Chapter 21
NORA
I Fucking Meant It
“Come with me. Before the charity event. With the band,” Max says.
Just like that. No buildup. No warning. Just a soft, breathless invitation that lands somewhere between a dream and a free fall.
I blink. “What?”
He’s grinning, eyes a little too bright from the whiskey. “It’s just a few dates. I want you there, Nora.”
My heart leaps. And then crashes right back into my ribs.
I sit up straighter, pulling back slightly—just enough to breathe. Enough to think.
“Max… you’re tipsy.”
He blinks, still smiling. “I’m serious.”
“You’re serious right now,” I say gently, trying not to let my voice wobble. “But tomorrow you might not be. Tomorrow you’ll wake up and realize it was just the whiskey and the moment talking.”
He frowns. “That’s not fair.”
“Isn’t it?” I whisper.
“You think I don’t mean it,” he says, quieter now.
“I think you want to mean it,” I say. “I think part of you does. But I also think tomorrow, when the buzz fades and real life kicks back in, you’ll realize it’s easier not to complicate things.”
He’s silent for a beat. Then: “That’s not true.”
“Then prove it,” I say, meeting his eyes. “Ask me again tomorrow. Sober. In daylight.”
He watches me for a long moment. I can see the way his jaw works, the frustration under the surface. But then something shifts—his gaze softens, and he nods once.
“Okay,” he says. “Tomorrow.”
I nod too. But my chest still aches. Because no matter how much I want him to ask again, there’s a small, scared part of me that’s already bracing for him not to.
I try to smile. “And if you do ask again... maybe I’ll say yes.”
“Maybe?” he echoes, raising a brow.
I lean in, kiss him softly, slowly, like a promise that hasn’t quite been made. “We’ll see.”
***
The morning light is too honest.
It pours through the windows like it knows things. Like it wants to shine on every corner of this too-big, too-beautiful penthouse and ask, what are you doing here, Nora?
I sit up in bed, the sheets still warm from where Max lay, my heart caught somewhere between fluttering hope and full-body dread.
My hair’s a wild mess—I can feel the flattened section from the pillow, the frizz at the ends, the dried product clinging to strands. My face is probably smudged with last night’s mascara, raccoon rings and all. My breath is definitely not cute.
I tug the blanket higher on my chest and glance toward the full-length mirror across the room. Mistake.
God.I look like a sleep-deprived raccoon who got into a vintage nightgown sale.
What if he regrets it?
God, I knew better. I told myself not to fall. And then he kissed me like he meant it, and asked me to come on tour like he really saw me in his future.Like I was already part of it.
But mornings are different. Mornings are real. And real is where things break.
I hear him moving in the kitchen. The espresso machine hisses. A cupboard clicks shut. Normal sounds. Domestic sounds. The kind of rhythm that makes my throat tighten, because I want this. I want mornings and mess and Max making me coffee.
I just don’t know if I get to have it.
Then he walks in. Somehow, impossibly, he’s even hotter in the daylight. Shirtless, barefoot, hair wet from a shower, the waistband of his sweatpants riding low in a way that should be illegal before coffee. He’s got two mugs in his hands.
“Hey,” he says, voice a little rough, like he’s been thinking too much.
“Hey.” I try to sound casual, but it comes out small.
He sets the mugs down and sits on the edge of the bed. Not close enough to touch. Just... there.
“I’ve been thinking,” he says carefully. “About last night.”
My stomach drops. Here it comes.
“I probably shouldn’t have asked you to come on tour.”
And just like that, the little thread of hope inside me unravels.
I nod. I knew it. Of course he’s backing out. This is the part where he reminds me I’m just a librarian and he’s a rockstar and the tour bus doesn’t have room for emotional baggage with second-day mascara.
But then he keeps going.
“I shouldn’t have asked you like that,” he says. “Drunk. In the middle of making out. I meant it, but I said it like an idiot.”
I look up. Blink. “You meant it?”
