Chapter 5
NORA
Storm-Tattoo Guy
The lights snap on without warning, bleaching the elevator in harsh fluorescence.
A shriek of grinding steel follows, and the cab lurches upward with a hiss of restored hydraulics.
I jerk upright on the safety rail—every nerve raw—while Matt scrambles for his hoodie, jaw still slack from the kiss that seconds ago felt like the safest, most reckless place in the universe.
The intercom crackles. “Maintenance. Car B-Six, you’re free—doors opening on Eight.” A click, then silence.
My heartbeat slams into fast-forward. Had anyone heard us? Seen us? My skirt is hitched indecently high, Matt’s T-shirt is bunched halfway up a torso I no longer care to memorize, and my hair must be a mess. The cab halts with a jolt; doors screech apart.
On the landing stands an elderly janitor in a faded Mets cap, mop in hand, eyebrows climbing to his hairline. He takes in our appearance, and my flaming cheeks.
“Uh… everything okay in here?”
“Fine,” I croak—too shrill, too quick. I smooth down my hair, adjust my cardigan, and grab the clipboards as a nonsensical shield. My entire body vibrates between humiliation and aching fury. No way am I explaining anything to a stranger with a mop.
Matt reaches out. “Nora—”
I step around his hand, gather my clipboards, and bolt past the janitor before Matt can string another syllable together. Anger flares hot, fusing with shame.
What even was that? A dare turned full-blown make-out session? I let him touch me in ways no one ever had—and like some giddy teenager, I wrapped my legs around a stranger.
No… not a stranger.
The same man who kissed me breathless behind a marble pillar, then vanished without a name.
How did I miss those eyes? Matt has the same piercing blue eyes as the masquerade stranger. The clues were there—I just didn’t see them.
I’m mortified enough to spontaneously combust.
I retreat to the restroom, splash cold water on my face, and redo my bun with trembling fingers.
When I step back into the corridor, Matt is already jogging toward me—hoodie back on, hair mussed, eyes full of something dangerously close to regret.
“Nora, please, let me explain—”
“Save it.” My whisper cuts sharper than I expected. “You’re late for your power diagrams.” I shoulder past, forcing calm steps toward the stairwell. I hear him call my name again but door hinges swallow the rest.
I walk home in a blur, each step thudding out the same relentless refrain: How could I be so stupid?
He’s a player—plain and simple—collecting women to serve whatever game he’s running.
I was probably just a blip on his radar, an amusing footnote: Look, the masquerade girl—let’s see if she’s clueless enough not to recognize me.
Maybe he even placed a bet with his buddies. The thought makes my stomach turn.
He had to know from the start, didn’t he?
Did he orchestrate that “accidental” reunion?
And if he did… why?
Is he some unhinged stalker setting elaborate traps?
The questions spin faster and faster, each one heavier than the last.
I keep seeing his mouth—soft, insistent, coaxing my defenses open—and the crash of humiliation hits all over again.
I prided myself on reading people, on cataloguing motives the way I file novels, yet somehow I still ended up here.
Mostly, though, I’m furious at myself. Furious that I mistook the thrill of being wanted for the comfort of being safe. Furious that the very pages I shelve every day—stories about discerning truth from performance—failed to warn me in time.
I won’t make that mistake again. The next chapter is mine to write, and the first rule on page one will be simple: no man gets to author my plot without my explicit consent, no matter how artfully he wields a storm-cloud tattoo or a kiss in the dark.
***
Our favorite booth sits beneath a neon cherry pie sign that’s never been replaced—everyone agrees the flickering bulb is part of its charm.
Emily’s already there, the flu behind her, tissues tucked up one sleeve like peace offerings. She actually looks like a living person again.
The moment she spots me, she waves down the waiter and orders my usual herbal tea.
“You look like you just lost a cage match with fate,” she says when I slide onto the vinyl seat.
“In three rounds,” I mumble.
“Charity event meeting didn’t go well?”
“Oh, it went,” I sigh, dumping my clipboards and cardigan in a defeated heap. “It ended with me kissing a ‘stranger’ who isn’t a stranger at all.”
Emily frowns, then lifts a shrewd eyebrow. “Define ‘not a stranger’”
I lower my voice while the waiter sets down my mug. “The guy from today’s crew? Same man who kissed me at the masquerade.”
Emily’s eyes go wide, then narrow in delicious scandal. “Storm-Tattoo Guy?”
“Storm-Tattoo Guy,” I confirm, throat tight. “It was on his collar. Same lines, same placement. And should I believe it was just an accident that he was there? Well, I don’t. I feel like he played me.” Heat climbs my cheeks again.
Emily leans forward, all trace of flu forgotten. “He catfished you in person. Classy. So what exactly happened?”
I stir honey into my tea with vicious clinks.
“We got stuck in the elevator. There was a kiss—huge kiss, the earth tilted—and then he hoisted me onto a safety rail, and things got… intense.” Her jaw drops; I raise a hand.
“No sex. But enough to make a nun blush—or in my case, want to crawl into a dumpster.”
Emily processes, tapping a napkin. “And after light returned, you realized who he was.”
“Exactly. I bolted. Haven’t sprinted that fast since freshman dodgeball.”
She whistles. “Okay, gut check: are you angry because he pretended, or because you feel foolish for not seeing through it sooner?”
“Both,” I admit. “Plus betrayed, plus used, plus—ugh—still ridiculously attracted.”
Emily reaches across the table, squeezes my wrist. “Foolish isn’t on you. He wore a literal mask, and now metaphorical ones. Players perfect that act.”
I swallow. “I kept thinking he was different. When we talked about books, he felt… real.”
“Could still be real.” Her shoulders lift. “His lie by omission doesn’t automatically erase every moment you had. It does raise flags, though, which leads me to the next obvious question: what do you want?”
I exhale steam. “To finish this event without falling apart. And maybe to know the actual truth of what he wants from me.”
Emily hums knowingly, a physician diagnosing a self-perpetuating crush.
Just then my phone dings with a work email notification, curt and business-like. I flip it over:
New meeting invitation—Vivienne Clark.Subject line: Storm best case, you get intel on Mr. Tattoo.”
I hesitate only a second longer before typing Accepted. See you at 10 a.m. My thumb hovers, uneasy, then hits Send.
Email confirmed, I set the phone facedown and wrap both hands around my tea. The mug radiates heat I suddenly need.
Emily raises a tissue like a tiny flag of solidarity. “Tomorrow,” she declares, “we conquer dragons and maybe unmask a few knights.”
I muster a thin smile, though my pulse is still uneven. Dragons, knights, or something far murkier—tomorrow I’ll walk into the meeting, library mission held high, and find out. Until then I sip my tea, let the neon pie sign buzz overhead, and brace for the next plot twist.