Chapter 17
NORA
Girl’s Talk
Isurface to daylight and the slow, steady rhythm of a heartbeat beneath my ear.
Max’s chest rises and falls under my cheek, warm skin sliding with every breath, and for one luxurious moment I can’t remember why I ever chose alarm clocks and single-size sheets.
The bedroom is flooded with pale gold—the kind of light that makes the slate-gray linens look silvery and turns the skyline outside the floor-to-ceiling windows into a watercolor.
Max is still asleep, mouth slack, lashes dark against his cheeks.
He looks younger like this—less rock-god, more boy who stayed up too late.
My legs are tangled with his; the duvet has migrated halfway down his hips, revealing the sharp V of muscle and the edge of that storm-cloud tattoo.
Heat hums low in my belly at the memory of tracing it with my tongue.
A weight shifts at my ankles. Melody, fully awake and clearly affronted that breakfast hasn’t appeared, marches up the length of the mattress and plops herself on Max’s stomach. Her purr kicks on like a tiny engine. He grunts, hand coming to rest automatically on her crooked ear.
“Traitor,” I whisper to the kitten, scratching under her chin. “You’re supposed to wait till I’m ready to move.”
The purr ramps up. Max’s eyes blink open, blue still hazy with sleep. He focuses on me and smiles—slow, unguarded, unfairly gorgeous. “Morning, Librarian.”
“Morning,” I answer, voice rough with contentment. “Your alarm never went off.”
“Don’t need one.” He stretches, careful not to dislodge Melody. “My internal clock knows when a diva cat is about to stage a protest.”
As if on cue, Melody chirps and head-butts his chest. Max chuckles, then shifts his gaze back to me. “Coffee?”
“In approximately three minutes,” I bargain, sliding my palm over the warm plane of his stomach to tap the kitten’s rump. “First we appease Her Highness.”
He rolls us gently to the edge of the bed and deposits Melody on the rug. She trots toward the door, tail kinked, certain we’ll follow. Max leans over, presses a kiss to my temple. “Stay. I’ll handle breakfast.”
Watching him pad toward the kitchen—hair mussed—I realize the strangest thing: waking up in a rockstar’s penthouse doesn’t feel surreal. It feels startlingly normal. The kind of normal you write long letters home about.
The clink of mugs precedes Max back into the bedroom. He nudges the door open with a bare shoulder, balancing two steaming cups that smell like dark roast and vanilla.
Max hands me one mug—heavy pottery hand-painted with tiny guitar silhouettes. “Cream, no sugar,” he says, proud he’s memorized my preference. He settles cross-legged at the foot of the bed, his own cup cradled between his big hands.
For a moment neither of us speaks. We just inhale the steam and the kind of silence you get only on a Sunday city morning—light traffic hum, muffled horn, nothing urgent. I take a sip; the coffee is strong enough to stand on its own, softened by a hint of oat milk.
Max blows across his cup, looking boyish with sleep-ruffled hair. “So, librarian verdict: acceptable brew?”
“Solid eight,” I tease. “Docked a point because the barista wasn’t wearing shoes.”
He wiggles his toes against the duvet. “Shoeless service has its charms.”
Melody jumps onto the mattress and curls into a doughnut between us, purring so hard my cup ripples. Max strokes her folded ear, watching me over the rim of his mug.
“Busy day ahead,” I say softly. “I gotta run soon.”
“I can call in a bomb threat to the library,” he offers, deadpan. “Buy us another hour.”
“Tempting,” I laugh, locating my skirt draped over a chair. “But I have a reference desk shift and a shipment of large-print romances that won’t shelve themselves.”
I tug the skirt on; Max crosses the room to help straighten the waistband—a completely unnecessary gesture that warms me from cheeks to toes. Melody weaves between our ankles, clearly miffed the human pile is breaking up.
“I’ll walk you to the elevator,” Max says, retrieving my boots. He kneels, and I can’t decide if slipping on footwear has ever felt more intimate. Once laced, I stand, smoothing my hair in the mirror; he lifts an eyebrow, apparently pleased with the just-slept-in look.
By the door he drapes my coat over my shoulders, then presses a soft kiss to my forehead. “Can I see you this evening?”
“I’m meeting Em for drinks—she insists on the full debrief.” I wink, and he mock-cringes.
We step into the private elevator; the doors slide closed around us. The descent is silent, save for the soft whirr of mechanics and the louder thump of my pulse. He intertwines our fingers, thumb stroking the ridge of my knuckle until the bell dings lobby.
Doors part. Morning light splashes across polished marble; the city surges just beyond revolving glass. Max tugs me close once more, quick but lingering kiss—espresso, vanilla, goodbye-for-now.
