Chapter 8
Brian
I've been awake for nearly an hour, just watching Noa breathe, committing to memory the curve of her cheek, the sweep of her eyelashes, the gentle part of her lips.
My phone, retrieved from the living room floor sometime before dawn, vibrates with another message: the rental company. They'll be here in half an hour with a tow truck to collect the dead car and take me to the airport.
I should wake Noa, but I can't bring myself to disturb her peace. Instead, I quietly slip out of bed and head for the kitchen. I quickly braid the bread dough and find a pan to set it on, preheating the oven before I pad to Noa's bathroom.
As I shower, I think about our night together and wince at the pleasant soreness in my muscles I haven't worked quite this hard in ages.
Under the hot spray, reality begins to seep back in. I have meetings this week in Chicago. The week after, in Los Angeles. My mother is expecting me for Hanukkah…my life has a rhythm—constant motion, never settling, always chasing the next deal.
One night of incredible sex doesn't change that.
When I emerge from the bathroom with a towel wrapped around my waist, Noa is sitting up in bed, scrolling through her phone.
"The roads are clear," she says without looking up. "They're saying the worst of the storm passed overnight."
"That's good." I hesitate, unsure of the etiquette here. "The rental company is sending someone. They should be here soon."
She sets down her phone, finally meets my eyes. "Back to your regularly scheduled life, then?" Noa reaches out and strokes the stubble on my cheek with a small smile.
There's no accusation in her tone, just a calm acceptance that tightens my chest.
"I need to get to my family," I say, which is true but feels like an excuse. "For the holiday."
"Of course." She slides out of bed, gloriously naked, and reaches for her robe. "I'll make some coffee while you get dressed."
I watch her walk out of the bedroom, the sway of her hips beneath silk making me want to call the rental company and cancel. To climb back into her bed and forget the outside world exists.
But that's not who I am. I don't do that. I grab yesterday's clothes and follow my curvy temptation. I kiss the side of her neck as she fusses at the coffee pot, and then I slide the bread pan into the oven.
"Can you stay until it's ready?" She glances over her shoulder, a hopeful look on her face that I know I'm about to crush.
I shake my head, and Noa nods, punching the button on the coffeemaker with finality.
By the time I'm tucked in and packed—my briefcase seems ridiculous now, a symbol of my interrupted rush—Noa is in the kitchen, fully dressed in leggings and an oversized sweater, her hair pulled back in a messy bun. Two mugs of coffee steam on the counter.
"Black, right?" she asks, slides one toward me.
"Like my soul."
She smiles. "I don't think that's quite right, Brian."
We drink in companionable silence for a moment, neither of us quite looking at the other.
There's so much I want to express, but none of it seems to make sense.
What could I possibly offer this woman? A night in whichever city I happen to be passing through?
A text message when I'm feeling lonely in another hotel room?
"Wait here." Noa suddenly sets down her mug and disappears through the apartment door.
When she returns, she's carries a wrapped package—silver paper tied with a perfect blue bow. A slim paperback is also tucked against her chest.
"For your mother," she explains, handing me the wrapped gift. "The book will mean more if it's presented properly." She hesitates, then extends the second book. "And this one's for you. Something to read on the plane."
I take both books, and our fingers brush against one another. The paperback is well-worn, clearly from her personal collection. "You didn't have to do that."
"I wanted to." She tucks a stray curl behind her ear. "It's what I do. Books and pretty paper. Plus, every good bookstore owner pushes their favorite reads."
My phone vibrates again. The tow truck is outside.
"I should—"
"Go," she finishes for me. "I know."
I step toward her, cup her cheek in my hand. "Noa, last night was—"
"Incredible," she supplies. "A winter miracle."
I kiss her then, soft and lingering, trying to convey everything I can't say. When we part, her eyes stay closed for a moment longer than needed.
"Thank you," I whisper against her lips. "For everything."
She just nods, steps back. "Travel safe, Brian."
The walk down her narrow stairwell feels longer than it did last night. Each step takes me further from her warmth and back into the cold reality of my life. The tow truck driver is waiting, stamping his feet against the chill next to a flatbed that will apparently be my ride to the airport.
"Rough night with the storm, eh?" he asks as I approach.
I glance back at Noa's shop, at the window where I know she's watching. "Actually, no. It was perfect."
The flight to Newark is bumpy, the aftermath of the storm creating air pockets that jolt the small regional jet.
After texting my sister to ask for a ride, I crack open Noa's book instead of my usual work emails.
A small piece of paper peeks out from between the pages—her phone number written in careful script, along with "In case you want to discuss the ending. —N".
It’s called Legends and Lattes, where a nomadic orc warrior sets down roots and opens a coffee shop.
By the time we arrive, I'm halfway through, completely captivated by the cozy story about found family, second chances, and creating a home base.
I understand why Noa chose this—it's a fantasy novel about a warrior who exchanges her sword for an apron and discovers that the most extraordinary adventure is building a life worth staying for. The parallels aren't lost on me.
And then I land, and the airport is chaos—holiday travelers delayed by the weather, all frantic to reach their destinations. I navigate it on autopilot; the familiar routine of security lines and boarding gates requires none of my actual attention, Noa's book tucked safely in my briefcase.
