Chapter 9
Noa
After sending Brian on his way with my favorite book and a lingering kiss, I pull the golden bread from the oven.
It smells heavenly, with each plait of the braided loaf perfectly twisted.
I can't bring myself to eat it, so I try to doze off on the couch.
The bed feels far too empty, still holding onto the scent of him and our night together.
The couch feels safer, more neutral ground.
I wake up to an empty apartment, the silence almost oppressive after hours filled with his voice, his laughter, and his groans of pleasure.
For a moment, I wonder if I dreamed the whole thing—the storm, the candlelight, Brian.
But the pleasant ache between my thighs tells a different story.
I stretch, feeling the delicious soreness in muscles I'd forgotten I had, each movement reminding me of how thoroughly I was claimed last night.
Under the hot spray, I catalog the evidence of our joining: a bite mark on my inner thigh, fingertip bruises on my hips, lips tender from his kisses.
My reflection in the steamy mirror reveals a woman I barely recognize—flushed, satisfied, and somehow more vibrant than the person who stood here yesterday morning.
But as I dress and make more coffee, practicality sets in. Brian Klein has already left the Steel City, probably sitting in some airport lounge, checking emails, as our night together fades into memory with each mile between us. A winter miracle, indeed—fleeting and magical, never meant to last.
Downstairs, the bookshop feels strangely transformed, as if the space itself knows what happened above it.
I straighten stacks of books that don't need straightening, dust shelves I cleaned only days ago.
When I reach the nonfiction section, I pause, my fingers tracing the spot where the Noah Wylie biography once sat.
Where I first felt that spark when our hands touched.
"You're being ridiculous," I mutter to myself as I flip the store sign to OPEN.
Morning brings the usual weekday regulars—Mrs. Abernathy with her romance novel obsession, Professor Coleman searching for obscure poetry collections, the high school kids who hide in the corner, reading manga during their free period.
Their familiar presence helps ground me and pulls me back into the rhythm of my real life.
The shop phone rings and startles me from my thoughts.
"Bishop Books, how can I help you?"
"You forgot to call last night." My father's voice, concerned but trying not to show it. "Everything okay, sweetheart?"
Guilt overwhelms me. I know Dad's a huge worrier, and I didn't even text.
"Sorry, Dad. The storm knocked out power. I went to bed early." Not technically a lie, though certainly an omission of critical details involving a sexy silver fox.
"Well, you'll make it up to me tonight, yes? Carol's bringing her crew. The kids are excited to see their favorite aunt."
I smile in spite of myself. "I'm their only aunt."
“Details. I'm making latkes with rosemary. Your sister requested sweet potatoes, but they fall apart. Traditional is better, right?”
"You know me too well."
"Six o'clock. Don't be late." He pauses. "You sound different. Happy."
"Just well-rested," I say quickly. "The power outage meant no screens, early bedtime."
After we hang up, I check my phone for..
. what? Brian didn’t reach out. We didn't make promises.
We didn't discuss the next steps because there aren't any.
He lives his life in airports and hotels, chasing the next deal.
I live mine here, between these walls lined with stories that never quite match the reality of modern romance.
The morning passes in a blur of customers and cocoa. By lunchtime, I've almost convinced myself that last night was simply a pleasant fairytale, a story I'll tell myself on lonely nights but nothing to build hopes around.
My sister texts a reminder about tonight's family dinner, complete with a photo of her three children dressed in blue and white dreidel pajamas.
The sight grounds me. This is my life—family dinners, community events, book orders, and quarterly taxes.
A life built on purpose and permanence, not passion and impulse.
Dad's house is chaos incarnate when I arrive, exactly as I expected.
My eight-year-old niece Leah barrels into my legs the moment I step through the door, chattering about her school play, while my six-year-old nephew Eli demonstrates his new karate moves dangerously close to the glass table.
Baby Sophie, barely two, toddles after them both, determined not to be left out.
