Chapter 14
MAX
A Real Date
I’m still looking at Nora, noticing the faint tremble in her jaw, when she rises on her toes and presses her mouth to mine. The loft disappears. No cameras, no kitten, no skyline—just the warm shock of her lips and the slow ignition that follows.
The first contact is soft, almost questioning.
I answer by tilting my head, deepening the angle so we fit better, breathe better.
Her lower lip yields beneath mine, satin-soft with a faint taste of coffee and something sweeter—maybe the courage it took to admit what she just did.
The honesty between us hums louder than Melody’s purr ever could.
My free hand finds the curve of her waist, not pulling, just anchoring—an unspoken I’m here if you want me. She leans in, chest to chest, and the simple trust in that movement sends a burn through my sternum.
She parts her lips, breath catching, and I seize the invitation with a gentle slide of my tongue.
The sigh she lets out is so soft I feel it more than hear it, a ripple that travels straight to my spine.
I taste the faint citrus of her lip balm, the electricity of her pulse.
My thumb traces the delicate bone beneath her ear, memorizing the shape.
Nora answers, shy at first, then braver—fingers sliding up my shoulders, finally tangling in the hair at my nape. The tug is light but certain, like she’s staking a claim. Heat coils low in my stomach, tight and urgent, yet every movement stays unhurried. We’re exploring, not racing.
I angle us until her back meets the edge of the chair, giving her something solid while giving myself permission to press closer. She sighs into my mouth, body molding to mine, and the honesty of that surrender floors me.
When I break away for air, our foreheads stay touching, breaths mingling. Her eyes are half-lidded, pupils wide; my heart slams against my ribs like it’s trying to reach hers.
“Okay?” I whisper.
A flush blooms across her cheekbones, but her smile is sure. “More than okay.”
Relief—and something fiercer—courses through me.
I kiss her again, slower, savoring the slide and give, the quiet humming in her throat.
My hand skims her ribcage, feeling the staccato of her breaths, then settles just above her hip, thumb stroking small circles through wool. She shivers, not from cold.
She catches my lower lip between hers, nips lightly, and a groan slips out before I can stop it. I feel her smile against my mouth—pleased, powerful—then she soothes the sting with a soft swipe of her tongue. The contrast slices my control to ribbons.
I rest my forehead against hers, breathing hard. “If we keep going, I won’t want to stop.”
Color rushes to her cheeks; she bites her lower lip—my new favorite shade of pink. “Noted,” she whispers, though the reluctance in her smile mirrors the ache in my chest.
I stroke a thumb along her jaw, calming my own pulse. “Let’s hit pause. I want to spend the whole afternoon with you, not just—” I gesture helplessly between us “—this heat-of-the-moment sprint.”
She exhales a soft laugh. “What did you have in mind?”
“Anything normal.” I tuck a stray curl behind her ear. “Let’s make flyers for Melody, grab street tacos, argue about who wrote the best tragic romance. You pick.”
Her shoulders relax; the tension melts into a warm, anticipatory hum. “Tacos and book debates sound… perfect.”
“Perfect it is.” I steal one last gentle kiss—slow, closed-mouth, a promise rather than a plea—then step back, giving her room and giving my self-control a fighting chance. Melody meows from the sofa as if echoing the decision, tail thumping approval.
I offer Nora my hand, palm up, ridiculously formal. “Ready to go out on a real date with me?”
She hums in approval and I ask: “So how about those street tacos?”
Her eyes light up. “Now you’re speaking my love language.”
***
The sky is a hard blue, the sun still a good hand-span from the horizon. Ninth Avenue hums with weekday traffic, steam venting from grates, delivery bikes weaving around yellow cabs. I brush my knuckles against hers; she hooks a finger around mine, easy and natural.
Two blocks south, a turquoise food truck squats at the curb under scaffolding, the paint sun-faded but bright.
Salsa music blares from a portable speaker, and the afternoon breeze smells of charred corn and cilantro.
“El Torito Loco,” announces the hand-painted sign.
We join the short queue, soaking in the warmth rolling off the griddle.
Nora closes her eyes, breathes it in. “Carne asada, extra lime,” she mutters like a mantra. “Maybe al pastor with pineapple.”
I lean in. “Pineapple on tacos is acceptable, but on pizza is a crime?”
“Balance of the universe,” she deadpans, then elbows me. “I’ll let you order the controversial one—diplomatic immunity.”
When our turn comes, Nora rattles off our order in crisp high-school Spanish that makes the cook’s eyebrows lift in approval.
I’m reaching for my wallet when she pulls out hers faster.