Rachel is waiting in the arrivals area, bundled in a heavy coat, her expression a blend of relief and irritation.
"You're alive!" she exclaims, pulling me into a brief hug. "Would it have killed you to answer any of the thirty texts Mom and I sent?"
"I was dealing with car trouble," I reply, which isn't exactly a lie. "And then the storm knocked out power."
She gives me a skeptical look as we walk to her car. "Since when does Brian Klein, master of contingency plans, let a little snow strand him?"
Since a pair of brown eyes and a bookshop full of stories made me forget why I was always in such a rush.
"It happens," is all I say.
Rachel chatters the whole way to our mother's house in West Orange, filling me in on family gossip and holiday plans. I make appropriate noises at the right intervals, but my mind keeps drifting back to Pittsburgh.
Our mother's house is exactly as it's been for decades—the same overstuffed furniture with worn velvet arms, the same faded floral wallpaper in the dining room, and family photos covering every surface in mismatched frames.
The kitchen still features the yellow ceramic canisters she bought in the seventies, and the living room carpet shows permanent indentations from furniture that hasn't moved in twenty years.
It smells like brisket, furniture polish, and home.
Mom greets me with kisses on both cheeks and quickly starts asking about my weight.
"You look thin. Aren't you eating?"
"I eat, Mom."
"Hotel food," she scoffs. "Comes out the same way it goes in."
I hand her the wrapped book, and her face lights up. "So fancy! Did the store do this?"
I picture Noa's fingers gently folding the paper and tying the ribbon. "Something like that."
The evening unfolds as it always does—food, candles, presents, and more food. My nieces and nephew light up at the gifts I've brought, my sister rolls her eyes at my work stories, and my mother beams at having all her babies under one roof.
It should feel like coming home; instead, I feel as if I've left something important behind.
When everyone moves to the living room after dinner, I slip into the kitchen to check my messages. Three emails from Gunnar Stag regarding a new endorsement deal. A text from Alder Stag about scheduling time to review his contract. Nothing urgent.
I could text Noa. I have her number tucked in a book, but I haven't used it. What would I even say?
I pull out the paperback and run my thumb over the dog-eared pages.
She's filled the margins with tiny penciled notes—observations about the characters, questions about their motivations, and little hearts next to romantic scenes.
Reading her thoughts feels intimate, as if she's whispering commentary in my ear.
My phone rings in my hand, and the display shows the name of my client, Tucker Stag.
"Tuck," I answer, grateful for the distraction. "What can I do for you at..." I glance at my watch. "Nine-thirty on the second night of Hanukkah?"
"Sorry, man, is it a bad time? I don't know how that works."
"It's fine. What's up?"
"Two things. First, we need to schedule that big meeting with all of us Stags you rep. Alder's got some questions about image rights, Wyatt received a new offer from Manchester, and Gunnar wants to discuss that baby food campaign."
My mind immediately calculates travel days, hotel reservations, and car rentals. The usual drill.
"And second," Tucker continues, "my buddy from the hockey team is looking for new representation. He's a decent forward, about to negotiate his second contract. I told him you're the best."
"I appreciate the referral," I say automatically.
"So, can you come to Pittsburgh sometime soon? We can have a big dinner and get everyone together. Easier than trying to catch us all separately."
Pittsburgh. I could be back in Pittsburgh. Potentially regularly, if I take on Tucker's friend in addition to my usual Stag herd of clients.
"Sure," I hear myself say. "I'll make it work."
After we hang up, I stand frozen in my mother's kitchen, staring at the wrapped book on the counter. The silver paper catches the light, reminding me of the candlelight reflecting in Noa's eyes.
I pick up Noa's book again and reread one of her margin notes:
There's something magical about waiting for dough to rise - it can't be rushed.
My chest tightens.
I flip to the piece of paper with her number and trace the careful digits with my finger.
I should text her. Tell her I'm mostly through the book.
Ask what she thought of chapter twelve. But what then?
What future could I possibly offer someone so settled, when my life is just airports and hotel rooms?
I open my laptop at the kitchen table, pull up real estate listings in Pittsburgh—initially, just office spaces; small places where I could establish a satellite operation. Then, almost without conscious thought, I'm looking at apartments. Condos. Places with actual furniture, not hotel suites.
"What are you doing?"
I jump at my sister's voice, close the laptop too quickly. "Work stuff."
Rachel raises an eyebrow. "On Hanukkah? Mom will have a fit."
"Just a quick check."
She studies me for a moment. "Something's different about you. What happened in Pittsburgh?"
"Nothing," I say too quickly. She doesn't believe me—Rachel never does—but she lets it slide and tugs me back toward the family gathering.
As I settle onto the couch and watch my nephew play with his new toys, I try to focus on the present. On the family I already have. On the life I've carefully built.
But my mind keeps drifting to a bookshop with a blue awning, to Brie in bed, to a woman who sees through my polished exterior to the man underneath. To margin notes that feel like love letters, to a phone number I'm terrified to call.
I could have even more reason to be there regularly.
The thought should fill me with dread—commitment, routine, roots. Instead, I find myself fighting a smile as I mentally rearrange my schedule.