He nods, turning toward me fully now. “Yeah. I fucking meant it, Nora. Every single word.”
“You did?” I whisper.
He nods. “Yeah. I did. And I still do. And I’ll ask you again, and again, and again if that’s what it takes to make you believe it’s real.”
I stare at him, my heart trying to convince my brain this isn’t a dream.
“I’m scared,” I whisper.
“I am too,” he says. “But I’d rather be scared with you than play it safe without you.”
He reaches for my hand and squeezes it gently.
“We’ve done the fake dating thing. But this?” he says, eyes meeting mine. “You? This isn’t fake anymore. This is the first thing that’s felt real in longer than I can even explain.”
I swallow, hard. “Max…”
“I want to fall asleep next to you,” he says, like the words are burning on his tongue. “Not just after sex or when it's convenient. I want to come home to you.”
My chest tightens, breath catching.
“I want to talk about books with you over dinner even if I don’t understand half the shit you’re talking about.” He smirks a little, softening the intensity. “I want to fight over whether Melody prefers salmon or tuna. I want to share custody of our ridiculous diva cat.”
I laugh—choked and watery.
“And I want to do dirty, filthy, obscene things to you,” he adds, voice rough now. “In every city we stop in. In every hotel bed. On every tour bus couch I can get you alone on.”
My heart is thudding so hard I’m surprised it’s not echoing off the studio walls.
“But more than that?” he says, cupping my face in his hand. “I want mornings. Real ones. With you stealing the blankets and me pretending not to like it. I want to wake up next to the one person who doesn’t give a shit about who I am on stage. Just… me.”
Tears prick at the corners of my eyes.
It’s too much. It’s everything. And still, I don’t look away.
“Nora Davidson,” he says, voice rough, “will you come on tour with me?”
I lean into his palm. “You’re really not letting me pretend this is temporary, are you?”
“Not a fucking chance,” he murmurs, and then he kisses me.
***
I’ve never been to a rehearsal space before.
Turns out, they don’t smell like I expected. Less weed and leather and more… coffee, dust, and expensive equipment I’d be terrified to touch.
Max’s hand is wrapped around mine as we step into the wide, industrial-style room. High ceilings. Soundproofed walls. Cables like spaghetti across the floor. A drum kit takes up half the back corner, and there’s enough guitar gear here to outfit a small music festival.
There’s also noise—loud, unfiltered, alive noise. Someone’s running scales on bass. Someone else is cursing about an effects pedal. And somewhere off to the side, a war is clearly being fought between man and espresso machine.
“This is it,” Max says, squeezing my hand. “Welcome to the chaos.”
I try to smile, but nerves flutter in my chest like angry butterflies.This is his world. These are his people. And I’m just the librarian who somehow wandered into the eye of a rockstar hurricane.
“Max, I wanted to tell you,” I say. “I spoke to my boss this morning.”
His eyes lock on mine, everything else fading. “Yeah?”
“I asked if I could take a week off.” I pause, my heartbeat thudding. “And he said yes—as long as the charity event stays on track.”
Max just stares at me for a second, like the words haven’t quite processed.
“I can come with you,” I say, grinning now. “On tour.”
The tension in his shoulders releases all at once. And then—without warning—he pulls me into a hug so fast I let out a little yelp.
“You’re serious?” he murmurs into my hair.
“I’m serious.”
“Holy shit.” He pulls back, his face lit up like a stadium spotlight. “You’re actually coming?”
I nod, breathless and grinning and maybe a little terrified.
He cups my face in both hands, forehead pressed to mine, his voice rough with something more than excitement.
“You have no idea how happy that makes me,” he says.
He kisses me. Soft and slow. Like he knows I’m handing him something fragile.
From the other side of the room, someone coughs loudly.
Then Lucas’s voice cuts in: “Can y’all save the PDA for the tour bus? Or better yet—skip it entirely?”
“Let them be cute,” a woman calls out. “They’ve earned it.”
