Chapter 11
NORA
A Safe Patch of Anatomy
Ipush through the glass doors of Summit Vault Climbing Center, the scent of rubber flooring and chalk dust instantly replacing Manhattan exhaust. A forty-foot wall ripples upward like a giant’s game of Tetris—holds in neon oranges and blues glowing under warehouse lights.
My stomach does a mid-level cartwheel. Heights?
Fine in theory. Heights while looking photogenic? Another thing entirely.
Gavin—the same lanky, red-haired photographer from our first date—is already inside, balancing his camera on a crash pad and waving like we’re teammates.
Max materializes from the locker hallway a second later—black athletic tee clinging in ways that should be illegal, harness slung over one shoulder, hair still damp from a quick rinse.
He spots me and grins that grin—the one that turns my kneecaps to custard.
“Ms. Davidson,” he says, offering a theatrical bow. “Ready to scale new heights of PR romance?”
I roll my eyes, but warmth slips into my veins. “As long as you don’t drop me from new heights of anything.”
“So,” I say, while a staff member sizes me for a harness—lots of awkward tugging around hips and thighs—while Max threads his own like he’s done it a hundred times. “How’s my favorite adopted cat enjoying her rock-star lifestyle?”
Max looks up, rolls his eyes so hard they practically orbit. “Oh, you mean Her Most Dramatic Highness?”
I grin. “That good?”
He wipes sweat off his forehead with the back of a chalky hand. “Let’s see. Last night she staged a hunger strike because her kibble touched the side of the bowl. At two a.m. she announced the crisis by yowling in E-flat—right in my ear.”
I cover a laugh. “Artistic temperament.”
“And this morning,” he continues, faux-grumpy momentum building, “she used my vintage leather stage jacket as a scratching post. Fifteen grand’s worth of custom studs now look like a crime scene.”
“Ouch.”
“She’s also decided the only acceptable sleeping arrangement is draped across my face, which is great if you enjoy breathing through cat fur.” He gives a long-suffering sigh. “Basically, Melody is a four-pound diva with zero respect for personal space, property values, or my REM cycle.”
I bite my lip to keep from laughing too loudly; other climbers are starting to stare. “But you adore her.”
He huffs, but the corners of his mouth betray him. “Yeah, well. Stockholm syndrome.”
Gavin circles us, meter-reading the light, then calls, “Let’s start with chalk-bag prep, gear check—natural candids.”
Natural. Right.
Max steps in to cinch the last strap along my waist. His fingers skim my lower back—a whisper of contact—and goosebumps spark beneath the nylon. He leans close, voice pitched for me alone. “All good? We can bail if this feels off.”
“It’s fine,” I breathe, surprising myself with how true it is. I tug my ponytail tighter, pretending it’s nerves about heights, not the man fastening me like a Christmas tree.
Gavin positions himself near the auto-belay lane. “Max, clip Nora’s carabiner. Hand on her waist—there, like you’re guiding her. Perfect.”
Max does, palm steady on my hip. “Trust fall in reverse,” he jokes, nudging me toward the first neon hold.
I start climbing; the plastic grip is cool under chalked fingers.
Two moves up, I hear Gavin’s shutter. Three moves, and Max is on the route beside me—long legs making a mockery of the footholds I’m tip-toeing across.
Max grins, planting his left shoe on a lemon-yellow jug. “Race you to the skylight.”
“It’s not a race if one of us has spider-monkey limbs,” I protest, but my hand is already reaching for the next purple hold.
Holds thin out near the top. I’m panting, forearms on fire, but Max’s voice drifts over—soft, coaxing: “One more blue to your right; then it’s just a mantle up.” I snag it, push, and suddenly my head crests the final ledge. Max hauls himself up beside me a heartbeat later, breathing hard.
We dangle our feet over the edge, Manhattan’s patchwork visible through the skylight. Chalk dust floats in beams of afternoon sun. Max raises his palm. “Equal finish.”
I slap his hand—meant to be a quick victory tap—but neither of us lets go.
Our fingers interlace, sweaty and chalky, a handshake that turns into something else entirely.
Close up, his eyes are the exact blue of the crash-pad foam eight meters below.
His breathing slows; mine follows, matching rhythm until the thud in my chest is all I hear.
Gavin yells for a victory pose. Max folds an arm around my shoulders, foreheads touching, city skyline framed through the skylight behind us. I laugh—giddy adrenaline mixing with something softer.
When we are ready to descend, my fingers peel off the last hold, and I lean back into the auto-belay’s pull.
The rope whirs, lowering me in gentle slack-and-tug pulses.
I’m halfway down, when I push off the wall a touch too hard.
I’m expecting a graceful pendulum back to center, but instead, the tether snaps tight, yanking me sideways like a failed carnival ride.
Air whooshes past my ears. My stomach drops.
Before I can squeak a warning, I barrel into Max’s lane—straight into Max.
“Whoa—Nora?” Max barks a startled laugh, trying to steady us. The rope twists once more, and I end up mashed sideways into him.
Chest, shoulder, then—oh, no—momentum keeps dragging me south.
Until my face is planted squarely against the front of his climbing shorts.
The coarse fabric of his shorts fills my field of vision, smelling faintly of chalk dust and fresh detergent.
My helmet knocks the harness waistband, and my cheek is plastered against the firm plane of his…
anatomy. Heat flares over every inch of my skin.
Time stalls.
