Chapter One
Theo Sinclair pausedoutside Northern Pour, glaring through the glass. No sign of Max Rivers.
Of course there isn’t. When is he ever on time?
He pushed open the door, greeted by the rush of roasted beans, sugar, and cinnamon. The place buzzed with students hunched over laptops and couples laughing too loud. A few men in suits scrolled on their phones. Theo scanned for an empty corner and claimed it. Coffee could wait until Max deigned to arrive.
This had better be worth it.
He’d stayed up way too late working—another spreadsheet to fix, another server hiccup to patch—but Max’s text had come through like a lifeline.
Need a drink. Got news. Meet me at the usual place. Yeah, I’m coming to Manchester. [eye roll emoji]
Theo hadn’t realised how badly he’d wanted an excuse to leave the sterile glow of his monitor until he was already on the tram.
It has to be music related.Only that would drag Max all the way from London. Only that would be important enough to part him from his precious club.And the fact he wants to have thisconversation face to face, rather than over the phone or via email, speaks volumes.
God, Theohopedit was to do with music.
That was what he missed. The ache in his chest was worse lately. IT paid the bills, but it didn’t make him feel alive. Four years at the Royal Northern College of Music and all he had to show for it were dusty scores in a box under his bed and one very expensive “mistake degree,” according to his father.
Theo rubbed the tension from his neck.Mistake or not, it was the only time I knew who I was.
“You could’ve had the coffees waiting.”
Theo looked up. Max Rivers loomed over him, all black leather and cocky grin, jeans tight enough to make the barista blush across the room.
“You’re not exactly a model of punctuality,” Theo said dryly. “I figured I’d wait until you decided to grace us with your presence.”
“Or figured I’d buy.” Max slid into the chair opposite, his eyes glinting. “Rumour confirmed—Scots are tightfisted.”
Theo looked hm up and down. “You could always pawn one of your leather jackets. Just think how many coffees that would buy.”
Max gaped in mock horror. “The only way someone else gets their grubby mitts on one ofmyjackets is if they’re stealing it from my lifeless corpse that they just found in an alley.” He batted his lashes. “Aw, buy a coffee for one of your bestest friends.”
Theo laughed. “Fine, I’ll get them. You’re still between jobs, aren’t you? Unless you’ve started moonlighting as a stripper without telling me.”
Max’s grin flickered, a shadow crossing his features, then it snapped back into place. “Americano. And if a croissant leaps into the bag, I’ll let fate decide.”
Theo went to order, shaking his head as Max unleashed a slow wink at the poor barista. Typical. Max didn’t flirt; he detonated. Clubs, bars, even coffee shops—he collected admirers like moths. That dark beard, the tattoos, the low-burning dominance in his posture… He was chaos personified.
And Theo’s rock.
Max had been there when Luka had wrecked more than his heart. For better or worse, Max had always been the anchor—and the match.
When Theo returned with their drinks, Max was scowling at his phone that was propped up against the small pot filled with sachets of sugar and sweetener.
“What’s crawled up your arse?”
“Grayson Bishop,” Max muttered. “Which, by the way, is the reason we’re meeting.”
Theo groaned. “Christ, that tosser? Why would you say his name out loud?” Not that Theo had even thought once about Grayson since they’d all graduated from the Royal Northern College. The smarmy bastard. Now and then his name popped up in the WhatsApp group for his ex-classmates, but Theo made it a point not to read those messages.
Reading them was as bad as hearing Grayson, and why would he want to torture himself like that?
“Because the bastard’s gone and got himself a group. A cappella. And apparently they’re the next big thing,” Max air-quoted.
Theo froze. “You’re joking.”
