Chapter 28
MAX
The Fundraiser
The headline hits before my coffee does.
GROUPIE LIbrARIAN? MAX DONOVAN’S LATEST FLING
There’s a photo—grainy, zoomed in, clearly taken outside Nora’s apartment. She’s walking to work, clutching her tote bag like a shield. Her expression is tired. Unaware. Vulnerable.
The article is trash. Speculation spun into innuendo, spliced with quotes from “anonymous insiders” and a blurry shot of us walking hand-in-hand.
They paint her as a gold-digger with a library card.
A fan who “played the long game.” One line actually reads: “Sources say she’s been spotted at multiple events—was this innocent flirting or strategic stalking? ”
I nearly shatter the mug in my hand.
By the time I make it to the door of the library, a mob is already there.
Reporters. Photographers. Flashbulbs like landmines going off. And in the middle of it all—Nora.
She’s trying to hold it together. Chin high. Hands shaking just a little. She’s surrounded but not running. Brave, even now.
“Miss Davidson, are you and Max Donovan dating?”
“Is it true you followed the band on tour?”
“Were you hoping for a book deal or a baby?”
That last one makes my blood boil.
Before I can shove my way through, one of them actually tries to block her path—holds out a mic like a sword.
And Nora—sweet, sharp, lion-hearted Nora—glares at him like he’s a gnat and says, cool as frostbite, “If you want a quote, try reading a book. I recommend fiction—you’re clearly good at making things up.”
That’s my girl.
I barrel through the crowd, stepping between her and the next camera lens. “Back off,” I growl. “Now.”
A few shutter clicks follow, but my presence shuts most of them up.
I put a hand on her back, shielding her as we move inside. The library doors swing closed behind us like sanctuary gates.
Only when we’re safe in the quiet hush of the front desk do I feel her exhale.
“I’m so sorry,” I say immediately.
“It’s not your fault,” she says, voice steady but thin. “I just wish… dating you didn’t come with a full media circus.”
I flinch. Because yeah—it does. It always does.
“They’ll get bored,” I mutter. “They always do. I can make a statement. Set the record straight.”
Nora just nods, silent.
***
I’ve done a hundred press conferences in my life.
Album drops. Tour launches. Scandals I caused and a few I didn’t. I know the rules: smile enough to look human, deflect with charm, never admit too much, and for the love of god, don’t get angry.
But this one?
This one’s different.
Because it’s not about me.
It’s about her.
The press room at the label HQ is packed—half the entertainment press in New York stuffed behind a barricade of lights and cameras.
Phones raised. Murmurs buzzing like hornets.
They’re expecting damage control. Denials.
Maybe some PR-polished charm to distract from the headlines still circulating like blood in water.
I lean into the mic. And I start with the truth.
“You’ve probably seen the stories,” I say, voice steady. “About the woman I’m seeing. About how she’s supposedly some kind of groupie who stumbled into my life.”
A few camera shutters click. A rustle of tension.
“I’m here to tell you you’ve got it wrong.”
More clicks now. I let them come. I want this on record.
“Nora Davidson is not a groupie. She’s not chasing fame or fortune. She’s not using me. If anything…” I pause, then smile, small but fierce. “I’m the one lucky enough to have earned her time.”
A hush falls.
“She’s a librarian. The real kind. She’s spent the last few months organizing a massive charity fundraiser to keep her local branch open in a city that keeps slashing public funding.
She works with kids. Volunteers for story hour.
I watched her spend her nights on a cramped tour bus designing flyers, scheduling vendors, and figuring out how to stretch a nonprofit budget like it’s magic. ”
I glance at the front row—some of the label execs are blinking like they’ve never heard me speak this seriously in my life.
“She’s brilliant. She’s strong. She’s my rock.”
I lean forward.
“And let’s be very clear—if anyone wants to take shots at me, fine. I’ve earned most of them. But you don’t touch her. Not with headlines. Not with speculation. Not with your camera lenses in her face while she’s just trying to go to work.”
A beat of silence.
And then the questions start flying. But the tone’s changed.
Someone calls out, “What’s the name of the library?”
“Midtown East Branch,” I say. “They’re hosting a charity gala tomorrow. And I’ll be there.”