I register everything with painful clarity: the ridged weave of nylon pressing into my jaw; the quick, startled inhale Max sucks through his teeth; the thump of his heartbeat, impossible to miss even through layers of spandex and fabric.
My own pulse rockets, a drumline in my throat.
For a microscopic beat I’m aware of how warm he is there, how solid, and humiliation burns hotter.
“Oh my god—sorry!” My voice is muffled in fabric as I scramble for a safer patch of anatomy. I try to twist away, but the tether coils around my thigh, pinning me closer. My harness slides, straps digging into hip bones while rope fibers rasp across my calf.
Max’s hand clamps around my waist—steady, sure, but gentle.
“Got you,” he says, voice pitched low, half laugh, half shock.
The warmth of his palm brands through my shirt, pulling me upright just enough that I’m no longer face-first but still pressed full-front against him.
Our auto-belays creak, fighting the erratic loads, ropes tangling like drunken jump-ropes above.
My cheek is flaming. I shove at a loose lock of hair that’s stuck to my lip gloss, managing to angle my head up. Max’s face is a mix of crimson and mirth; his eyes sparkle, breath coming fast. “Unexpected air traffic, Librarian,” he manages, the corners of his mouth twitching.
“Next time,” I mutter, “mark your no-fly zone.”
Somehow the devices sort themselves, and we begin a slow, jerky glide to the floor: bodies still flush, thigh to thigh, rope scraping softly as it feeds. Every bump of fabric feels magnified, electric. Gavin’s shutter fires in rapid bursts below—evidence of my most intimate pratfall.
When our feet finally touch mat, I peel free as quickly as the tether allows, face blazing. Max steadies me, laughter rumbling in his chest. My own giggle escapes—an embarrassed bubble but genuine. The mat under my shoes wobbles with adrenaline.
“Well,” Max murmurs, unclipping me with exaggerated care, “next climb I’ll post a Caution: Hard Landing sign.”
I swipe a chalky hand down his arm, trying for dignity. “Just move the runway, Rockstar.”
His grin widens, full wattage now. “Anywhere you need it, Librarian.”
***
Gavin finishes his last burst of photos, pops the memory card from the camera, and disappears toward the locker hallway, humming about “golden social-media gold.” The climbing gym’s wall lights dim to their default glow, signaling the afternoon lull.
My palms are raw, my forearms jelly, but energy still buzzes in my veins.
Max hands me a water bottle, his own cheeks still pink from the exertion. “Call that a successful second act?”
“If the metric is humiliation, definitely,” I say, half laughing. “But I think Gavin got what he needed.”
“Speaking of what we need—Melody’s flyers? Didn’t you say the library has the color printer of your dreams?”
I perk up. “And cardstock. And a paper-cutter that hasn’t tried to eat anyone’s finger in years.”
“High praise.” He shoulders the rope, then offers a hand to help me step over a stray crash pad. The touch lingers an extra beat—warm, grounding.
I grab my backpack from the rental cubby while he signs the gear return sheet. When he rejoins me, he’s peeled off the chalk-stained tee in favor of a thin long-sleeve that still manages to hug all the right planes. I swallow—hydrate, Nora—and zip my jacket.
“Library’s sixteen blocks,” I say. “Subway or walk?”
Max checks his watch—inky scrawl of lyrics peek under the wristband. “It’s dry out. We’ll walk. Fresh air might clear the chalk from our lungs.”
We thank the front-desk staff—Max poses for a quick selfie with an awestruck teenage climber—then push through the double glass doors into late-afternoon sunlight. Traffic hums along Ninth Avenue, horns layered like a lazy jazz riff.
Side-by-side, we navigate sidewalk currents.
Now and then his hand brushes mine; once, when a cyclist barrels too close to the curb, he tugs me nearer, palm firm against the small of my back.
The gesture should feel practiced—stage-door chivalry—but it doesn’t; it feels like instinct, and something inside me unfurls.
We pass a deli where the scent of roasted coffee beans curls through the air. Max tilts his head. “Fuel for the flyer factory?”
“Necessary.” We duck in for two lattes—mine decaf by afternoon rule, his an unapologetic triple shot—and emerge steaming and caffeinated.
The library’s sandstone facade greets us with familiar arches.
I badge us through the staff entrance, heart fluttering at the intimacy of unlocking my favorite place for him.
Inside, the hush wraps around us—soft lamp glow, distant whoosh of the HVAC, the faint flutter of pages somewhere in Fiction.
Max gazes up at the vaulted ceiling with something like reverence. “Every time I walk in here, it feels like stepping backstage at a sacred concert.”
I smile. “Wait till you see the back-office copier. Truly awe-inspiring.”
He laughs silently, following me past Reference and into the staff workroom. I open the supply cabinet: reams of pastel cardstock, a rainbow of Sharpies, the guillotine paper-cutter gleaming like a friendly executioner.
Max pulls his phone, swipes to a photo of Melody: crooked ear, bright eyes. “Think this one? Or the one where she’s destroying my set list?”
“Destruction sells sympathy,” I decide. I sit him at the computer, fire up the flyer template, and—between sips of latte and bursts of giggles about ‘Wanted: Small Furry Diva’—we start designing.
The late sunlight filters through frosted windows, pooling over the keyboard. Max leans close to adjust font size; his shoulder brushes mine, and I realize I don’t feel flustered anymore. I feel perfectly placed, like a hold on a wall I never knew I could reach.