“Oh no you don’t,” I say, already pulling out two crisp hundred-dollar bills.
Nora arches a brow, amused. “What, you don’t think I can buy you tacos?”
“I know you can,” I say, handing the cash to the vendor before she can argue. “But I’m not letting you.”
I nod at the guy behind the cart. “Keep the change.”
He blinks. “You serious?”
“Absolutely.”
Nora gives me a look like I’ve just offered to buy the taco truck itself. “Max. That’s way more than we need.”
“Good,” I say, slipping my wallet away. “Let him close up early.”
We end up with two cardboard trays piled high: ruby-red al pastor, smoky carne asada, mountains of diced onion, cilantro, cotija snow, and lime wedges for days.
We snag a battered standing table beneath the scaffolding.
Sunlight bounces off passing car windows, sparkling over curls of steam rising from the tortillas.
Nora drizzles salsa verde, gives her taco a decisive squeeze of lime. Juice splatters my sleeve; she winces, then laughs. “Collateral damage.”
I laugh with her, take a biting mouthful of carne asada. Flame kiss, citrus punch—perfect. She tackles the al pastor, lets out an appreciative hum. A ribbon of red sauce slips down her wrist; I hand over a napkin.
“Divine,” she declares once she’s swallowed. “If I ran the world, every library card would come with taco vouchers.”
“Literacy incentive program,” I say, licking salsa from my thumb. “We’d have the smartest, happiest city on earth.”
Sunlight glints through her hair when she tips her head back in laughter. I catch a stray cilantro leaf clinging to her sleeve and flick it away, fingers brushing the soft wool. Her pulse flutters beneath the fabric—or maybe that’s mine echoing.
We swap bites, debating heat levels. She demands my verdict on the pineapple; I concede it works here—“but still heresy on dough.” People pass by: dog-walkers, delivery cyclists, a cluster of art-school students arguing color theory.
The city feels alive but not overwhelming, an afternoon rhythm rather than the nighttime roar.
“So,” Nora says, dabbing her lips, “what’s the weirdest backstage request you’ve ever made?”
I grin. “Lucas once added ‘kiddie pool filled with red Jell-O’ to the rider as a joke. Venue actually delivered. We donated it to the children’s ward at St. Vincent’s.”
She snorts. “Your accidental philanthropy era.”
“Exactly.”
She raises her taco in mock salute; I clink mine against hers. Sunlight shifts, sliding gold across her cheekbones. I can’t resist brushing my thumb just under her jaw, wiping a dot of salsa she missed. Her breath catches but she doesn’t pull away.
“Back to the loft?” I ask.
“Please. Melody probably staged a coup by now.”
We walk the two blocks hand-in-hand, afternoon light at our backs, carrying the lingering heat of salsa.
Back inside, I lead Nora down a short hallway off the living room—marble floors underfoot, recessed lights gradually brightening as we go. At the end is a matte-black door covered in stickers from every grimy club I ever sweated in. I tap the Jimi Hendrix decal, then push the door open.
“Welcome to the real chaos.”
She steps inside and stops cold. The ceiling isn’t high, but the walls curve in subtle angles—acoustic treatment disguised as modern art.
Guitars hang like a private constellation: vintage Tele, scar-notched Les Paul, a tiny parlor Martin I bought with my first royalty check.
Keyboards line one wall, a baby grand crouches under a dim Edison bulb, and cables coil everywhere like black ivy.
“Wow,” Nora breathes, fingers hovering over a rack of effect pedals. “It’s like stepping inside your brain.”
“Messy, then?” I grin, crossing to a worn leather stool. “Messy, but functional.”
I grab the parlor Martin—mahogany body glossy from years of bar sweat and tour bus bumps—and tune by feel.
The room goes velvet-quiet except for the micro squeak of steel strings under my callouses.
Nora perches on a padded amp, eyes wide, sweater sleeves pushed to her elbows.
The soft yellow lamplight catches the dust in her hair like glitter.
“Will you play something?” she asks, voice hushed.
I nod, throat tight. “Acoustic version of ‘Anchor Storm’? Haven’t done it unplugged in a while.”
“That’s the song you closed with at Madison Square,” she says, surprise lighting her eyes.
My chest does a slow, implausible flip. “I guess someone did their research recently.”
She blushes and admits: “I had to. After I found out who you really are. And then I couldn’t stop listening.”
I clear my throat, thumb a G chord so soft it trembles rather than rings.
I start slow—no drums, no crowd roar—just the spine of the tune: a steady heartbeat bass note under a descending minor line. My voice follows, lower, stripped of stage grit:
“Lights go down but the echo stays, I’m stuck in the hum of yesterday…”