A sticky note rests next to the lineup, scrawled in Max’s messy, all-caps handwriting:
“DIDN’T KNOW WHICH ONE YOU’D LIKE. PICK ONE. OR ALL. –M”
I laugh—like, full-on laugh—into my hand.
When I walk back out, Max is leaning on the counter sipping a decaf espresso, eyebrows raised like he knows exactly what I found.
“You bought ten toothbrushes,” I say.
“Yeah,” he says, like it’s the most normal thing in the world. “Didn’t want to get the wrong kind. I panicked. Toothbrush shopping’s weirdly high-stakes.”
“Max,” I say, grinning, “there’s one with adolphinon it.”
“I panickedhard.”
I cross the room and wrap my arms around him, tucking my face into his chest. He smells like warm cotton and coffee and something unmistakablyhim.
“I like the blue one,” I murmur.
“Good,” he says into my hair. “I was rooting for that one.”
We stand there for a long moment. Just breathing. Just being.
Then he pulls back slightly, looking at me like I’m something he’s still not quite sure he deserves—but is determined to keep anyway.
“You can stay, you know,” he says softly. “Whenever you want. Doesn’t have to be a one-night thing. Or a toothbrush-emergency-only thing.”
I smile, heart fluttering. “Okay.”
“Okay?” he echoes.
“Yeah. I’ll stay.”
And I do.
That night, curled up in his stupidly soft sheets, with a brand-new blue toothbrush drying on the counter, I fall asleep in Max Donovan’s arms.
20
MAX
Bastard Billionaire
Inever thought picking a shirt would make me want to puke.
But here I am—standing in front of my closet like it’s a firing squad, every hanger holding a different version of me I’m not sure I want to bring to the table.
Leather jacket Max? Too aggressive.All-black Max? Might as well show up looking like I’m going to punch him in the will.White T-shirt Max? What am I, a commercial for artisanal oat milk?
I drag my hand through my hair for the fiftieth time, then glance at my phone again.The meeting’s in two hours.Private restaurant. Back entrance. Neutral ground.
Lawrence Westwood’s assistant made the arrangements like it was a corporate merger.
I stare back at the clothes. Half my wardrobe is stage-ready chaos—torn denim, boots that still have sand in them from Rio, a hoodie that smells faintly like cat.
And then there’s the stuff I never wear. The “meet the label execs” stuff. Button-downs. Real pants.
I grab one of the button-downs and toss it onto the bed. Then immediately regret it.
