Chapter 11
Noa
"Dad, I promise I'll be there tomorrow night." I wedge the phone between my ear and shoulder while adjusting the display of Emma Stag's latest historical book, Forged in Fire: Pittsburgh's Firefighting Legacy. "I wouldn't miss tonight, but this signing is huge for the shop."
My father sighs dramatically from the other end. "Carol's making brisket. You're going to miss the brisket."
"I'll take leftovers." I straighten a stack of bookmarks. "This event has been planned for months. Emma Stag is a big deal."
"More important than family?" The guilt trip is half-hearted; he knows how much this means to me.
"It's one night, Dad. I'll bring you a signed copy."
After securing a promise that I'll arrive extra early tomorrow to help with dinner prep, we hang up. I take a deep breath and survey my kingdom.
This needs to be my focus. Not a jet-setting man who is just the right amount of bossy in the bedroom.
For five days, I've battled the urge to Google him, to search for some trace of the man whose bread is still in my freezer, wrapped in foil—a physical reminder I wasn't ready to discard.
I shake my head at my foolishness. He would have at least texted me by now if he was going to reach out.
Even though we made no promises, I still feel the loss of what could never be.
Bishop Books has never looked better. The usual shelves have been carefully rearranged to accommodate six rows of chairs with a center aisle between them.
Strands of tiny white lights frame the windows and wind through pine garlands along the bookshelves, creating a warm glow against the early winter darkness.
A small podium stands at the front, flanked by tasteful arrangements of white flowers.
The signing table is draped with blue cloth, stacked with pre-signed copies for those who can't stay, equipped with Emma's preferred felt-tip pens.
Every detail matters. When I left corporate marketing, my boss told me I was "wasting my organizational skills on a dying industry." Three years later, I've transformed this shop into a community landmark, and events like tonight's are the reason why.
"Is this where you want the refreshments?" Maya, my part-time assistant, gestures toward a side table.
"Perfect. And the napkins?"
"Stacked and ready. Blue and silver, as requested."
I nod, checking my watch. Two hours until the event. The weather forecast promises clear skies, which means we should hit our expected attendance of sixty-five. I've hosted larger events, but none featuring such a high-profile author.
After ensuring the sidewalk and wheelchair ramp are freshly salted, I head to the back room, where three volunteers are already donning the Bishop Books T-shirts I ordered in their exact sizes.
"You all set? Remember who does what?" I hand each of them a laminated card with bullet points. "Any questions?"
They shake their heads, amused by my intensity. I know I'm being Type A, but events like this can make or break an independent bookstore's reputation.
Back on the floor, I adjust the thermostat. Too warm, people get sleepy during the reading; too cold, they'll be checking their watches instead of engaging. Sixty-eight degrees: the sweet spot of literary attentiveness.
For a moment, my mind drifts to the warmth of another winter night—Brian's arms around me as we watched the dancing candlelight during the power outage.
I push the thought away. Focus, Noa. Tonight is about Emma Stag and her book, not daydreaming about a man who's probably negotiating contracts in some fancy high-rise by now.
The door chimes an hour before the event, and a striking, red-haired, white woman enters, accompanied by a tall, white man with an intense gaze and tattoos.
"Welcome to Bishop Books," I greet them, immediately recognizing Emma Stag from her author photos. In person, she's more vibrant, her smile warm and genuine. "It's so great to have you here."
"You must be Noa," she says. "Your shop is lovely."
"Thank you. We're thrilled to have you." I extend my hand to her husband. "And you must be Mr. Stag."
"Thatcher," he corrects with a smile, shakes my hand. "Emma's been looking forward to this. She says your event coordination has been refreshingly seamless."
I feel my cheeks warm at the compliment. "I try to handle the logistics so authors can focus on connecting with readers."
"Well, it shows." Emma glances around. "Mind if I check out the space before everyone arrives?"
As I show her the setup, more Stags begin filtering in.
Gunnar, the hockey player, arrives with his wife, Emerson, a cellist whose presence causes a minor stir among the early arrivals.
A younger couple introduces themselves as Odin and Thora, followed by an intimidatingly attractive woman named Lucy, who seems to be the same age as Emma and Thatcher.
Before long, the front row becomes a Stag family reunion, their easy banter and casual touches signaling deep bonds.
I watch them during quiet moments of preparation, fascinated by their dynamics—the inside jokes, the playful ribbing, the casual physical affection.
They radiate a sense of belonging in a way that makes my heart ache slightly.
With fifteen minutes remaining, the shop is filling up nicely. I'm checking the microphone when I overhear a snippet of conversation from the Stag family section.
"Shame Brian couldn't make it," Emerson is saying to a short brunette. "Didn't he fly in specifically for tomorrow's meeting?"
"That's what Tucker said," the brunette—Thora, her name is—replies. "Something about restructuring his agency."
My heart stutters at Brian's name. He's in Pittsburgh?
Again? The knowledge sends an electric current through me.
I want to interrupt, to ask if they're talking about Brian Klein, to find out where he's staying, to get his number.
But what would I say? "Hi, I'm the bookshop owner who had mind-blowing sex with your agent during a snowstorm"?
Instead, I focus on adjusting the podium with shaking hands.
At exactly seven o’clock, I step up to the microphone, surveying the packed venue with professional pride. This is what I've built. My domain.
"Good evening, and welcome to Bishop Books. We're honored to host bestselling author Emma Stag for the launch of her newest historical work, Forged in Fire."
As I begin my introduction, highlighting Emma's contributions to Pittsburgh's documented history, I notice movement toward the back. The bell above the door tinkles softly as a late arrival slips in. I keep my professional smile fixed, holding my rhythm as I list Emma's accolades.
But my heart knows before my eyes confirm it.
Standing at the back of my shop, dressed in an immaculate navy suit under a snow-dusted wool coat, is Brian Klein.
Our eyes lock across the crowded room. For one dangerous moment, I forget the words I've rehearsed a dozen times. His slight smile—is it just for me?—nearly undoes me completely. With superhuman effort, I bring my attention back to my notes and finish Emma's introduction without further stumbling.
As applause fills the shop, I step away from the podium, and my body burns with awareness of his presence.