“On tour,” I say, breathless. “Come with me. Before the charity event. With the band.”
21
NORA
I Fucking Meant It
“Come with me. Before the charity event. With the band,” Max says.
Just like that. No buildup. No warning. Just a soft, breathless invitation that lands somewhere between a dream and a free fall.
I blink. “What?”
He’s grinning, eyes a little too bright from the whiskey. “It’s just a few dates. I want you there, Nora.”
My heart leaps. And then crashes right back into my ribs.
I sit up straighter, pulling back slightly—just enough to breathe. Enough to think.
“Max… you’re tipsy.”
He blinks, still smiling. “I’m serious.”
“You’re seriousright now,” I say gently, trying not to let my voice wobble. “But tomorrow you might not be. Tomorrow you’ll wake up and realize it was just the whiskey and the moment talking.”
He frowns. “That’s not fair.”
“Isn’t it?” I whisper.
“You think I don’t mean it,” he says, quieter now.
“I think youwantto mean it,” I say. “I think part of you does. But I also think tomorrow, when the buzz fades and real life kicks back in, you’ll realize it’s easier not to complicate things.”
He’s silent for a beat. Then: “That’s not true.”
“Then prove it,” I say, meeting his eyes. “Ask me again tomorrow. Sober. In daylight.”
He watches me for a long moment. I can see the way his jaw works, the frustration under the surface. But then something shifts—his gaze softens, and he nods once.
“Okay,” he says. “Tomorrow.”
I nod too. But my chest still aches. Because no matter how much I want him to ask again, there’s a small, scared part of me that’s already bracing for him not to.
I try to smile. “And if you do ask again... maybe I’ll say yes.”
“Maybe?” he echoes, raising a brow.
I lean in, kiss him softly, slowly, like a promise that hasn’t quite been made. “We’ll see.”
***
The morning light is too honest.
It pours through the windows like it knows things. Like it wants to shine on every corner of this too-big, too-beautiful penthouse and ask,what are you doing here, Nora?
I sit up in bed, the sheets still warm from where Max lay, my heart caught somewhere between fluttering hope and full-body dread.
My hair’s a wild mess—I can feel the flattened section from the pillow, the frizz at the ends, the dried product clinging to strands. Myface is probably smudged with last night’s mascara, raccoon rings and all. My breath isdefinitelynot cute.
