We thank the front-desk staff—Max poses for a quick selfie with an awestruck teenage climber—then push through the double glass doors into late-afternoon sunlight. Traffic hums along Ninth Avenue, horns layered like a lazy jazz riff.
Side-by-side, we navigate sidewalk currents. Now and then his hand brushes mine; once, when a cyclist barrels too close to the curb, hetugs me nearer, palm firm against the small of my back. The gesture should feel practiced—stage-door chivalry—but it doesn’t; it feels like instinct, and something inside me unfurls.
We pass a deli where the scent of roasted coffee beans curls through the air. Max tilts his head. “Fuel for the flyer factory?”
“Necessary.” We duck in for two lattes—mine decaf by afternoon rule, his an unapologetic triple shot—and emerge steaming and caffeinated.
The library’s sandstone façade greets us with familiar arches. I badge us through the staff entrance, heart fluttering at the intimacy of unlocking my favorite place for him. Inside, the hush wraps around us—soft lamp glow, distant whoosh of the HVAC, the faint flutter of pages somewhere in Fiction.
Max gazes up at the vaulted ceiling with something like reverence. “Every time I walk in here, it feels like stepping backstage at a sacred concert.”
I smile. “Wait till you see the back-office copier. Truly awe-inspiring.”
He laughs silently, following me past Reference and into the staff workroom. I open the supply cabinet: reams of pastel cardstock, a rainbow of Sharpies, the guillotine paper-cutter gleaming like a friendly executioner.
Max pulls his phone, swipes to a photo of Melody: crooked ear, bright eyes. “Think this one? Or the one where she’s destroying my set list?”
“Destruction sells sympathy,” I decide. I sit him at the computer, fire up the flyer template, and—between sips of latte and bursts of giggles about ‘Wanted: Small Furry Diva’—we start designing.
The late sunlight filters through frosted windows, pooling over the keyboard. Max leans close to adjust font size; his shoulderbrushes mine, and I realize I don’t feel flustered anymore. I feel perfectly placed, like a hold on a wall I never knew I could reach.
12
MAX
A Bad Boy’s Reputation
Ikeep working side by side with Nora, but the library’s polished floor might as well be that climbing-gym mat, because my mind replays the moment Nora swung straight into me. The instant her cheek brushed my crotch, heat shot through me like live current.
No padding—thin spandex, thinner cotton—nothing that could mask how hard I went, fast.
My pulse slammed in my ears; adrenaline should’ve felt like pure panic, but it was edged with something raw, electric.
Even now, hours later, remembering her muffled “sorry” against me makes everything below my belt tighten again, a throb synced to the memory of her breath warming through fabric. It’s equal parts mortifying and magnetic—impossible to ignore, even with the copier in the staff workroom spitting out sheet after sheet of melon-pink cardstock.
Each of the flyer shows Melody’s crooked ear in high-resolution glory under the headline“FOUND — Looking for My Person.”Nora stands beside the machine, scooping pages into neat stackswhile I man the paper cutter, guillotine blade hissing through paired paw-print borders. It feels strangely domestic—as if we’ve run away together to open a tiny print shop that serves lattes and lost-pet posters.
“You’re dangerous with that thing,” she teases, nudging my elbow. “Try not to take off any rockstar fingers; the fans will riot.”
“I need at least two for power chords,” I say, laying another sheet under the guide. “The rest are expendable if the flyers come out straight.”
She laughs, a sound that echoes gently off metal cabinets and reference shelves beyond the door. Late-day light filters through the narrow window over the sink, dust motes turning in lazy spirals.
When the final stack lands, she nods at an empty cart. “We can leave some here, then hit some shops, cafés and vet clinics tomorrow.” She sweeps a lock of hair behind her ear. “Thank you for doing this.”
“Sure thing.” I wipe stray paper fuzz from my hands. “Tell me where you are with the event, anyway. Vivienne keeps me on a strict diet of bullet points.”
Nora grabs a dry-erase marker and sweeps to the whiteboard on the back wall, sketching boxes like a general mapping a campaign. “All right: headliner slot—Storm & Silence—secured.” She arrows to the next box. “Opening act: local teen jazz ensemble; they’re thrilled you donated drum heads, by the way. Sponsorship dollars still ten percent short of the roof-repair budget, but I’m chasing two corporate matches. Silent-auction items in place, except I’m shy one big-ticket experience.”
I tap my chin, pretending to think it over. “How about a one-on-one songwriting session with me?”
Her hand stalls mid- scribble. “That would close the gap, Max. People would pay for that.”
“Then it’s yours.” I pull my phone, shoot Vivienne a text to draft the legalese. “Now we just need to train Melody to draw raffle tickets with her paw.”
Nora snorts. “She’d shred them.”
“Adds mystique.”