"Thank god you're here," Carol says, appearing from the kitchen with flour on her cheek. "Dad's been driving me crazy, micromanaging the latkes. Take this wine. You'll need it."
I accept the glass gratefully and follow her back to the kitchen, where Dad stands guard over a sizzling pan, spatula held like a weapon.
"You're flipping them too early," he tells my brother-in-law, who looks genuinely afraid.
"Daddy," I kiss his cheek. "Leave the poor man alone." I hand him the wrapped loaf of challah.
Dad lights up when he sees me, pulls me into a hug that smells of oil and comfort. "My Noa! Finally, someone who understands the sacred art of grapeseed oil for frying."
Daniel whispers 'thank you' over Dad's shoulder and sneaks into the living room.
"How's the shop?" Dad asks, handing me a spatula like a baton in a relay race. He unwraps the bread to set on a plate for dinner. "That storm didn't cause any damage, I hope?"
"Everything's fine," I say, focusing intently on the browning potato pancakes. "Just lost power for a bit."
Carol narrows her eyes at me from across the kitchen. My sister has always had an uncanny ability to detect when I'm not being entirely truthful. I occupy myself with the potato pancakes, avoiding her gaze.
"Mom's going to FaceTime during candle lighting," Carol says. "She and Gary are at some resort in Hawaii, so it'll be like 2 pm their time."
Our mother, ever the sun-seeker, is now basically a snowbird, even though it doesn't really snow in Seattle. She loves us, in her own way, but has always been better at mothering from afar.
"Wait," Dad points at the bread. "Who made this? It's excellent."
I flush, realizing that my family would, of course, notice the homemade loaf and know I wouldn't have taken the time to make it. "A customer gave it to me." Only partially a lie. I'm not ready to talk about Brian. Not yet.
Dinner is the familiar controlled disarray—food passed, stories interrupted, children negotiating vegetable consumption against the potential of dessert. I sink into it gratefully, the normalcy washing over me like a balm.
After the meal, we gather around the menorah.
Dad's voice leads the blessings, and the children join in with varying degrees of accuracy.
My mother's face appears on Carol's tablet, propped on the mantle beside the family photos—including one of Bubbe Rose standing in front of Bishop Books decades before it became mine.
Looking around at these faces—my family, my foundation—I feel grounded once more. This is my life. Complete, rich, complicated. Rooted here in Pittsburgh, in tradition, in connection.
After the candles are lit, Dad turns on the TV for the local news while Carol and I clean up. The sports segment grabs my attention when I hear a familiar name.
"—Stag, who has been instrumental in the Fury's playoff push. The team announced today that enforcer Tucker Stag has signed a contract extension for another three years."
I nearly drop the plate I'm drying as the camera cuts to a hockey player standing next to a man in a suit. Not Brian, but the connection still makes my heart skip, nonetheless.
"The Stags practically own Pittsburgh sports," Carol comments, noticing my attention. "Three play hockey, another bunch of them soccer... I think there's a coach too?"
"Emma Stag is doing a book signing at my shop next week," I say, trying to sound casual. "She's married to one of them."
"Fancy," Carol smirks. "Look at you with your celebrity connections."
If only she knew. I turn back to the dishes, determined to focus on the present, on what's real and lasting. Last night was just that—one night. A perfect memory to tuck away, nothing more.
But as I drive home later, past streets still dusted with snow, the image of Brian's face as he said goodbye plays in my mind. The tenderness in his otherwise sharp eyes. The lingering press of his lips.
I push the thoughts away. One night doesn't change a lifetime of patterns. Men like Brian Klein don't suddenly decide to settle down, and women like me don't uproot their lives for fleeting passion.
Still, as I pass the spot where his car was stranded, I can't help but slow down. The electric charging station at the end of the block now displays an "Out of Order" sign. I smile despite myself and send a silent thank you to whatever mechanical failure led to my festival of light-up sex.