Doors part. Morning light splashes across polished marble; the city surges just beyond revolving glass. Max tugs me close once more, quick but lingering kiss—espresso, vanilla, goodbye-for-now.
“Go shelve your smutty romances, Librarian.”
“Go spoil our diva kitten, Rockstar.”
We trade smiles—the kind that feel like secrets—then I step out, heels tapping toward the revolving doors.
***
I make it to the Midtown East Branch with three minutes to spare, cheeks still pink from a certain penthouse goodbye. The moment I swipe my badge, the building inhales me: the hiss of the HVAC, the faint tang of old paper, the fluorescent hum that never quite turns off.
The day blurs into shelving sprees, patron questions, and a raucous children’s story hour; by clock-out I’m bone-deep exhausted.
Emily and I grab the last booth at La Lune, a narrow nook framed by chipped subway tiles and a neon cherry-pie sign that flickers like a faulty halo. She’s recovered from her flu and greets me with her usual energy. I slide in opposite her, still wearing my librarian cardigan but feeling anything but composed.
She sets a steaming golden-milk latte in front of me. “Relaxation emergency. Your texts were capital-D cryptic.”
I wrap both hands around the cup, letting the heat chase off residual library AC. “Where do I start?”
“With whether you’re walking funny,” she says, wagging her brows.
My cheeks flame so fast the latte might boil. “Emily!”
She cackles. “I knew it. Okay, back up. You spent the night at Rockstar Manor, yes?”
I nod, sipping to stall. Ginger and guilt swirl on my tongue. “It was… more than I expected.”
“‘More’ as in biblical, or ‘more’ as in emotional free fall?”
“Both,” I admit, setting the cup down before I spill. “We talked for hours, then—well—took things further.”
Emily leans in, voice dropping. “Define further.”
The hot flush returns. “First, I explored him. Then he returned the favor. And then… we went all the way—to the big finish. And Em, he was gentle. Like, patient-teacher gentle.”
Her grin softens into something warm. “Good gentle or boring gentle?”
I laugh into my spoon. “Good. Very good. But also mind-melting. I thought I’d be terrified for my ‘first time,’ but he made me feel safe and… wanted.”
She wiggles her fingers in jazz-hands salute. “Give me one detail that’ll keep my single heart alive for the week.”
I bite my lip, debating, then whisper, “He carried me to bed like I weighed nothing and gave me a massage first. Full body, scented oil, the whole bit.”
Emily fans herself with a napkin. “Stop. I can’t handle any more of this.”
A prickle of uncertainty sneaks into my pulse. “But the sex isn’t the scary part anymore.”
She sobers. “What is?”
“Feeling this much, this fast—it’s a lot. He’s not just hot, Em. He’s actually kind—way kinder than his reputation. And I think he likes me. But he lives in a totally different world. I mean, he’s a rockstar—famous, filthy rich. His life is chaotic, and the press is relentless. What if I don’t fit into that world?”
Emily sips her matcha, eyes thoughtful. “You know it’s okay to be scared, right? You don’t have to have everything figured out right this second.”
“I know. It's just a lot.”
We keep talking and laughing, and a wave of gratitude washes over me. “Love you, Em,” I say.
“Love you back,” she answers, then smirks. “Next time bring me a signed set list—or at least photographic proof of abs.”
