Chapter 13
NORA
Kissing Max Donovan
Istep out of the private elevator and down the short hallway to Max’s front door, half expecting noise, chaos—maybe a shrine of platinum records and tangled guitar cables.
Instead, when he opens the door, I’m met with soft jazz, warm afternoon light, and a space that feels…
calm. Polished marble floors glow beneath the sun, and everything smells faintly of cedar and something citrusy.
The living room feels… lived-in. A half-finished mug of coffee sits on a stack of music theory books, a blanket slouches over the back of a leather sofa, and—front-and-center—a tiny tortoiseshell kitten is doing an enthusiastic bunny-kick on a catnip mouse.
“Welcome to Casa Chaos,” Max says. He’s barefoot, jeans low on his hips, black T-shirt soft with age. The domestic version of him is almost disarming—like backstage footage no one was supposed to see.
He nudges a woven basket across the entryway with his bare foot.
“House rule: fluffy socks,” he says, fishing out a brand-new pair printed with tiny books and guitars. “Full disclosure—Vivienne picked the patterns. She thinks guests appreciate options.”
I laugh, slipping off my boots. The marble is cool under my toes, but the moment the socks are on, warmth spreads up my calves.
Small thing, huge difference. He pulls on a mismatched set—one sock stamped with cartoon kittens, the other solid black.
When I raise an eyebrow he shrugs. “Laundry roulette.”
We move past a sculptural staircase, but he steers me away from the obvious “show-off” route and toward a cozy corner lined with overstuffed chairs.
A fireplace flickers low behind a mesh screen; a battered paperback of The Count of Monte Cristo sits facedown on the armrest alongside a mug of half-finished coffee. None of it looks staged.
Melody abandons a toy mouse the instant she hears my voice, scampering across the floor with that funny kinked tail flagging the way. I crouch to meet her. “Hi, Miss Melody. Are you causing trouble?”
She answers with a rusty mew and climbs right up my calf as if I’m a scratching post. I laugh—an honest, full sound I barely recognize as mine—and scoop her into the crook of my arm. Soft, purring warmth sinks into my sweater.
Max watches, arms folded, a grin pulling at one side of his mouth. “She’s been pacing the door like a tiny bouncer. I think you just passed inspection.”
We drift toward the kitchen island. It’s been transformed into a miniature feline resort: shallow water dish, tiny ceramic plate, a neat pile of kitten toys arranged like hors d’oeuvres. My chest warms at the sight. “You really went all in.”
He shrugs, suddenly self-conscious. “I just hope I’m doing a good job taking care of her. I’m not used to it… having someone else depend on me, I mean.”
Melody dives for the water, lapping noisily. I lean a hip against the counter and study Max. He fusses with the coffee machine.
“She’s happy,” I say quietly.
He glances up, eyes a softer blue than I remember. “Hope so. I keep Googling ‘how to make kitten feel safe’ and over-buying supplies.”
“You’re doing great.” The words come out steadier than I feel. Because this careful, nurturing version of a man who once tore up hotel furniture doesn’t fit any category I have for him, and that unsettles me in the best way.
He sets two coffees on the island.
I laugh, easing onto a barstool. Melody hops up beside me and begins a meticulous wash of her bent ear. Max offers her a fingertip to sniff before turning back to me.
I rub Melody’s head and set my mug on a worn coaster shaped like a vinyl record. “You know, for a rockstar’s penthouse, this place is… cozy.”
“That’s the goal,” he says, a little sheepish. “I need a place to decompress.”
I eye the kitchen. “Mind if I snoop a little?”
“Be my guest,” he says, waving a hand. “Just don’t sell a tell-all about the disaster that is drawer three.”
I tug the fridge open—and freeze.
Inside is a borderline obscene display of affluence: imported cheeses lined up like a dairy museum, jewel-toned juices in glass bottles, herbs still in tiny biodegradable pots, artisan chocolates in individual drawers, and no less than six kinds of water—sparkling, still, infused, Icelandic, electrolyte-boosted, and one that might actually be holy.
I close the fridge slowly, turning back to him. “And here I thought I was the bougie one.”
He chuckles, eyes crinkling. “Look, I like nice things. I didn’t grow up with much, so yeah—when the money started coming in, I went a little wild. Cars, watches, all of it.”
I raise a brow but let him go on.
“But then… I don’t know. After that first world tour, I realized I didn’t even care about half the stuff I’d bought. It just took up space.”
“So what changed?”
“I got smart. Or maybe just tired of the clutter.” He shrugs. “I still like good food, a killer sound system, leather seats that hug your ass—”
I snort.