She’s got a buzzed undercut, long lashes, and a red hoodie tied around her waist—like she could go from soundcheck to a street fight without missing a beat. A mic in one hand, a protein bar in the other.
She does a double take. “So, you’re Nora?”
I blink. “Um… yep. Guilty.”
“Finally!” she grins, dropping the protein bar and pulling me into a warm, slightly bone-crushing hug. “I’m Annie. Rhythm guitar. Backing vocals. Band mom when Lucas forgets to hydrate.”
“Okay, okay,” Max says, smirking as he pries me back from her. “Let her breathe.”
Annie waves him off. “Shut up. I’m making a good first impression. DeShawn! Nora’s here!”
DeShawn emerges from behind a stack of amps with a slow, easy smile. He’s all calm presence and effortless cool, his bass slung casually over his shoulder.
He gives me a nod. “Hey. Nice to meet you officially. You surviving this circus?”
“Barely,” I say, grinning.
Lucas is grinning like he already knows every word of the conversation. He’s got drumsticks sticking out of his back pocket and a water bottle in one hand.
“You’re still here, so I’m guessing Max didn’t screw anything up yet,” he says.
I smile. “Not yet. But I’m watching him closely.”
He winks. “Smart.”
Max rolls his eyes and wraps an arm around my waist, tugging me closer. “Just to be clear, if any of you say something that makes her run, I’m not replacing anyone. I’m just burning the setlist and going solo.”
“Power move,” Annie says. “Terrible strategy. But romantic.”
I laugh, still a little overwhelmed—but it’s getting easier. They’re intense, sure. Loud. Fast-talking. Full of inside jokes and too many opinions about gear.
But there’s a rhythm to them. And oddly enough… I don’t feel out of place.
Max pulls me down onto a beat-up leather couch with a tear in the armrest and two guitar picks stuck between the cushions.
They start playing like it’s no big deal.
Annie tests her mic with a lazy hum, then lets out a cascade of sharp, wild notes that ripple down my spine and raise goosebumps along my arms. DeShawn starts laying down a slow, deliberate bass groove, eyes closed, fingers confident.
And Lucas—grinning like he’s already won the night—taps out a beat on the snare, gradually cranking the tempo like it’s a dare he fully intends to win.
And Max…
Max looks like a different version of himself.
He’s in black jeans, his sleeves rolled up, the curve of his forearms flexing as he adjusts the strap of his guitar, which hangs low across his hips like it belongs there. His head bobs to the rhythm, jaw tight, mouth twitching at the corners as he counts them in.
And then—
They launch into it.
Not a full song. Just a few bars of something fast and gritty and absolutely them. The sound hits me like a physical thing—tight, electric, the kind of music that doesn’t wait for permission.
The room fills with sound. Not noise. Sound. The kind that makes your whole body vibrate and convinces you your heart exists somewhere outside your ribcage.
Max is magnetic when he plays. Confident, raw, a storm just barely held in check.
And when he starts singing—voice low and rough and climbing toward something that sounds too real to be safe—I forget how to breathe.
He’s not performing.He’s becoming.
My fingers tighten around the coffee mug in my lap.
Because I’ve seen Max sleepy. I’ve seen him making us coffee, tipsy, coming undone. I’ve seen his hair messy from sleep, his arms wrapped around a cat. I’ve seen him curled up on the couch.
But this?
This is the version of Max that belongs to the world.
And somehow—impossibly—he keeps glancing over at me. Mid-verse.
Like I’m the only thing tethering him to the stage.Annie leans into her mic for the chorus, her voice bright and sharp, and Max steps back, just enough to give her the space to soar—but not so far the tension breaks.
They’re a unit. A machine. A fire.
And suddenly, I get it.Why people scream. Why they lose themselves. Why they follow bands from city to city like it’s a religion.
It’s not about the volume.It’s about being seen. About feeling.
And I can’t wait to hit the road with them.