“Jake Armstrong is currently killing my inbox.” She thrusts the phone toward me. A string of all-caps messages from Jake scroll past:YOU PROMISED EXCLUSIVE,MY SCOOP IS BURIED,DO SOMETHING.
I wipe sweat off my forehead with the back of my wrist. “Didn’t he get his feature this morning?”
“He did,” Vivienne snaps. “But fan selfies of you, Nora, and Melody are out-performing his carefully crafted blog post by a factor of ten. Jake feels blindsided. He expected to control the ‘first candid sighting.’ Now every gossip site has it…”
I’m sick of bending over backwards to Jake and I don’t want to bother Nora with any more drama. I square the guitar against my thigh. “Well, there’s nothing I can do about that. We promised him three exclusive dates and that’s what he’s getting. Everything else is out of my control.”
Vivienne exhales, smoothing an imaginary wrinkle in her blazer. “Jake likes to show he’s the one holding the leash. If he sniffs out something you don’t want public, he’ll pounce.”
“Then we don’t give him anything to pounce on,” I say, sharper than I mean to.
She nods once. “Keep it tight, Max. One slip and he’ll run the ugliest version of the story—and he won’t care who else gets splattered.”
11
NORA
A Safe Patch of Anatomy
Ipush through the glass doors of Summit Vault Climbing Center, the scent of rubber flooring and chalk dust instantly replacing Manhattan exhaust. A forty-foot wall ripples upward like a giant’s game of Tetris—holds in neon oranges and blues glowing under warehouse lights. My stomach does a mid-level cartwheel. Heights? Fine in theory. Heights while looking photogenic? Another thing entirely.
Gavin—the same lanky, red-haired photographer from our first date—is already inside, balancing his camera on a crash pad and waving like we’re teammates. Max materializes from the locker hallway a second later—black athletic tee clinging in ways that should be illegal, harness slung over one shoulder, hair still damp from a quick rinse. He spots me and grins that grin—the one that turns my kneecaps to custard.
“Ms. Davidson,” he says, offering a theatrical bow. “Ready to scale new heights of PR romance?”
I roll my eyes, but warmth slips into my veins. “As long as you don’t drop me from new heights of anything.”
“So,” I say, while a staff member sizes me for a harness—lots of awkward tugging around hips and thighs—while Max threads his own like he’s done it a hundred times. “How’s my favorite adopted cat enjoying her rock-star lifestyle?”
Max looks up, rolls his eyes so hard they practically orbit. “Oh, you mean Her Most Dramatic Highness?”
I grin. “That good?”
He wipes sweat off his forehead with the back of a chalky hand. “Let’s see. Last night she staged a hunger strike because her kibble touched the side of the bowl. At two a.m. she announced the crisis by yowling in E-flat—right in my ear.”
I cover a laugh. “Artistic temperament.”
“And this morning,” he continues, faux-grumpy momentum building, “she used my vintage leather stage jacket as a scratching post. Fifteen grand’s worth of custom studs now look like a crime scene.”
“Ouch.”
“She’s also decided the only acceptable sleeping arrangement is draped across my face, which is great if you enjoy breathing through cat fur.” He gives a long-suffering sigh. “Basically, Melody is a four-pound diva with zero respect for personal space, property values, or my REM cycle.”
I bite my lip to keep from laughing too loudly; other climbers are starting to stare. “But you adore her.”
He huffs, but the corners of his mouth betray him. “Yeah, well. Stockholm syndrome.”
Gavin circles us, meter-reading the light, then calls, “Let’s start with chalk-bag prep, gear check—natural candids.”
Natural. Right.
Max steps in to cinch the last strap along my waist. His fingers skim my lower back—a whisper of contact—and goosebumps sparkbeneath the nylon. He leans close, voice pitched for me alone. “All good? We can bail if this feels off.”
“It’s fine,” I breathe, surprising myself with how true it is. I tug my ponytail tighter, pretending it’s nerves about heights, not the man fastening me like a Christmas tree.
Gavin positions himself near the auto-belay lane. “Max, clip Nora’s carabiner. Hand on her waist—there, like you’re guiding her. Perfect.”
Max does, palm steady on my hip. “Trust fall in reverse,” he jokes, nudging me toward the first neon hold. I start climbing; the plastic grip is cool under chalked fingers. Two moves up, I hear Gavin’s shutter. Three moves, and Max is on the route beside me—long legs making a mockery of the footholds I’m tip-toeing across.
