I tighten the duvet around her shoulders, then let my palm settle over the small dip in her spine. Her heartbeat slows, syncing with mine, and the afterglow shifts into something quieter—an intimate calm I’m not sure I’ve ever earned before.
17
NORA
Girl’s Talk
Isurface to daylight and the slow, steady rhythm of a heartbeat beneath my ear. Max’s chest rises and falls under my cheek, warm skin sliding with every breath, and for one luxurious moment I can’t remember why I ever chose alarm clocks and single-size sheets. The bedroom is flooded with pale gold—the kind of light that makes the slate-gray linens look silvery and turns the skyline outside the floor-to-ceiling windows into a watercolor.
Max is still asleep, mouth slack, lashes dark against his cheeks. He looks younger like this—less rock-god, more boy who stayed up too late. My legs are tangled with his; the duvet has migrated halfway down his hips, revealing the sharp V of muscle and the edge of that storm-cloud tattoo. Heat hums low in my belly at the memory of tracing it with my tongue.
A weight shifts at my ankles. Melody, fully awake and clearly affronted that breakfast hasn’t appeared, marches up the length of the mattress and plops herself on Max’s stomach. Her purr kicks on likea tiny engine. He grunts, hand coming to rest automatically on her crooked ear.
“Traitor,” I whisper to the kitten, scratching under her chin. “You’re supposed to wait till I’m ready to move.”
The purr ramps up. Max’s eyes blink open, blue still hazy with sleep. He focuses on me and smiles—slow, unguarded, unfairly gorgeous. “Morning, Librarian.”
“Morning,” I answer, voice rough with contentment. “Your alarm never went off.”
“Don’t need one.” He stretches, careful not to dislodge Melody. “My internal clock knows when a diva cat is about to stage a protest.”
As if on cue, Melody chirps and head-butts his chest. Max chuckles, then shifts his gaze back to me. “Coffee?”
“In approximately three minutes,” I bargain, sliding my palm over the warm plane of his stomach to tap the kitten’s rump. “First we appease Her Highness.”
He rolls us gently to the edge of the bed and deposits Melody on the rug. She trots toward the door, tail kinked, certain we’ll follow. Max leans over, presses a kiss to my temple. “Stay. I’ll handle breakfast.”
Watching him pad toward the kitchen—hair mussed—I realize the strangest thing: waking up in a rockstar’s penthouse doesn’t feel surreal. It feels startlingly normal. The kind of normal you write long letters home about.
The clink of mugs precedes Max back into the bedroom. He nudges the door open with a bare shoulder, balancing two steaming cups that smell like dark roast and vanilla.
Max hands me one mug—heavy pottery hand-painted with tiny guitar silhouettes. “Cream, no sugar,” he says, proud he’s memorized my preference. He settles cross-legged at the foot of the bed, his own cup cradled between his big hands.
For a moment neither of us speaks. We just inhale the steam and the kind of silence you get only on a Sunday city morning—light traffic hum, muffled horn, nothing urgent. I take a sip; the coffee is strong enough to stand on its own, softened by a hint of oat milk.
Max blows across his cup, looking boyish with sleep-ruffled hair. “So, librarian verdict: acceptable brew?”
“Solid eight,” I tease. “Docked a point because the barista wasn’t wearing shoes.”
He wiggles his toes against the duvet. “Shoeless service has its charms.”
Melody jumps onto the mattress and curls into a doughnut between us, purring so hard my cup ripples. Max strokes her folded ear, watching me over the rim of his mug.
“Busy day ahead,” I say softly. “I gotta run soon.”
“I can call in a bomb threat to the library,” he offers, deadpan. “Buy us another hour.”
“Tempting,” I laugh, locating my skirt draped over a chair. “But I have a reference desk shift and a shipment of large-print romances that won’t shelve themselves.”
I tug the skirt on; Max crosses the room to help straighten the waistband—a completely unnecessary gesture that warms me from cheeks to toes. Melody weaves between our ankles, clearly miffed the human pile is breaking up.
“I’ll walk you to the elevator,” Max says, retrieving my boots. He kneels, and I can’t decide if slipping on footwear has ever felt more intimate. Once laced, I stand, smoothing my hair in the mirror; he lifts an eyebrow, apparently pleased with the just-slept-in look.
By the door he drapes my coat over my shoulders, then presses a soft kiss to my forehead. “Can I see you this evening?”
“I’m meeting Em for drinks—she insists on the full debrief.” I wink, and he mock-cringes.
We step into the private elevator; the doors slide closed around us. The descent is silent, save for the soft whirr of mechanics and the louder thump of my pulse. He intertwines our fingers, thumb stroking the ridge of my knuckle until the bell dings lobby.
