Chapter 10
MAX
A Not-So-Exclusive
Nora.
I wake up with her name in my head, Melody’s tiny purr vibrating against my collarbone like a battery-powered lullaby.
I can feel the air shift whenever she is near me—I don’t know what it is about her.
She is beautiful of course, but I’ve met a lot of beautiful women.
She is whip-smart and I like that she isn’t very impressed by my fame or wealth.
It’s refreshing, honestly. I also like the way her whole face lights up, when she laughs.
But there’s something in her essence that pulls at me.
Don’t get me wrong: I want to fuck her more than I want anything else.
But I don’t think she is a woman for one night.
And attraction in my orbit is collateral damage waiting to happen.
Cameras follow me the way stray thoughts follow insomniacs.
Rehab rumors, paternity gossip, the constant hum of people waiting for a headline—they’re my background music.
I know she craves and deserves something quieter than my life.
A life with a husband, a bunch of children, a house with books in every room and maybe a cat dozing in the sun.
Speaking of cats: last night I fell asleep on the couch with Melody—me halfway through a documentary, her curled at the hinge of my elbow.
Now pale light seeps around the loft’s blackout shades, and I can’t shake the fear that I’ve missed some critical kitten-care step.
Litter box: installed. Water: refreshed at 2 a.m. Scratching post: improvised from a rolled-up bath mat.
Still, doubt buzzes louder than her motor-purr.
I ease my phone from the coffee table and open Nora’s contact—Nora Bookworm. Thumb hovers, then taps.
Max:
Morning. Melody made it through the night, but I’m not sure I’ve set things up right. Anything I should fix before she decides I’m a terrible foster dad?
Nora:
Morning! If she’s eating, drinking, and using the litter box, you’re already ahead of half the internet. How did those three things go?
Max:
Food: gone in sixty seconds. Water: topped off twice. Litter box: one solid hit, one attempt behind my amp (redirected in time).
Nora:
All sounds normal. Maybe add a blanket or old T-shirt so she smells something familiar when she curls up.
Max:
Tour hoodie from 2018 okay? Smells like coffee and stale guitar strings.
Nora:
Perfect. Comfort plus conversation piece.
Max:
Any tips on how much to feed her? She acts like every packet is her last meal.
Nora:
Half a pouch three times a day. If she finishes and begs for more, that’s normal. Don’t cave right away—small stomach.
Max:
Copy that. I guess I’m on portion patrol.
There’s a pause while Melody crawls into the box and immediately falls asleep. I snap a quiet picture but hold off on sending it. Texting again feels easier than stepping away.
Max:
She’s already out cold again. Is that okay? Seems like she sleeps a lot.
Nora:
Kittens sleep a ton. Growing mode. Let her nap. Use the quiet to get coffee.
Max:
How about we take this “date” to new heights—indoor climbing. Think you’re up for a wall?
Nora:
Count me in. Send the address and time, and I’ll meet you there.
Max:
Great. I’ll let Vivienne know so she can keep the photographer low profile.
Nora:
Thanks. Keep me posted on Melody. A quick photo later would be nice. :)
Max:
Will do. Thanks for the help this morning.
Nora:
Anytime, Max. Talk later.
My phone buzzes again, but this time Vivienne’s name flashes across the screen.
“Morning, Vee,” I answer, tucking the phone between shoulder and ear. “Exclusive went up?”
“Yes—Jake’s blog posted the agreed feature at six sharp,” she says. A rustle of paper—probably the printout she edits with war-crime precision. “Everything looks good. Nothing about the elevator incident. Photos are exactly what we approved.”
“Then why do you sound like a fire alarm?”
“Because ten minutes later a new set of photos hit Twitter—fan-shot photos of you and Nora in Madison Chem-Mart, kitten cradled like a prop. The angle barely shows her face, but gossip sites already have it: ‘Max Donovan caught with beautiful woman.’ Tags are trending.” She pauses. “Max, it’s spreading fast.”
I rub a hand down my face. “How bad?”
“It’s all innocent, but it’s not what Nora signed up for, so…”
“Great.” I glance at Melody, still snoozing in her makeshift bed. “I’ll handle it. First I need to warn Nora.”
We hang up. I take one steadying breath and tap “Nora Bookworm”.
The line rings twice. “Max?” Her voice is wary, still morning-soft.
“Hey, sorry to bother you.” I exhale sharply. “Something’s blown up online—figured I should tell you before you hear it from someone else.”
Silence, a rustle of sheets. “Okay… what happened?”
“The photos that were taken in the drugstore—those shots are all over Twitter and Insta. Some of them show the two of us together.”
I hear her sit up, phone shifting. “On Social Media? As in big?”
“Big enough…’”
A quick inhale on her end. “So much for low-profile. I—haven’t even opened social media yet. Is it bad for the library?”
“Right now it’s mostly speculation and jokes. I just thought you should be made aware of it. I’m really sorry, Nora. It’s not what you signed up for and I should’ve steered us out sooner.”
I hear her padding across the floor; maybe she’s opening curtains. “You didn’t ask that girl to pull out her phone.” “Anyway,” She blows out a breath. “Thanks for calling. I hate finding out from push notifications.”
