Chapter 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.
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 local businesses.
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, hands in pockets—stands slightly apart, studying the limestone facade as if memorising its pores.
The tallest aide checks her tablet. “Ms Davidson, thanks for coming. This is Matt Donovan, tour logistics for Storm he turns, cap brim shading most of his face.
Up close, details arrange themselves: he’s all broad shoulders and long lean lines, the kind of build you get from lugging flight cases, not lifting decorative dumbbells.
Every time he shifts, the soft cotton of his hoodie stretches just enough to hint at toned biceps underneath; my professional vocabulary deserts me and all I can think is solid.
Then there’s his face—angles a bit too sharp to be classically pretty, half a day of stubble framing a mouth that looks made for either sin or sonnets, maybe both.
But it’s his eyes that ambush me: startling blue, clear and intense, like a lightning strike freeze-framed over the ocean.
When he looks at me, they soften into real focus. No doubt about it: Matt is hot!
He extends a callused hand. “Pleasure to meet you. Heard you’re the brains behind the bookish side of this circus.”
His voice is lower than I expect—warm but threaded with something playful. I take his hand; calluses scrape gently, the tactile signature of someone who works with his hands. My chest does a small, embarrassing flip at the contact.
“Brains might be generous,” I say. “But yes, I keep the fiction section from catching fire.”
The aide herds everyone toward the orange spray-painted lines. “We’ll start at the perimeter and work inward.”
For the next twenty minutes, we circle the plaza, trading measurements and coffee-cup calculations.
And the whole time, I’m painfully aware of Matt.
It’s like I can feel him beside me—quiet, steady. He’s got that kind of presence, the kind that doesn’t have to try. When our hands brush accidentally, a zing shoots through me.
What is it with men and me lately? I don’t usually feel this kind of heat for someone I barely know. And Matt definitely gives off a bad boy vibe—not like my masquerade stranger, but sexy in his own right.
While we walk, I pitch my dream “quiet-reading cove”—beanbags, fountain-pen floor lamps, noise-canceling headphones.
The city events guy grimaces and mutters something about vibe disruption.
Before I can fire back, Matt leans in and lowers his voice. “Personally,” he murmurs, “I think a silent corner at a loud show sounds like rebellion in its purest form.”
I glance up. The brim hides half his expression, but one dimple teases at the edge of his smile. Energy—fresh, fizzy—kicks inside my ribcage.
“You’re in favour?” I ask.
He shrugs. “What can I say? I’m very fond of books.”
The informal tour winds down near a stack of coiled power cable, the city aides drifting off to compare permit notes. Matt and I are left in a patch of thin sunlight that cuts through the scaffolding.
“So,” I say, tucking hair behind my ear, “thanks for backing the reading-cove idea. A lot of crews hear quiet and assume I’m out to destroy rock-and-roll.”
Matt’s mouth tilts into a half-smile wicked enough to make heat creep up my neck. “Nah, quiet corners are underrated. Besides, half the band’ll probably sneak in there to nap.”
I laugh. “If a drummer dozes on my beanbags he’s signing up for story-time duty.”
“Now that,” he says, “I’d pay to livestream— drummer reads Goodnight Moon, crowd goes feral.”
The picture makes me snort-laugh, and he looks openly pleased, blue eyes glinting. Under the hoodie he folds muscular arms that the sweatshirt can’t quite disguise. “Seriously,” he adds, “books saved my sanity once. I’m all in on your nook.”