Emily raises a tissue like a tiny flag of solidarity. “Tomorrow,” she declares, “we conquer dragons and maybe unmask a few knights.”
I muster a thin smile, though my pulse is still uneven. Dragons, knights, or something far murkier—tomorrow I’ll walk into the meeting, library mission held high, and find out. Until then I sip my tea, let the neon pie sign buzz overhead, and brace for the next plot twist.
6
MAX
Showtime
The door clicks shut behind me, sealing out Manhattan’s roar like someone hit mute on the world.
Inside, the loft exhales quiet.
Warm afternoon light slants through linen curtains, brushing over the worn Persian rug and the pile of unread mail on the entry table.
This place was never supposed to be permanent. It was supposed to be a pit stop between tours, between cities, between fuckups. But then I kept coming back. And eventually, it started to feel like home—whatever the hell that means for someone like me.
Muted jazz hums from the built-in speakers. The real kind. No lyrics. Just piano and sax and a heartbeat underneath.
I step out of my boots and kick them toward the mat. My hoodie lands on the arm of the couch, right beside the half-read copy of my latest book.
I walk to the bar cabinet—tucked under a built-in bookshelf, unassuming unless youknow what to look for.
One tap on the panel and backlighting reveals crystal decanters: Islay scotch, small-batch bourbon, tequila with a snake etched on the bottle. I splash two fingers of bourbon into a square glass, no ice. The burn is immediate, almost medicinal, but it doesn’t take the edge off—not the edge left by Nora’s lips or the flash of hurt that replaced desire when she found the tattoo.
I sink onto the leather sofa, bourbon in hand, and stare across the room like it might give me answers.
I knock back the rest of the bourbon, the warmth curling in my chest, slower this time.
Outside, taxis crawl like embers down Eighth Avenue. Somewhere out there, she’s probably drafting a mental blacklist with my name on top. I deserve it, but the thought is a punch to the lungs.
I can still feel her cardigan sliding down her arms, the hush of fabric right before she hooked her heels behind my calves. My pulse spikes at the memory—heat, surprise, the electric jolt of her trust when the elevator groaned and she chose to cling to me instead of panic. For a few suspended minutes it was just us, no masks, no spotlights, her breath painting goosebumps across my neck. The way she whispered my name—Matt, notMax—hit harder than any stadium roar I’ve ever surfed.
And then she saw the tattoo. Recognition lit her eyes, and in the same instant disbelief iced over everything warm between us. I replay the split-second transformation until it bruises. The kiss ended in free fall, my fault entirely. One half-truth too many and I turned something rare into another burned bridge.
I’m exhilarated. I’m wrecked. I’ve never wanted anyone the way I want her—her curiosity, her quick mind, the gasp she makes when surprise melts into pleasure.
I drop onto the leather sectional, phone already in hand. My thumb hovers over a familiar name in my contacts—Karina, the cellist who never asks questions; we have an unspoken arrangement: physics, no feelings. Fifteen minutes of her lush accent stroking my ego might drown tonight’s disaster. I picture dialing, picture the easy relief of bodies colliding without history. My thumb almost taps call.
The screen lights first.
Vivienne Clarkflashes across the glass.
“Vee,” I answer, voice rough.
“Hope I’m interrupting something dull,” she says. Background noise: the low hum of her town-car’s engine. “We have a problem.”
“Let me guess—Jake Armstrong.”
“He sniffed you at City Hall. Worse, he bribed the security contractor and pulled elevator footage—you and Ms. Davidson, lip-locked, timestamp visible. He’s threatening a midnight drop on his blog unless we give him ‘exclusive positioning’ before the benefit.”
I run a hand through my hair, bourbon forgotten. “Dammit. That’ll blow back on Nora, not just me.”
“Yes. A public-employee scandal plays better than ‘rockstar fools around.’ He’ll frame her as reckless, maybe corrupt. Given how thin the library’s funding thread is—”
“—It’ll snap,” I finish. I pace to the window, forehead almost touching the glass. “Options?”
“I’ve stalled him by promising a statement. He’s expecting confirmation that you two are officially involved—consensual, wholesome, photo-ready. If we control the rollout, we blunt the scandal.”
