Pauses.
Considers.
And then, without warning, veers hard left… and makes a beeline straight for me.
“What the—?” I blink as she leaps onto the bench like she owns it, hops into my lap likeIdo, and begins kneading her needle-sharp claws into my jeans with a purr so loud it borders on smug.
Nora straightens slowly. “Excuse me?”
I hold up both hands, as if surrendering to a tiny, fuzzy dictator. “I didn’t do anything.”
“She ignored me.” Nora sounds personally offended. “I’m the one who spoke first.”
“Yeah, well…” I peer down at the kitten, who is now full-blown biscuit-making on my thigh and purring like a malfunctioning engine. “Clearly, she has taste.”
“Clearly,” Nora deadpans. “She likes disaster men.”
“She’s obviously got abandonment issues,” I retort. “Drawn to fellow strays.”
The cat yawns—big and toothy—and then headbutts my stomach before curling up like she’s found her forever home.
Nora watches us, brow lifted. “She just claimed you.”
I look at the cat. Then at Nora. Then back at the cat.
“Great,” I mutter. “I’ve been chosen.”
9
NORA
Miss Foldy-Ear
I’m still puzzling over how a supposedlyprofessionalfake-dating plan turned so… unprofessional. When Vivienne pitched it—three staged dates, a handful of photos, everyone grinning in primary colors—I thought,Easy.A small price to protect both my reputation and the library.
Order is my comfort zone: lists, labels, neat categories. Max Donovan refuses to fit any of them.
I expected him to match the masquerade stranger—aloof, flirtatious, emotionally untouchable.
The Max I’m getting today is someone else. I can’t stop a giggle from escaping when I think back to his clumsiness earlier this morning and his sheepish look after the flour explosion.
Now, as I’m perched beside him on this wobbly city bench, I feel the boundaries blur.
My body sends its own memos: the bright jolt when his laugh spills out, the way my pulse hops whenever his gaze lingers on my mouth. I steal a sideways glance. He’s eating rigatoni like a college kidafter finals, marinara freckling his stubble, easy contentment glowing beneath the tough-guy tattoos.
I remind myself it’s all staged intimacy—but staged moments aren’t supposed to make you memorize the exact angle of a man’s smile or wonder how it would feel pressed deliberately, softly, against your own.
A rustle breaks my thoughts. It sounds like a candy wrapper caught in the wind, but it’s coming from under our bench. I lean forward, squinting into the shadows, and the rustle materializes into a tiny face: tortoiseshell fur mottled caramel and black, green eyes luminous in the half light. The kitten is thin—haunches bony under patchy coat—and one ear folds forward like a wilted leaf. She stretches her neck, sniffing toward Max’s rigatoni.
“Oh,” I breathe.
The kitten slinks from the shadow, pauses to calculate escape routes, then pads closer, petite paws silent on concrete. Her tail kinks halfway, as though someone tied a knot.
Max notices at the same time.
I extend my hand first, fingers splayed so she can investigate. “And who might you be?” I ask.
She sniffs once. Blinks slowly. I hold my breath.
