Public Relations

"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."