar jingle of The Tonight Show playing.

I wait for James to give me my cue, my heart pounding in my chest, thundering against my ribcage, because the last time I was here, everything blew up in my face, and I ended up faking a relationship with my best friend.

"Alright, folks, I've got a special treat for you tonight," Ricky begins. I can practically hear the smile in his voice, the lean he does into the desk. "You all know her. She's been lighting up stages across America, and just two months ago, she graced this very couch, giving us a sneak peek into her latest album, It's Always Been You."

The audience cheers, a wave of sound that somehow manages to sneak past the curtain and into my chest. I tug at the hem of my dress, trying to keep my nerves steady.

"And let's not forget," Ricky continues, "that little slip about her secret boyfriend that had the world talking. She's breaking records, shattering expectations, she's a force of nature, and tonight, she's back—ready to spill the tea about her tour. And who knows, there might even be a few exclusive details about her now-not-so-secret boyfriend. You know her, you love her. Please give a massive round of applause to the one and only, Maisie Rhodes!"

James gives me my cue, nodding as the curtain parts. I step forward with a bright smile, waving playfully at the audience as their applause erupts into cheers. Reaching the couch, I lean in to give Ricky a quick hug before settling into my seat as the noise begins to settle.

"Welcome back, Maisie," he says, settling into his chair with a contented sigh. "You look fantastic."

"Thank you," I say, crossing my legs as I adjust my dress, glancing at the audience before turning back to Ricky. He's grown a beard since the last time I saw him. It suits him. "Thank you for having me again so soon. You look fantastic as well."

"You just can't stay away, could you?" he teases, a grin pulling at the edges.

"How could I, after how well the last interview went?" I toss back, earning a chuckle from him as he clasps his hands in front of him. He's still giddy over the fact that he got that information out of me in the first place. I can see it in the twinkle in his eyes.

"Well, we do make quite the impression here on The Tonight Show," he says with a half-shrug, and I laugh as he continues, "But seriously, how's it going? I mean, you're in the middle of this massive tour—every date sold out, your album is still at the top of every chart even after twelve weeks, you were just on the cover of Vogue, who's claiming you the princess of pop—and somehow, you still found time to be here tonight. You must be running on, what? Coffee and adrenaline?"

"Donuts, actually," I quip, the crowd laughing lightly.

"Donuts. Of course. You know, it's actually the only reason we have a table of them in the back." Ricky leans back in his chair and takes a long sip from his coffee mug. "So tell us why you're here. When I got the call that you wanted to come back so soon, I moved things around just to make it happen. So... what's up?"

I fold my hands in my lap, glancing briefly over the crowd before my eyes settle on August in the front row. He's grinning into his palm, leaning forward, elbows resting on his knees, his brown eyes locked on mine. A smile tugs at my lips, just a little wider for him, before I turn back to Ricky.

I scratch just under my ear, gathering my thoughts. "Well, the last time I was here, I don't know if you remember, but you asked me a few questions, and I made this little comment about having a secret boyfriend. And it kind of... blew up."

"Oh, I remember." Ricky grins, his eyes crinkling at the corners as the audience laughs. Yeah, he's still so proud of himself. "I think everyone remembers."

"Well, since then," I continue, "um, my relationship with August, my boyfriend, has gone from very private to very public. To the point where pictures have surfaced, allegations were made, and I'm pretty sure everyone here already knows most of the details."

"Unfortunately," Ricky adds, raising an eyebrow and shuffling his notecards, needing something to occupy his restless hands. I'm not sure Ricky can even sit still without having to touch something. "We know."

"So, I just thought," I say, shrugging lightly until one shoulder brushes my chin, my smile softening into something more sincere, enthusiastic, "since it all started here, why not address it here?"

The audience bursts into applause, the energy in the room suddenly electric. Ricky leans forward, eager, as if he's been waiting for this moment. "Alright, Maisie. Let's talk."

I clear my throat, letting out a deep breath as the weight of it all settles in—the fact that I'm about to tell the world how I fake-dated my best friend—the one I've always been in love with—only to actually end up together for real.

"Well, Ricky, to be honest, my relationship with August Williams all started as a matter of... public relations."