We move past a sculptural staircase, but he steers me away from the obvious “show-off” route and toward a cozy corner lined with overstuffed chairs. A fireplace flickers low behind a mesh screen; a battered paperback ofThe Count of Monte Cristosits facedown on the armrest alongside a mug of half-finished coffee. None of it looks staged.
Melody abandons a toy mouse the instant she hears my voice, scampering across the floor with that funny kinked tail flagging the way. I crouch to meet her. “Hi, Miss Melody. Are you causing trouble?”
She answers with a rusty mew and climbs right up my calf as if I’m a scratching post. I laugh—an honest, full sound I barely recognize as mine—and scoop her into the crook of my arm. Soft, purring warmth sinks into my sweater.
Max watches, arms folded, a grin pulling at one side of his mouth. “She’s been pacing the door like a tiny bouncer. I think you just passed inspection.”
We drift toward the kitchen island. It’s been transformed into a miniature feline resort: shallow water dish, tiny ceramic plate, a neat pile of kitten toys arranged like hors d’oeuvres. My chest warms at the sight. “You really went all in.”
He shrugs, suddenly self-conscious. “I just hope I’m doing a good job taking care of her. I’m not used to it… having someone else depend on me, I mean.”
Melody dives for the water, lapping noisily. I lean a hip against the counter and study Max. He fusses with the coffee machine.
“She’s happy,” I say quietly.
He glances up, eyes a softer blue than I remember. “Hope so. I keep Googling ‘how to make kitten feel safe’ and over-buying supplies.”
“You’re doing great.” The words come out steadier than I feel. Because this careful, nurturing version of a man who once tore up hotel furniture doesn’t fit any category I have for him, and that unsettles me in the best way.
He sets two coffees on the island.
I laugh, easing onto a barstool. Melody hops up beside me and begins a meticulous wash of her bent ear. Max offers her a fingertip to sniff before turning back to me.
I rub Melody’s head and set my mug on a worn coaster shaped like a vinyl record. “You know, for a rockstar’s penthouse, this place is… cozy.”
“That’s the goal,” he says, a little sheepish. “I need a place to decompress.”
I eye the kitchen. “Mind if I snoop a little?”
“Be my guest,” he says, waving a hand. “Just don’t sell a tell-all about the disaster that is drawer three.”
I tug the fridge open—and freeze.
Inside is a borderline obscene display of affluence: imported cheeses lined up like a dairy museum, jewel-toned juices in glass bottles, herbs still in tiny biodegradable pots, artisan chocolates in individual drawers, and no less than six kinds of water—sparkling, still, infused, Icelandic, electrolyte-boosted, and one that might actually be holy.
I close the fridge slowly, turning back to him. “And here I thought I was the bougie one.”
He chuckles, eyes crinkling. “Look, I like nice things. I didn’t grow up with much, so yeah—when the money started coming in, I went a little wild. Cars, watches, all of it.”
I raise a brow but let him go on.
“But then… I don’t know. After that first world tour, I realized I didn’t even care about half the stuff I’d bought. It just took up space.”
“So what changed?”
“I got smart. Or maybe just tired of the clutter.” He shrugs. “I still like good food, a killer sound system, leather seats that hug your ass—”
I snort.
“—but I started using the money in ways that actually felt good. I treat the people around me—crew, family, friends. Christmas bonuses the size of down payments. I tip like a lunatic. I quietly fund a few nonprofits. And I invest in stuff that matters to me. The music did well, but the real money? That came from smart moves—tech startups, green energy, real estate. I got lucky early, had a great advisor, and didn’t blow it all on snakeskin jackets and diamond grills.”
I laugh. “So no secret vault of gold bars hidden behind chaotic drawer three?”
“There might be.” He smirks. “But you’ll have to earn the key.”
I take a sip of coffee, watching him. He’s a rockstar. He’s filthy rich. But beneath it all? He’s just a man who figured out how to build a life that makes sense to him.
“You’re not what I expected,” I say softly.