“Go shelve your smutty romances, Librarian.”
“Go spoil our diva kitten, Rockstar.”
We trade smiles—the kind that feel like secrets—then I step out, heels tapping toward the revolving doors.
***
I make it to the Midtown East Branch with three minutes to spare, cheeks still pink from a certain penthouse goodbye. The moment I swipe my badge, the building inhales me: the hiss of the HVAC, the faint tang of old paper, the fluorescent hum that never quite turns off.
The day blurs into shelving sprees, patron questions, and a raucous children’s story hour; by clock-out I’m bone-deep exhausted.
Emily and I grab the last booth at La Lune, a narrow nook framed by chipped subway tiles and a neon cherry-pie sign that flickers like a faulty halo.
She’s recovered from her flu and greets me with her usual energy.
I slide in opposite her, still wearing my librarian cardigan but feeling anything but composed.
She sets a steaming golden-milk latte in front of me. “Relaxation emergency. Your texts were capital-D cryptic.”
I wrap both hands around the cup, letting the heat chase off residual library AC. “Where do I start?”
“With whether you’re walking funny,” she says, wagging her brows.
My cheeks flame so fast the latte might boil. “Emily!”
She cackles. “I knew it. Okay, back up. You spent the night at Rockstar Manor, yes?”
I nod, sipping to stall. Ginger and guilt swirl on my tongue. “It was… more than I expected.”
“‘More’ as in biblical, or ‘more’ as in emotional free fall?”
“Both,” I admit, setting the cup down before I spill. “We talked for hours, then—well—took things further.”
Emily leans in, voice dropping. “Define further.”
The hot flush returns. “First, I explored him. Then he returned the favor. And then… we went all the way—to the big finish. And Em, he was gentle. Like, patient-teacher gentle.”
Her grin softens into something warm. “Good gentle or boring gentle?”
I laugh into my spoon. “Good. Very good. But also mind-melting. I thought I’d be terrified for my ‘first time,’ but he made me feel safe and… wanted.”
She wiggles her fingers in jazz-hands salute. “Give me one detail that’ll keep my single heart alive for the week.”
I bite my lip, debating, then whisper, “He carried me to bed like I weighed nothing and gave me a massage first. Full body, scented oil, the whole bit.”
Emily fans herself with a napkin. “Stop. I can’t handle any more of this.”
A prickle of uncertainty sneaks into my pulse. “But the sex isn’t the scary part anymore.”
She sobers. “What is?”
“Feeling this much, this fast—it’s a lot.
He’s not just hot, Em. He’s actually kind—way kinder than his reputation.
And I think he likes me. But he lives in a totally different world.
I mean, he’s a rockstar—famous, filthy rich.
His life is chaotic, and the press is relentless. What if I don’t fit into that world?”
Emily sips her matcha, eyes thoughtful. “You know it’s okay to be scared, right? You don’t have to have everything figured out right this second.”
“I know. It's just a lot.”
We keep talking and laughing, and a wave of gratitude washes over me. “Love you, Em,” I say.
“Love you back,” she answers, then smirks. “Next time bring me a signed set list—or at least photographic proof of abs.”
“Emily!”
Her laughter rings off the tiles, neon sign flickering overhead.
Just then her phone beeps with a notification.
She frowns, glances down, then freezes mid-sip. Her glass hovers halfway to her lips. “Oh. My. God.”
“What?” I ask, instantly on alert. “What happened? Is it Leo? Your mom? Your date with—”
She shoves the phone toward me. “No. It’s your guy.”
I squint at the screen. A banner notification blares from Jake Armstrong’s blog: “Jake Armstrong Exclusive: Bastard Billionaire Baby Max Donovan”
The blood drains from my face so fast I feel it. “What is this?”
Emily’s already tapping into the article, her thumb moving fast. “I set up alerts, remember? In case there was another PR stunt or weird paparazzi moment. But this? This is—holy crap, Nora. This is huge.”
She skims the first paragraph and lets out a low whistle. “Jake claims to have official documents. Birth records. Apparently, Max Donovan isn’t just a rockstar. He’s the illegitimate son of Lawrence Westwood.”
I blink. “The billionaire media tycoon?”
Emily nods slowly, eyes wide. “Yep. The same Lawrence Westwood who owns half the music industry, most of the tabloids, and, oh yeah, Westwood Media itself.”
My brain short-circuits.
Max never said a word about this—not even a hint. Then again, we haven’t really talked about our families yet.
I sink back, my drink forgotten.
One thing’s for sure: I need to talk to Max.