My stomach knots. I don’t want my mom dragged into this. She means too much to me.
3
NORA
Suspended in Air
The city-hall rotunda is a marble echo chamber designed to shame latecomers. Every boot heel ricochets like a starter pistol, which is unfortunate because I’m sprinting across the checkerboard floor with three clipboards, a tote of grant proposals, and my hair claw listing starboard.
I’m organizing a charity event in the city to benefit the library—100% of the proceeds will support literacy workshops, after-school tutoring, job-seeking assistance, access to technology, and yes, finally fixing the library’s leaking roof.
The venue—New York City Hall—is more grand than anything we’ve ever worked with. The historic rotunda, with its marble columns and sweeping staircase, feels almost too opulent for a library fundraiser—but that’s part of the appeal. A generous local donor helped secure it, hoping the iconic location will attract attention—and open wallets.
The event will feature a silent auction with rare and signed books, literary-themed gift baskets, and VIP experiences donated by localbusinesses. There will be catered food, a champagne bar, major star performances, and a dance floor set in the central atrium. Local authors have been invited for readings and signings, and a cozy side lounge will host storytelling sessions for children earlier in the evening.
I weave past a flock of council interns, muttering apologies—and try not to wonder if the man from the masquerade thinks about me the way I think about him. Probably not. People like him collect kisses the way rare-book dealers collect watermarks: fleeting trophies. Still, the paw-print his mouth left on my pulse hasn’t faded. I’ve replayed the scene too many times—his laugh, the cognac warmth behind it—until I’m half-convinced I dreamed him up between overdue-notice spreadsheets.
Emily hadn’t let a raging fever stop her from staging a full-scale cross-examination the morning after the ball. She was already propped up in bed when I brought her a mercifully hot latte, looking every inch the flu-stricken interrogator but refusing to let a triple-digit fever dull her curiosity.
“Okay, start at the top,” she said, voice gravelly yet determined as she patted the mattress for me to sit. “When you two were dancing and he finally leaned in—that exact second—how did he look at you? I need details, Nora: eyes, focus, that little half-smile men do when they know they’ve got you.”
I laughed into the steam of my cup. “Honestly, I was too preoccupied with staying upright in those shoes and figuring out how kissing a stranger in public had suddenly become my brand. I couldn’t conduct an ophthalmology exam at the same time.”
“So his pupils were probably huge,” she concluded, waving a limp hand as if that settled it. “Dilated pupils equal genuine interest, it’s basic anthropology. Tell me about the actual kiss—slow build or immediate fireworks?”
“Both,” I said, cheeks warming despite the spring draft sneaking through her cracked window. “He started careful, like he was testing if the moment was really happening, and then once we both knew it was, everything deepened by about twenty degrees. I felt it all the way in my knees.”
Emily’s eyes—bloodshot but still wickedly alive—lit up. “God, that sounds like the good kind of reckless. Did things, you know… escalate?”
“No.” I shook my head, a little embarrassed by how wistful the no sounded. “We stopped at one very thorough kiss. It was enough to fry my brain, but that was it.”
“And if the universe hadn’t intervened?” she pressed, voice dropping conspiratorially. “If he hadn’t been dragged off, would you have wanted more?”
The question hung in the room, along with the humid scent of menthol cough drops. I thought of the press of his hand at my waist, the way his thumb had traced a shorthand promise against my pulse. “I think,” I said slowly, “that if he’d asked, I might have said yes—and immediately panicked about saying yes afterward.”
Emily sighed like a satisfied novelist reaching the midpoint twist. “That’s the best answer. Terrifying, honest, dangerously alive. What else? Did you catch a name for him?”
“No. I really don’t know anything about him,” I admitted, and then added, quieter, “He disappeared before I could even ask.”
Emily nudged my elbow. “Disappearing men can reappear, especially in Manhattan. Trust me, fate likes an encore. So—are you actually going to look?”
Heat fluttered low in my stomach at the idea. “I’m trying to be practical, Em. He’s probably a guest from out of town, or married, or both.”
“Or,” she countered, burrowing deeper under her comforter with a triumphant grin, “he’s secretly a local who also can’t stop replaying that kiss and is at this very moment Googling ‘blue-dress girl with bookish one-liners.’ Stranger things have happened.”
I rolled my eyes, but hope flickered in spite of me. “Fine, let’s say he does turn up. Then what?”
“Then,” Emily said, punctuating with a sniffle and a sip of latte, “you pick up right where that kiss left off. Easy.”
Her grin was contagious; I felt my own mouth curve before I could stop it. Maybe it wasn’t simple, but it did sound possible.
Now, as I hurry to the meeting about our big literacy charity event, I give myself a quick reality check: I am not a swoony teenager obsessing over a mysterious kiss. I’m a fully functional adult with deadlines, budgets, and a literacy gala to pull off.
This fundraiser matters—every dollar raised will keep our reading programs alive—so the sponsorship emails, the stage permits, the endless logistics are worth the bruised cuticles. Big-name companies have finally signed on, and a lineup of bands I’ve never heard of (plus one reportedly huge headliner) should draw the kind of crowd that tips the balance from “modest success” to “library-saving triumph.” Even if I can’t hum a single chorus, I’m thrilled the music world is showing up for books.
Today’s walkthrough isn’t some boardroom affair—it’s an on-site logistics shuffle: city events staff, a few sound company reps, and the band’s crew. We’ll pace out power drops and argue over crowd-flow arrows chalked onto the pavement.
I push through the revolving door into late-morning sunlight. The west plaza of City Hall is half construction zone, half tulip garden. Two techs in reflective vests wave clipboards; a cluster of council aides mill near a folding table. And one man—hoodie, baseball cap, handsin pockets—stands slightly apart, studying the limestone façade as if memorising its pores.
