Chapter 9
NORA
Miss Foldy-Ear
I’m still puzzling over how a supposedly professional fake-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 kid after 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.
And then—without even the courtesy of a second glance—she turns and trots straight to Max.
I blink.
Max looks just as surprised. Both of us watch in fascination as the kitten scales the bench like it’s a throne and his lap is the royal cushion.
She climbs up and promptly flops across his thighs like she’s lived there all her life, rumbling with a purr so deep it vibrates the wood beneath us.
“Excuse me?” I say, hands still hovering mid-air.
I pretend to be offended, but in reality the sight of him—tattooed, smug, completely besotted by a six-pound feline terrorist—is doing strange things to my insides. Dangerous things. Soft things.
Max sets the pasta bowl aside, one hand still hovering, like he’s unsure what to do next.
“You sure you chose wisely, Miss Foldy-Ear? I could be the type who has kittens for breakfast.” He strokes her back.
She arches, purr thrumming like a tiny lawn mower.
Up close I see the folded ear is scarred, edges puckered, yet she carries it like a jaunty hat.
The kitten paces along Max’s thigh, sniffing at the cardboard bowls. She noses my cacio e pepe, then his rigatoni, and finally lets out a plaintive, rusty meow that vibrates against my shins.
“She’s starving,” I murmur, then shake my head when Max reaches for a stray noodle. “Pasta’s not exactly cat cuisine.”
“Right—no gluten for gremlins.” He withdraws his hand, brow furrowing with concern.
I scan the street. “There’s a drugstore on the corner—the kind with a tiny pet aisle. We can grab kitten food and a dish.”
“All right, hold on tight then.” Max cups the tortie against his chest, careful not to jostle her crooked ear.
The kitten answers with a curious chirrup but refrains from sampling any human carbs. Moments later we’re weaving through pedestrians toward the neon pharmacy sign, determined to serve something more feline-friendly than rigatoni.
Inside Madison Chem-Mart the lights hum with that particular hue only chain pharmacies manage—clinical, unforgiving. An automatic spritz of vanilla-disinfectant perfume tries and fails to conceal aisle-three mop water. The kitten pokes her head out of Max’s elbow, eyes darting.
We locate a shelf cluttered with dog biscuits shaped like fire hydrants and gourmet paté tins featuring cats in bow ties. I snag a pouch labeled KITTEN BOOST—CHICKEN GRAVY and shake it.
Max’s eyebrows form peaks. “Turbo-charged kitten?”
“All the city’s mice will cower,” I declare.
He laughs under his breath, collects a collapsible silicone bowl and a cardboard litter tray.
The kitten’s raspy mew intensifies as though she’s reading the labels. I glance at the line for the front register—six deep, including a man muttering at his coupons—then nudge Max toward self-checkout.
Scanning the items is easy; wrestling the kitten’s curiosity is harder. She tries to sniff the red beam, recoils, hisses at the machine’s robotic voice. I cradle her while Max folds the litter tray into a bag.
“Good girl,” he soothes. “Laser beams are overrated.”
A teenager steps into the neighboring station—dye-black hair, neon earbuds, hoodie printed with a cartoon vampire. She drops a box of magenta hair color into her basket, but her eyes are glued to Max. Recognition ripples like heat mirage; her jaw lowers.
“Holy crap,” she breathes, removing one earbud. “You’re Max Donovan.”
Max gives her a polite, practiced smile I’ve only ever seen in headlines. “Hi there!”
She squeals—piercing. Heads turn. A clerk from aisle four lifts a brow. The girl’s phone materializes; she flips the camera. “One selfie? My friends will combust.”
He looks to me for permission. Saying no would escalate; saying yes costs five seconds.
I nod. He crouches to her level, kitten balanced like a living scarf.
The camera clicks. The flash seems to ignite the situation.
A mother near cough medicine gasps, “Storm her mismatched ears flick with dreams. Seconds later, she’s asleep.
“She trusts you,” I whisper. Saying it feels like risking a glass heart.
Max’s throat works. “Doesn’t know any better.”
“Or knows exactly what she sees.”
He props a sneaker heel on the wall, shifting kitten weight. “Let’s work on our owner-finding strategy.”
“If she even has one,” I supply.
Max nods, all business. “First, vet check for a microchip. Second, neighborhood flyers with that folded ear front and center—hard to miss.”
“My turn.” I tick items off on flour-speckled fingers. “I’ll post in the local lost-pet groups and call nearby shelters.”
The kitten purrs in her sleep as if approving the project plan.
“Who keeps her tonight? Your place?”
“I can try.” I reach out to lift her. Her eyes snap open; a soft hiss escapes as she tightens her grip on his shirt.
“She made her choice,” I sigh.
Max shifts her into the crook of one arm, then rubs the back of his neck as though bracing for a guitar solo gone wrong. “Hey, um—can I get your number?”
Heat slides up my throat. Why does he want my number?
I mean, I know that’s what a rock-star charmer does: collects digits the way bookstores collect new editions.
