She froze. “You know?”
And every night, as the city hummed below, Elias played for an audience of one, who never once asked him to fake a single note.
Panic clawed at her. She saw the headline: “TV Producer Fakes Romance with Broken Artist.” She saw Elias’s face if he found out he was just a plot point.
“Don’t be,” she said, crossing the room. “I’m just a woman who’s very good at fake tears. And you’re a man who’s very bad at fake smiles.”
Their worlds collided one Tuesday when a stray tabby, a patchy thing with one ear, dashed between Elias’s worn loafers and Lena’s stiletto heels. They both lunged. Elias caught the cat; Lena caught Elias, her hand on his elbow to steady him.
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