Chapter 3
Brian
The stairwell to Noa's apartment is narrow and adorned with evergreen boughs and blue ribbons, forcing me to turn sideways to navigate around the corner.
She apologizes for the tight squeeze, a musical laugh in her voice that stirs something within me.
I'm hyper-aware of how close we are in this confined space, her curves just inches from me as we ascend through the fragrant hall.
I don't even pretend I'm not staring at her ass as we walk up the stairs. Her cinnamon scent mingles with the fresh pine, making my head spin.
Noa's apartment is precisely what a bookstore owner's home ought to be—walls lined with built-in shelves, cozy furniture, and candles everywhere, waiting to be lit and enjoyed.
The space is small but intentional, every corner both beautiful and functional.
A reading nook by the window overlooks Butler Street, complete with cushions and a fuzzy blanket.
This is a home. A real one, cultivated with care. Not at all like the hotel rooms and temporary spaces I drift between.
"Make yourself comfortable," she says, hanging her coat on a hook by the door. She's obviously much younger than me. I need to stop ogling her like some creep. But then her cream sweater clings to her curves as she stretches up, and I have to force myself to look away. "I'll put the kettle on."
I loosen my tie but remain standing, absorbing the details of her life.
This isn't a sleek hotel room or minimalist condo where I typically end up after charity galas and award ceremonies.
Those women—beautiful, interchangeable, ultimately forgettable—never showed me anything of substance, never revealed a life beyond designer labels and social media aesthetics.
This woman's apartment tells a story. Each object feels intentionally chosen and meaningful: fresh white flowers on the coffee table, well-worn paperbacks stacked beside an armchair.
A collection of menorahs arranged on the windowsill chronicles her history—from childhood crafts to an elegant silver piece that must be an heirloom.
It's a comforting reminder of home in a world where Christmas seems to have exploded everywhere.
The authenticity of her space feels both foreign and magnetic to me, much like discovering a book I didn't know I needed to read.
She glides through her small kitchen with effortless grace as she reaches for mugs. Every movement is a quiet testament to belonging, to knowing exactly where everything lives. When she bends to retrieve something from a lower cabinet, I have to stifle a groan at the way her jeans hug her ass.
"The brass one was my grandmother's," she says, catching me staring—at the menorahs, thank god, not her curves. "That's the one I usually light."
My phone buzzes again. Rachel, probably wondering why I haven't responded to her warnings about the storm. Or my mother, concerned as per usual. Instead of checking, I silence it completely.
"Here." Noa hands me a steaming mug that reads, 'I like big books, and I cannot lie.' Her full lips curl up in a smile, and I'm mesmerized by the way she tucks a dark curl behind her ear. "Earl Grey okay?"
"Perfect." Our fingers brush again as I take the mug, and that same spark shoots through me. Stop it, Brian. You're being gross. "Thank you. For all of this."
She shrugs, but I catch a slight flush on her cheeks. "Nobody should be alone on a holiday." She moves to the window, picks up her grandmother's menorah. "Even grumpy strangers with car trouble."
I watch as she arranges the candles, her movements precise and practiced.
How many holidays has she spent in this apartment, looking out over her neighborhood?
Everything about her radiates permanence—she's built a life here with roots sunk deep into Pittsburgh soil. I wonder again how young she is.
"Would you like to light the first candle?" she asks, and something in my chest tightens. Have I ever shared this ritual with someone outside my family?
"I'd like that."
She lights the helper candle—the shamash—and hands it to me.
Our voices join together in familiar words as I touch the flame of the single candle on the right.
In the growing darkness, her face is illuminated by the small flames.
I'm struck by how beautiful she is—not just physically, though god knows she's gorgeous—but in the way she inhabits her space, her life with such certainty.
"I always love this moment," she says softly. "The way the light pushes back the dark." The candlelight plays across her features, catching golden highlights in her dark curls and making her brown eyes gleam.
I place the helper in the center candle spot, careful not to let our hands touch again as she steadies the base of the menorah.
I can't afford to be distracted by this woman, no matter how compelling she is.
My life doesn't have room for someone so grounded, so rooted in place.
And a woman like Noa Bishop deserves more than a man who lives out of a suitcase.
"Oh!" She brightens suddenly. "I almost forgot the donuts. My dad made way too many for my book club meeting." She brushes past me on her way to the kitchen, and I catch another whiff of that cinnamon scent. It's going to linger in my dreams. I already know it.
She stretches up to reach a container on top of the fridge, and I step forward instinctively to help, finding myself right behind her. The warmth of her body radiates against my chest. "We were discussing Emma Stag's latest—I'm hosting her for a signing next week. Her books are incredible."
I nearly choke on my tea, grateful for the distraction from our proximity. "Emma Stag? I know her."
"You do?" She sets a plate of powdered jelly donuts on the coffee table, sinks into the armchair, and tucks her feet under her. Her sweater rides up again, and I crank my eyes back to her face. "Wait, how?"
"I'm her son's agent." At her confused look, I clarify, "I represent several athletes in that family, actually. Alder, Hawk, Gunnar..."
"No way!" Her whole face lights up, and something in my chest clenches. "Small world. Emma's reading is my first big author event, but she's so friendly and hands-on. She sends her own emails."
The wind howls outside, rattling the windows, but inside, it's warm and bright.
Noa launches into an enthusiastic explanation of her plans for the signing, her hands animated as she speaks.
I knew Wesley's mother was a writer, but I've never asked him about it.
Never engaged her in conversation. I'm always in too much of a hurry to close the next deal.
A smudge of powdered sugar clings to Noa's lower lip, and I grip my mug tighter to prevent myself from reaching over to wipe it away.
My phone vibrates in my pocket again, but this time I barely notice. I'm too captivated by the way she lights up, talking about books, community, and the future she's building in this city. Everything I've spent my adult life trying to avoid.
Everything I'm suddenly, terrifyingly, wishing I had.