Elara Dorne has a deadline, a houseplant named Gerald, and exactly one functional relationship - with a fictional man named Xaviar, who has never once disappointed her on account of not existing. 
She reads romance. She does not do romance. Those are completely different activities and only one of them requires pants.
Then the notes start.
Unsigned. Handwritten. Sliding under her door and gone before she can get it open, which isn't possible - she's timed it. Obviously they're not for her. Wrong door, wrong woman, wrong address, next. She keeps them anyway. In a wooden dragon box on her desk. She'd rather not get into why.
Then there's a cat in her doorway with no collar and suspiciously good timing.
Then the dreams. And listen - the dreams are good. Group-chat good. Except she keeps waking up remembering a pair of eyes she has never seen in her life, and that's not how dreams work, and she knows exactly how dreams work.
It's stress. It's the deadline. It's too much caffeine.
It's not.
Because now there are men in her building. Enormous, impossible men who look like they walked out of the books stacked on her nightstand - and Elara has a folding chair, a full workload, and absolutely no interest in any of them. This is real life. Not the fantasy she and Gerald discuss daily.
Something is up. She knows it.
One of them has been her neighbor for three years and knows things a neighbor shouldn't. 
One of them was in the dreams. 
One of them is lying. 
And somebody is going to explain the cat.
Probably after she adopts it.
Last Flame     is a slow-burn why-choose romantasy with banter, betrayal, dragons, suspicious cats, and one wildly unprepared woman who is not doing this today.
Book One of The Forgotten Ones.