Chapter 6
MAX
Showtime
The door clicks shut behind me, sealing out Manhattan’s roar like someone hit mute on the world.
Inside, the loft exhales quiet.
Warm afternoon light slants through linen curtains, brushing over the worn Persian rug and the pile of unread mail on the entry table.
This place was never supposed to be permanent. It was supposed to be a pit stop between tours, between cities, between fuckups. But then I kept coming back. And eventually, it started to feel like home—whatever the hell that means for someone like me.
Muted jazz hums from the built-in speakers. The real kind. No lyrics. Just piano and sax and a heartbeat underneath.
I step out of my boots and kick them toward the mat. My hoodie lands on the arm of the couch, right beside the half-read copy of my latest book.
I walk to the bar cabinet—tucked under a built-in bookshelf, unassuming unless you know what to look for.
One tap on the panel and backlighting reveals crystal decanters: Islay scotch, small-batch bourbon, tequila with a snake etched on the bottle.
I splash two fingers of bourbon into a square glass, no ice.
The burn is immediate, almost medicinal, but it doesn’t take the edge off—not the edge left by Nora’s lips or the flash of hurt that replaced desire when she found the tattoo.
I sink onto the leather sofa, bourbon in hand, and stare across the room like it might give me answers.
I knock back the rest of the bourbon, the warmth curling in my chest, slower this time.
Outside, taxis crawl like embers down Eighth Avenue. Somewhere out there, she’s probably drafting a mental blacklist with my name on top. I deserve it, but the thought is a punch to the lungs.
I can still feel her cardigan sliding down her arms, the hush of fabric right before she hooked her heels behind my calves.
My pulse spikes at the memory—heat, surprise, the electric jolt of her trust when the elevator groaned and she chose to cling to me instead of panic.
For a few suspended minutes it was just us, no masks, no spotlights, her breath painting goosebumps across my neck.
The way she whispered my name—Matt, not Max—hit harder than any stadium roar I’ve ever surfed.
And then she saw the tattoo. Recognition lit her eyes, and in the same instant disbelief iced over everything warm between us.
I replay the split-second transformation until it bruises.
The kiss ended in free fall, my fault entirely.
One half-truth too many and I turned something rare into another burned bridge.
I’m exhilarated. I’m wrecked. I’ve never wanted anyone the way I want her—her curiosity, her quick mind, the gasp she makes when surprise melts into pleasure.
I drop onto the leather sectional, phone already in hand.
My thumb hovers over a familiar name in my contacts—Karina, the cellist who never asks questions; we have an unspoken arrangement: physics, no feelings.
Fifteen minutes of her lush accent stroking my ego might drown tonight’s disaster.
I picture dialing, picture the easy relief of bodies colliding without history. My thumb almost taps call.
The screen lights first.
Vivienne Clark flashes across the glass.
“Vee,” I answer, voice rough.
“Hope I’m interrupting something dull,” she says. Background noise: the low hum of her town-car’s engine. “We have a problem.”
“Let me guess—Jake Armstrong.”
“He sniffed you at City Hall. Worse, he bribed the security contractor and pulled elevator footage—you and Ms. Davidson, lip-locked, timestamp visible. He’s threatening a midnight drop on his blog unless we give him ‘exclusive positioning’ before the benefit.”
I run a hand through my hair, bourbon forgotten. “Dammit. That’ll blow back on Nora, not just me.”
“Yes. A public-employee scandal plays better than ‘rockstar fools around.’ He’ll frame her as reckless, maybe corrupt. Given how thin the library’s funding thread is—”
“—It’ll snap,” I finish. I pace to the window, forehead almost touching the glass. “Options?”
“I’ve stalled him by promising a statement. He’s expecting confirmation that you two are officially involved—consensual, wholesome, photo-ready. If we control the rollout, we blunt the scandal.”
“Fake dating,” I mutter.
“Temporary PR relationship,” Vivienne clarifies. “We lean into the heart-warming angle: touring crew meets librarian, sparks fly during planning, yadda yadda. The public loves a meet-cute. Sponsors stay. Armstrong gets no dirt beyond what we feed him.”
I imagine Nora’s expression if I propose this fake-dating scheme. She’d cut me apart with that librarian glare. “She’s furious, Vee. I lied to her.”
“Angry or not, she cares about the library. Pitch it as a shield for her programs, not a favor to you.”
I grip the curtains, knuckles whitening. “And if she says no?”
“Then Armstrong publishes and we scramble. Your reputation we can repair; hers will be collateral damage.”
The words land like a bass drop in dead silence.
“Then you’ll have to play mediator,” I tell her.
“Alright. We have until noon tomorrow. I promised Armstrong a statement by one.”
The call ends. The glass city stares back: a million windows, none offering answers.
I set the phone down, delete Karina’s contact for good measure, and pour the bourbon down the sink. No more numb-and-run fixes. If I want Nora to trust me—even on paper—I have to show up sober, honest, and holding something better than excuses.
The guitar leaning on its stand beside the sofa catches my eye. I pick it up, fingers sliding into a C minor shape, and let the strings ring. The chords feel raw, unfinished—exactly like the apology I’ll offer Nora in the morning.
***
I hover half-hidden beneath the awning of La Lune, a modest French bistro where Nora and Vivienne are meeting right now. The frost-etched glass gives me only silhouettes—Vivienne’s precise angles, Nora’s softer outline—but even those blur every second I wait.
Pacing helps until it doesn’t. I count flagstones, tap lyrics against my thigh, rehearse apologies that keep crumbling under their own weight.
Truth, not charm—that’s the brief. Hi, I’m Max Donovan, storm-tattooed fraud, and I’m begging you to pretend we’re dating so a tabloid hyena doesn’t torch your funding. Yeah, smooth.
Through the door’s brass grid I see Vivienne lean in, hands steepled: the “I can fix this” posture.
Nora sits back, arms folded, expression unreadable.
My pulse slams like a kick-drum reverb. If she walks out now, Armstrong publishes tonight, the library loses donors, and I become the headline villain twice over.
A delivery van idles at the curb; exhaust ghosts around my boots. I resist the stupid urge to text Vivienne Status? She’ll wave me in when—if—the ground is safe.
Inside, Nora’s silhouette shifts. She pinches the bridge of her nose, then—slowly—uncrosses her arms. Vivienne slides a printed contract across the table. Nora’s head dips to read. Every muscle in my body braces.
Thirty agonizing seconds later Vivienne looks toward the door and gives the slightest nod.
The steel band around my ribs loosens—but only a notch. I draw one long breath, square my shoulders, and push into the bistro’s warmth.
Showtime!