Public Relations

I don't know how long I've been standing in front of my shed, blankly staring at my lawnmower.

I wasn't expecting Maisie to show up after yesterday. I had been bracing myself all day, waiting for her call or text to end this whole fake dating arrangement. I was mentally preparing for rejection, especially after how she reacted at the bar. I knew this might be awkward for her, but I didn't expect her to be so... uninterested in me in that way.

The kiss was, well, that was a spur-of-the-moment, last-ditch effort to keep her from ending things. Something to prove to Maisie that this—me and her—can't be that bad together.

And now, all I can think about is how her fingers tangled in my hair, how she breathed like she was drinking me in, how her lips moved against mine like she couldn't get enough.

I keep hearing that hitch in her breath when our lips brushed together. I've heard it before, but I always assumed it meant something else entirely.

I turn, placing my hands on my hip, and glance back at the house.

Every part of me is screaming to go in there and kiss her again. I'm not sure what I expected after kissing Maisie—maybe that one kiss would be enough, that my feelings of wanting her would fade afterward. But kissing her is... intoxicating, and I'm an idiot for thinking it would be anything but. I know I should be holding back, remind myself that this is just an arrangement but my mind is racing now, plotting ways to get her to let me kiss her again.

I stride back into the house from the shed, completely forgetting the lawn and barely registering the matching cherry-shaped ceramic cat bowls placed beside my front door as I open it. The sound of her rummaging in the kitchen draws me through the short hallway to find her.

When I reach the doorway of the kitchen, I pause. She's there, quietly singing to herself—something about spearmint kisses?—as she looks through the cabinets. I lean against the door frame, watching her crouch down to rummage through the lower cabinet, then rise on tiptoes to look at the upper shelves.

"What are you doing?" I ask, breaking the quiet.

She startles, whispering, "Oh my god," then turns to face me with her hand pressed to her chest. "Announce yourself when you enter a room, August."

"Sorry," I say, a smile tugging at my lips as she spins back around to resume her search. "What are you looking for?"

"I'm looking for my vintage teacups I left here last year. I can't find them."

"They're on the top shelf, to the left," I point out. She shuffles over to the cabinet, stretching on her toes, almost balancing on the balls of her feet to reach them. She's taken off her sweatshirt, now just in her baggy jeans and a cropped t-shirt that reveals more skin than my imagination can handle at the moment. I force my eyes to shift to her hands as she struggles to reach. Walking over to help, I extend my arm over her shoulder, pressing lightly against her as I grab one of the teacups from the cupboard.