“Figured you would. You okay?”
“I think so. Slightly nauseous, but that might be the sudden fame—or lack of coffee.”
“I’ll have one delivered—caffeine bribe.”
A small laugh, shaky but real. “You don’t have to—”
“I want to.”
Another pause, softer this time. “Thanks.”
Melody climbs into my lap and kneads my thigh. I scratch her folded ear, phone still pressed to my ear. “She’s purring like she knows she just broke the internet.”
“Well, at least someone’s enjoying the fame.” Nora’s smile comes through in her voice now.
“And Nora—thanks for rolling with this. I know it’s not what you signed up for.”
Her voice softens. “We did sign up for chaos, remember? At least Melody’s cute.”
“She really is.” I glance inside; the kitten’s still curled on the pillow, ear folded like origami. “Talk soon?”
“Talk soon, Max.”
***
I push through the steel door of Studio Blue with a guitar case in one hand and Melody’s carrier in the other. The room smells like yesterday’s amp heat and the cinnamon doughnuts Lucas swears fight stage fright. Bass lines rumble from the far end where DeShawn is already noodling warm-ups.
Lucas spots me first and bursts out laughing. “Please tell me that meowing amp is part of the new rig.”
I set the carrier on an equipment crate. “She basically bullied me into bringing her—gave me the full crooked-ear guilt trip until I caved.”
Annie leans over her drum kit, taps a stick against her temple. “Tour mascot achieved. Does she do roadie work or just moral support?”
“Moral support,” I say, unlatching the carrier door. Melody pads out, tail kinked, ear flopped, and immediately heads for Lucas’s shoelaces. He bends to scratch her chin and she rewards him with a motorboat purr. Traitor.
“I see she’s adjusting well,” Vivienne observes from the corner, notepad in hand. Her eyebrow arches, but the ghost of a smile tells me she’s amused.
I roll my eyes for show. “Can’t shake her. Clings like a stage-five groupie.”
Lucas snorts. “Yeah, you look devastated.”
I flip him off good-naturedly, then sling my guitar over my shoulder.
As we run the first song—an up-tempo number that still doesn’t have final lyrics—Melody curls on my spare amp and watches with half-lidded approval.
The chords feel tight today, but my head keeps drifting: Nora’s laugh when the flour cloud settled, the way she lifted her chin so I could swipe the sauce from her neck, that tiny hitch in her voice when she got flustered—she’s not as immune to me as she pretends.
I know what it looks like when women are attracted to me and Nora shows all signs of it.
But I think she only wants me for my body.
As far as I know she thinks I’m a rich, superficial asshole, who only looks out for himself.
Part of me itches to prove her wrong—show her there’s more—but no. Boundaries.
“Earth to Donovan.” Lucas’s bass thump cuts through my wandering thoughts. I blink; the last chorus has ended and I’m still strumming like the song’s alive.
“Sorry—brain lag.” I adjust the strap and signal for another take.
We dive back in. My fingers land on the riff automatically, but images from yesterday elbow into every measure.
Our next “date” is tomorrow and I’m half terrified and half impatient.
Stage lights used to be the only thing that made my pulse jump; lately, one librarian’s text bubbles do the trick.
We wrap the set an hour later. Melody stretches, hops down, and weaves between cymbal stands like she owns the joint. Lucas scoops her up, cradling her like a football. “Admit it, dude. You’re keeping her.”
I take her back, rubbing the folded ear. “Temporary foster,” I insist, but Melody’s purr drowns me out—and the grin tugging at my mouth probably ruins my credibility.
I sling the carrier over my shoulder, and head for the door. Practice was solid, but the real encore is twenty-four hours away. Melody mews as if agreeing; I tap the carrier lightly.
“Come on, trouble. Let’s go.”
Crash of the final chord still hangs in the rafters when Vivienne calls out to me, stiletto heels snapping like an angry metronome. She’s holding her phone out in front of her the way you’d carry a live grenade.
“Jake Armstrong is currently killing my inbox.” She thrusts the phone toward me. A string of all-caps messages from Jake scroll past: YOU PROMISED EXCLUSIVE, MY SCOOP IS BURIED, DO SOMETHING.
I wipe sweat off my forehead with the back of my wrist. “Didn’t he get his feature this morning?”
“He did,” Vivienne snaps. “But fan selfies of you, Nora, and Melody are out-performing his carefully crafted blog post by a factor of ten. Jake feels blindsided. He expected to control the ‘first candid sighting.’ Now every gossip site has it…”
I’m sick of bending over backwards to Jake and I don’t want to bother Nora with any more drama. I square the guitar against my thigh. “Well, there’s nothing I can do about that. We promised him three exclusive dates and that’s what he’s getting. Everything else is out of my control.”
Vivienne exhales, smoothing an imaginary wrinkle in her blazer. “Jake likes to show he’s the one holding the leash. If he sniffs out something you don’t want public, he’ll pounce.”
“Then we don’t give him anything to pounce on,” I say, sharper than I mean to.
She nods once. “Keep it tight, Max. One slip and he’ll run the ugliest version of the story—and he won’t care who else gets splattered.”