“There’s art on the walls,” she says in disbelief. “Like,actualframed art. Is that a Klimt print?”
“DeShawn insisted.”
She turns to me. “This isn’t a tour bus. This isobscene.”
“Yeah,” I smirk. “But obscene gets you to the next venue with decent espresso and no spinal damage.”
Her eyes flick toward the sleeping pods. “Where do I sleep?”
I lean in, dropping my voice. “You’ve got your own pod. Or… you can sleep in mine. We’re adults. Adults with really good sheets.”
She shoots me a look. “Are they the 800-thread-count Egyptian cotton kind?”
“They’re the kind Max Donovan likes.”
She presses her lips together, trying not to smile.
Lucas barrels in behind us, sunglasses still on even though we’re indoors. He tosses his bag onto the couch like a gremlin. “Who’s ready to live the dream and develop a healthy dependency on caffeine and compliments?”
Annie steps in with a grin. “Always.”
DeShawn follows, holding Melody’s carrier like it contains the holy grail. “The queen has arrived,” he announces, setting her gently on the floor. “Bow accordingly.”
Nora crouches to unlock the carrier, grinning as Melody saunters out like she owns the world. “Are we suresheisn’t headlining?”
“In her world, she’s always the headliner,” I say, taking Nora’s hand.
The door hisses closed behind us, and the low hum of the road rises beneath our feet as the driver pulls us away from the curb.
And just like that, we’re off. The city fades behind us, headlights stretching ahead like constellations. The tour has officially started.
***
We’re somewhere between cities, the sun sliding down behind endless highway, and the bus hums with the rhythm of the road—steady, hypnotic, familiar.
Nora’s sitting next to me on the front couch, curled up cross-legged with a fleece blanket across her lap and an iced tea sweating in her hand.Her hair’s in a messy braid, and she’s wearing one of my old band tees that somehow looks way better on her than it ever did on me.
I look at her like an idiot. For too long. Again.
“You’re staring,” she says without looking up from the cards she’s shuffling.
“Can’t help it.”
She rolls her eyes, but her smile gives her away.
We’ve been quietly playing a two-person version of war for the last twenty minutes, and it’s gone exactly nowhere. Mostly because we keep getting distracted—by stolen glances, stupid jokes, and the general chaos around us.
“Okay,” I say, stretching and yawning. “Let’s raise the stakes.”
Nora arches a brow. “What, loser does bus laundry for a week?”
“Tempting,” I grin. “But no. Loser has to convince everyone to join us.”
She narrows her eyes. “Convince them to—what, play cards?”
“Exactly.”
She smirks. “Max Donovan, are you trying to weaponize my charm?”