Another reporter: “Are you two serious?”
I don’t flinch. “Yes.”
Then another: “Why now? Why speak up today?”
I glance toward the camera, imagining her watching from the library break room, Melody curled in her lap.
“Because someone has to,” I say quietly. “And I don’t want her to ever doubt I will.”
***
Later, I check my phone. Social media’s exploding.
The phrase “groupie librarian” is trending—but now it’s dripping with sarcasm. People are sharing footage of the speech with captions like “Max Donovan’s love confession is hotter than his last album” and “brB, crying over a rockstar standing up for a librarian.”
Someone even made fan art. Nora in a superhero cape, holding a book like a shield.
I smile, but it doesn’t really land until I see the text from her.
Nora:
You didn’t have to do that.
And then:
But you did.
Thank you.
***
The steps of City Hall are flanked by velvet ropes and flashing bulbs.
Press badges glint. Reporters bark questions into the wind.
And beyond them, a crowd has gathered—fans, donors, curious onlookers.
Some hold signs. One has my face drawn on a cardboard cutout.
Another just says: “Kiss the librarian again!”
Jesus.
My fingers tighten around Nora’s hand as we climb out of the car.
She’s beside me in a midnight-blue dress that dips at the back and hugs her waist like a secret.
Her hair is pinned up, but a few wisps curl at her neck, teasing me like they know how often I’ve kissed that spot in the last forty-eight hours.
She looks like every dream I’ve ever had about real love—except more grounded.
More dangerous. Because this isn’t a dream, and I’ve got something to lose now.
“You good?” I murmur as I help her out of the car.
She nods, but I feel the tremble in her hand. It’s not fear exactly—just nerves. Determination wrapped in satin.
“Ready as I’ll ever be,” she says, lips quirking.
The second we step onto the carpet, the crowd lights up.
“Nora!” “Max!” “Over here!” “Are you two officially dating?” “What inspired the charity event?” “Can we get a kiss for the cameras?”
I glance at her. She rolls her eyes. “They’re relentless.”
“You get used to it,” I say. “Or you fake confidence until it looks real.”
We pause at the photo wall—an elegant panel of navy velvet and gold script that reads Literacy for All: NYC Public Libraries Fundraiser.
I slide my hand to the small of her back, not for the cameras, but for me. To ground both of us.
“They’re not here for me,” she whispers.
“They are now.”
The cameras go wild as I lean in and kiss her cheek.
Click. Click. Click.Nora Davidson, the "groupie librarian," now standing tall in front of every headline.
After the initial blitz, we make our way inside, past the security detail and into the towering marble lobby, where music filters through string lights and champagne trays float like magic.
A volunteer coordinator rushes up. “Ms. Davidson, the author panel’s getting settled. And Mr. Donovan—your bandmate’s looking for you. Something about audio levels?”
Nora glances at me, eyes wide. “Go. I’ll be fine.”
“Sure?”
She gives me that look—the one that always makes my chest tighten. The one that says she might blush when I flirt, but she’s also the bravest woman I know.
“Go be a rockstar,” she says, brushing her fingers across my knuckles. “I’ve got donors to charm.”
I grin, but I don’t leave without one more kiss—this time on her lips. Quick, but full of promise.
“Try not to fall in love with any bestselling authors while I’m gone.”
“Can’t make any promises,” she calls over her shoulder, already walking away.
I watch her go. Past the mayor’s assistant. Past an author in a sequined blazer. Past a massive poster of the Midtown East Library’s renovation goals.
Everyone here sees her as a public figure now.
But I know the truth.
She’s not here for the spotlight. She’s here for the stories.
For the kids who whisper secrets to their favorite chapter books. For the single mom who needs free Wi-Fi to finish her resume. For the teenage girl who finds a quiet corner in the stacks and, for the first time all day, can breathe.
That’s the kind of hero Nora is.
And tonight, the whole damn city finally gets to see it.
I keep catching glimpses of her throughout the evening from across the room.
She’s mid-conversation with an author I recognize from NPR, laughing like she forgot she hates this kind of thing. Then she’s shaking hands with a councilwoman. Then she’s crouched down to show a little girl in a velvet dress how the auction bidding tablets work.
Every time she moves, another person turns to watch her go.