“—but I started using the money in ways that actually felt good. I treat the people around me—crew, family, friends. Christmas bonuses the size of down payments. I tip like a lunatic. I quietly fund a few nonprofits. And I invest in stuff that matters to me. The music did well, but the real money? That came from smart moves—tech startups, green energy, real estate. I got lucky early, had a great advisor, and didn’t blow it all on snakeskin jackets and diamond grills. ”
I laugh. “So no secret vault of gold bars hidden behind chaotic drawer three?”
“There might be.” He smirks. “But you’ll have to earn the key.”
I take a sip of coffee, watching him. He’s a rockstar. He’s filthy rich. But beneath it all? He’s just a man who figured out how to build a life that makes sense to him.
“You’re not what I expected,” I say softly.
Before he can respond, the buzzer sounds—the photographer, right on cue. Vivienne’s “tiny crew.” The reminder jolts me slightly, pulling me back into the world of staged smiles and curated intimacy.
Max flashes me a look that says, Ready? I nod, smoothing Melody’s fur, but inside I’m bracing against the return of staged smiles.
Still, as Max lifts Melody and she drapes over his shoulder like a floppy scarf, I catch the unguarded softness in his expression. Cameras or not, that look is real. And the flutter it sets loose under my ribs tells me I might be in more trouble than I thought.
Gavin sets his camera on a tripod near the loft’s window wall. He adjusts the focus ring, then scans the room as if rearranging furniture in his head.
Melody already stars in the first few shots: curled like an upside-down comma in Max’s elbow while I hover a perfectly safe twelve inches away. Gavin lowers the camera, eyebrows rising.
“Looks great,” he says, voice easy, “but the apartment is giving me personal sanctuary. Let’s lean into that vibe—bring you two a little closer, show some natural affection. Nothing dramatic—just honest proximity.”
My pulse bumps. Natural affection. Max’s glance flicks to me, asking without words. I manage a nod before nerves can veto.
“It’s okay,” I say, finding a smile. “We can do that.”
Relief skims across Max’s features. Still holding Melody, he steps close enough that the heat from his body blurs the cool loft air. Gavin lifts the camera.
“Right, Max—arm around Nora’s waist. Nora, soften your shoulders toward him. Good.”
Max’s free hand finds the small of my back—warm, steady, impossibly gentle.
My sweater is cashmere, but his palm is the softest thing I’ve felt all day.
Heat spreads across my skin in widening circles.
I breathe in cinnamon from the coffee he brewed, cedar from whatever aftershave he barely uses, and something salt-sweet that’s just him.
My pulse is a butterfly pinned under glass.
“Eyes on each other,” Gavin coaches, tone gentle. “Pretend I’m not here—this is just you two on a quiet afternoon.”
I look up. At this range Max’s irises look less electric-stage blue and more morning-lake calm.
Max’s thumb traces a lazy half-moon at my waist, silent permission mixed with a question: okay?
I answer by letting my hips angle toward him, heart thudding until I’m sure he can feel it.
Melody stretches, one tiny paw pressing into his chest, and Max shifts her weight with such care my throat tightens.
He tucks a stray curl behind my ear. The backs of his fingers skim my cheekbone; sparks ripple downward—jaw, throat, collarbone, each nerve lighting like a string of holiday bulbs. I tilt my face into the touch, and the shutter clicks like distant applause.
“Foreheads together,” Gavin calls softly.
Max leans in. The world slows to the space between our mouths: warm breath, the faintest brush of his lower lip against my upper as we adjust. His nose grazes mine, and a hum—part purr, part laugh—curls up from Melody as if she’s narrating our heartbeat.
My eyelids flutter shut; the darkness behind them is bright with sensation.
“Beautiful,” Gavin whispers.
I feel Max’s whisper rather than hear it, his lips shaping the words against my skin: “Knock-knock.” Air stirs over my mouth, warm, coffee-sweet. My answering giggle trembles everywhere.
“Who’s there?” The question is barely sound.
“Kitten,” he breathes, pausing like a bassist holding tension in the measure. Then, softer: “Kitten who?”
“Kitten believe how fast my heart’s going right now.”
My laugh breaks free, breathless and real, and in that exact instant the camera shutter fires three rapid bursts. I’m sure Gavin has the shot—the one where my cheeks lift, Max’s grin blooms slow and helpless, and Melody’s crooked ear frames us like an accidental postage stamp.
But I hardly notice. Max’s forehead rests against mine, our noses still brushing, his thumb now tracing slow circles at the hollow where spine meets ribs.
My entire body feels like a held note, waiting for the downbeat.
The air between our almost-kissing mouths is electric—every shared breath a dare.