I’m hardly special; I’m just next in line.
I open my mouth to deflect—something about professional boundaries, maybe even the charity contract—but he keeps talking.
“Strictly for the kitten.” He nods at the purring bundle against his chest. “Daily updates, vet news, that sort of thing.”
Oh. Just the kitten. The blush on my cheeks cools, then tips oddly toward disappointment. I’m not sure which reaction annoys me more—flattery at the thought he might be flirting, or resentment that he isn’t.
I cross my arms to hide both emotions. “You want to send me cat reports?”
His brows knit. “Is that… not okay? I figured you’d want to know how she’s doing.” He glances down; the cat’s crooked ear twitches, as if she’s worried about where this conversation is headed.
“No, it’s fine,” I murmur, embarrassed by my own flicker of vanity, fingers trembling as I type.
He taps SAVE. Then flips the screen toward me, revealing Contact: Nora Bookworm. My cheeks burn, despite the gentle breeze cooling the alley.
He pockets the phone. “We need a name. I can’t keep calling her ‘cat.’”
We look down. The kitten sighs in her sleep, folded ear twitching. Her tail, kinked like a question mark, slips over his wrist.
“Melody,” I whisper, surprised at how quickly it feels right. “She purrs like a broken violin trying to tune itself.”
Max nods, more solemn than I expect. “Melody it is.”
We step onto the sidewalk, afternoon light turning golden, and part ways at 23rd.
“Thanks for today,” I say, adjusting my bag strap. “It was… surprisingly great.”
Max grins. “I’ll try not to be offended by the ‘surprisingly.’”
We exchange a quick smile—something lingering just beneath it—and then I turn toward the subway.
Halfway down the block my phone buzzes. A new text: Max Donovan with a thumbnail image. I open it. Melody sprawls across his shoulder, one paw dangling over a faded tattoo line, her ear bent like origami. Caption: World’s smallest roadie.
I choke on a laugh that startles a nearby pigeon. On my phone I tap Emily’s name and she answers on the second ring.
“Hi sweetie, how was your day?” she asks.
I huff a laugh. “It was…interesting.”
“Define interesting.”
“Emily,” I say, dodging a puddle, “Chef Luigi may never forgive me, a teenage hair-dye enthusiast almost live-streamed a cat rescue, and I’m now in a contractual relationship with a rockstar who can’t keep flour in a bowl.”
A beat of silence. Then: “I need snacks for this. Start at the top.”
I shift my messenger bag, settling into storyteller mode while weaving between trash cans. “So—fake-dating scheme, remember? Three wholesome outings, no feelings, just optics.”
“Right. PR romance: deflect gossip, save library, happily ever after for spreadsheets.”
“Exactly. Today was date number one, and it involved a cooking class where Max detonated five pounds of flour like confetti, doused us both in tomato sauce, and triggered the fire-suppression sprinklers.”
Emily wheezes a delighted laugh. “Please tell me someone filmed that.”
“Vivienne’s photographer caught every angle. And Luigi called us innamorati before the oven even pre-heated.”
“Wait—he dropped the L-word in Italian?”
“Repeatedly. Max played along, of course. But that’s just who he is.”
“Oh, wow.” I can practically hear her flop back onto her pillows. “How did it feel?”
“That’s the problem.” I sidestep a delivery cyclist. “It felt… not entirely fake. He’s clumsy and charming, and every time he laughs, I feel it in my knees.”
Emily sigh-snorts—a sound I’ve learned means proceed with caution, but also swoon. “Dangerous territory, Davidson. And the kitten?”
“Right, the kitten.” I recount the drugstore escape, the alley feeding, and Melody falling asleep on Max’s shoulder.
Emily’s awwww might shatter glass. “We made a lost-pet plan: flyers, vet for a microchip. Melody picked him—clung to his shirt like velcro. So he’s fostering until we find the owner. ”
“This is straight rom-com gold.” Emily blows her nose. “And you gave him your number, didn’t you?”
I toe a pebble into the gutter, cheeks warming despite the cold. “For cat updates. Strictly professional. But somehow I felt… disappointed when he first said he needed my number only for the cat.”
“That’s because part of you hoped he wanted it for you.”
I stop at my stoop, key poised. “Maybe. Is that ridiculous? I mean, that guy is a rockstar. He would never seriously date me. If even, he has other plans, with no thought of a committed relationship.”
Emily hums sympathetically and says gently. “Rockstars date humans, too. Here’s my prescription: hot shower, face mask and chamomile tea. We’ll reassess after the second date.”
We say good-night.
On the crowded subway platform, the train screeches in.
Someone bumps my shoulder. For once I don’t mind.
Somewhere above ground, a rockstar carries a stray cat home, careful not to jostle her crooked ear.
My inbox holds proof: maybe disasters can bloom into something fragile and astonishing if you’re willing to kneel in an alley and offer gravy.
The train doors slide shut, and my reflection on the darkened window grins back—flour-flecked, sauce-streaked, undeniably alive.