It’s not just the dress. It’s the way she makes people feel—seen, smart, like what they care about matters.
Lucas sidles up beside me, drink in hand. “Your girl’s a ringer.”
“She’s not a ringer,” I say. “She’s the main event.”
“Touché.” He raises his glass. “To the librarian who broke the internet.”
I snort, but it’s not far off. The media’s already rewriting their own headlines. Gone is the “groupie librarian” nonsense. Now they’re calling her bookish beauty with a mission. Which is at least accurate.
The lights dim slightly, and the emcee steps up to the mic.
“We’re honored tonight to be joined by musicians, public servants, and advocates for literacy. But I’d like to give a special welcome to the woman who made tonight possible—librarian, organizer, and book lover extraordinaire, Ms. Nora Davidson.”
The room bursts into applause. A standing ovation, even.
Nora freezes, eyes wide, but I give her a nudge. “Go on.”
She makes her way to the podium, nerves obvious only to me. She tucks a loose curl behind her ear, adjusts the mic, and clears her throat.
“Hi,” she says, soft at first. “Um… I’m usually more comfortable behind a book cart than a podium, but I’ll try not to faint.”
Laughter.
She goes on to tell them about the Midtown East renovation. About children’s story hour and computer literacy classes. About the aging elevators and broken heating in winter. About why it all matters.
By the time she finishes, people are wiping their eyes.
She ends with, “Libraries were my refuge growing up. They gave me adventure, knowledge, and safety. And I want every kid in this city to know there’s a place waiting for them too.”
The room erupts.
I’m on my feet before anyone else. Heart full. Hands sore from clapping.
She finds me in the crowd and smiles.
***
Later in the evening, the live auction kicks off.
DeShawn ends up bidding a ridiculous amount for a lunch with a famous author “to impress a girl.” Lucas wins a signed guitar from a blues legend. Someone in the back wins the one-on-one songwriting session with me—which, apparently, I agreed to.
But the real highlight?
The original blueprints for the 1897 Carnegie Library branch, hand-restored and framed.
Bidding starts modestly. Then doubles. Then climbs again.
I watch Nora light up as the final bid closes at triple what she expected.
When she turns to me, eyes shining, I lean down and murmur, “You did this.”
“No, we did.”
She’s wrong, though. I was just the amplifier. She’s the music.
***
The buzz from the night still hums in my bones.
We’re back at Nora’s place—her shoes kicked off, the faint scent of vanilla tea in the air.
The charity gala wrapped hours ago, but I’m still in my shirt and slacks, jacket draped over a chair, tie long gone.
My fingers drum idly on the countertop, too wired to sit, too full to eat, too stunned to sleep.
Because we did it.
The event didn’t just go well—it crushed.
I’d seen the numbers before we left. Between ticket sales, the silent auction, the donations from our label and a few well-timed surprise pledges after Storm & Silence played their acoustic set, the total shot past expectations.
Enough to restore the roof, modernize the heating, replace the busted elevator—and then some.
That moment after our set, when Nora ran into my arms backstage—grinning, overwhelmed, gorgeous—I thought: I’d play every dive bar in America again if it meant I got to see her that happy.
I sink into the couch next to her. She leans against my side without hesitation, her head finding its place beneath my jaw like we’ve been doing this for years. My arm wraps around her instinctively.
“You were amazing tonight,” I tell her.
“I didn’t trip over the podium, so that’s a win.”
I reach for her hand, twining our fingers together. “No, I mean it. You shined. The whole city saw it.”
She lets out a disbelieving huff. “Please. You guys are the reason it made headlines.”
“We added noise,” I say, brushing her cheek with the backs of my fingers. “You gave it heart.”
She looks up at me—eyes warm, full of something I can’t quite name but feel all the way down to my bones. “The library’s getting its roof. The heating system. The tech center. All of it.”
“Damn right it is.” I grin. “You saved the roof. Librarians with capes and all that.”
She laughs softly, curling closer. “And rockstars in leather, apparently.”
I pause, let the silence stretch.
“You know,” I say, “I’ve done a lot of shows. Big ones. Wild ones. But I’ve never felt more proud of what we did up there than tonight.”
We saved a roof tonight.
But somehow, I think she saved something in me too.