I turned to Oscar with an encouraging smile, then caught the plural. Did she mean Dad and Oscar or—?

“Wait, what?” I hurried to peek over Dad’s shoulder, spotting a clickbait post on a New York tabloid’s gossip page:

“You’ll NEVER GUESS Who’s Hooking Up at Lincoln Center.”

There was a photo underneath—me and Oscar standing beside a yellow cab, my arm on his shoulder, his forehead touching mine. This must have been the shot that guy took at Wing Club. Dad scrolled, almost accusingly, and there we were, another photo—at the Met in tight formation. We hadn’t even been a couple then, but we sure looked like one.

My eyes flitted up to meet Nora’s, and I remembered suddenly what Alice had said: Smarter than she lets on. Nora’s placid smile told me she hadn’t been all that surprised. Her eyes—diamond-sharp and dancing—made me suspect something more.

Had she been the one to place it? Did she tip off the photographers or hire them herself? How far had she gone with this?

Dad read the rest in a bored drone. “Rumors have been flying about Martin Chertok’s hot young protégé since he was whisked from the mean streets of DC to the upper echelons of UWS society, but viral sensation Oscar Bell has found his footing quickly—with the help of Marty’s sexy daughter, Ruby . . .”

“Sexy?” I recoiled, crossing my arms over my chest. “Oh my God.”

Oscar was blinking rapidly into his own phone. “‘Viral sensation.’ I, uh, wow. I don’t know how I feel about—” His eyes went wide. “Wait, mean streets of what now?”

Nora slid her arm around him, muttering something about her sister, of all things, but I wasn’t listening anymore. I had to read to the end of this thing.

“. . . seen cavorting in Manhattan clubs, the classical music princess’s appearance at rehearsals for Oscar’s debut symphony has only spurred more romance rumors . . .”

I felt all the blood drain from my face as I stepped away. “‘Cavorting’? I have no idea who wrote this, but that is—”

“Cavorting means frolicking. Prancing,” Dad said drily. “Maybe you’re thinking of canoodling.”

“I’d be even happier with canoodling,” Nora said perkily, “but this is fantastic enough as it is. Marty, why didn’t you tell me?”

Dad shot me a dangerous smile. “Tell you what, exactly?”

Oscar and I turned to stare at each other, like a hook would tug us off the stage if we answered wrong.

“Oh. Well.” Nora glanced around the room, a sparrow looking for crumbs. She’d planned to come in today and pretend not to know about me and Oscar, to be officially brought into the fold. She didn’t expect that I wouldn’t have told Dad in the first place.

Or maybe she was amping up the awkwardness on purpose.