Chapter 12
Brian
I've taken a thousand flights, but this one has my nerves rattled like I'm a rookie athlete before his debut game.
My phone buzzes with Tahel's third message of the morning. I bark an unnecessarily terse response, then immediately call back to apologize.
"Sorry about that. Just—"
"Stressed about this trip? Yeah, I gathered." Her voice carries knowing amusement. "Your hotel is confirmed. Corner suite at the Fairmont. The car service will meet you at baggage claim."
"Thanks. And the meeting?"
"Social lunch at eleven at Stag Law—Tim's office—then serious business tomorrow morning, same building but in the conference room."
I watch Pittsburgh's skyline emerge through breaks in the clouds as we descend. Somewhere in those streets is a bookshop with blue awnings and a woman who's turned my carefully structured life upside down.
The Stag Law building occupies prime downtown real estate, all gleaming glass and steel above the giant tree and ice rink set up for the December holidays. Tim Stag, a grumpy bastard just like me, has a corner office on the thirty-second floor with views of all three of the city's rivers.
I'm escorted to a spacious room where the Stag family athletic contingent has already assembled. They're loud, physical, and exude the easy confidence of men who've spent their lives being exceptional at something.
"There he is!" Hawk claps me on the shoulder with enough force to stagger a smaller man. "The man who refuses to answer his phone on a weekend."
I set down my briefcase. "I just don't feel like talking to you anymore." I grin and pull him in for a hug.
"You're ignoring the family?" Tim appears in the doorway, arms folded across his chest. Unlike his pro-athlete brothers, Tim projects authority through stillness rather than physical prowess. "We were starting to think you'd abandoned us for your bigger clients."
"Never." I shake his hand firmly. "You're the best-behaved clients I have."
The room bursts into a mix of protests and laughter.
"Remember when Gunnar got married in Vegas?" Alder chimes in.
"To a complete stranger," Tucker adds.
Gunnar throws a wadded napkin at his brothers. "Who is still my beloved wife, you jackasses."
"Language," Tim warns as a petite blonde woman wheels in a catering cart laden with covered dishes. "Alice spent hours on this lunch."
Alice Stag, Tim's wife and the firm's corporate chef, starts to unveil platters of turkey and stuffing sandwiches, cranberry salads, and what appears to be homemade pumpkin pie.
"Alice, this is incredible," I say, genuinely impressed. "You didn't have to go to all this trouble."
She waves away my thanks. "When Tim said all the Stag men were gathering with Brian, I knew I needed to feed you properly. Hotel room service and airport food..." She makes a face of pure disgust.
As we settle around the table, I take mental inventory.
Hawk, now coaching professional soccer after his playing career; Wyatt, visiting from his team in London; Wes, the striker; and the hockey trio of Gunnar, Alder, and Tucker.
Plus, Tim, the counselor who keeps them all legally protected.
Six clients from one family, all gathered in one city.
All the reasons I have to be here regularly.
After we've filled our plates and exchanged the usual small talk, Tim clears his throat. "So, Brian. Your admin mentioned you wanted to discuss restructuring?"
I take a careful sip of water. "I'm exploring the possibility of establishing a satellite office here in Pittsburgh.
My assistant pointed out that my travel costs are astronomical.
It makes fiscal sense to focus my personal attention on my core clientele—the Stag family—while building a team to handle my other clients. "
The room falls silent. Hawk leans forward. "You're putting down roots? What happened to 'I sleep in more cities than I have socks'?"
"People change," I say with a casualness I don't actually feel.
"Since when?" Gunnar scoffs through a mouthful of sandwiches.
"Since about four days ago, apparently," Tucker mutters to his twin.
I shoot him a sharp look. Has Tahel been gossiping?
"This is excellent news," Tim intervenes smoothly. "Having you local would streamline our operations considerably. We'll need to discuss the legal implications, of course, but I think this arrangement could benefit everyone."
Tim's enthusiasm helps quiet the voice in my head, questioning whether this is a smart business move or merely an elaborate excuse to be near a certain bookstore owner.
Hawk shakes his head. "Brian, dude, I've known you for decades.
And now you'll be around for Sunday dinner!
" I pause, sandwich halfway to my mouth, considering his words.
Do these men really view me as that much of a friend?
Sure, I've been to their weddings. But I thought they felt professionally obligated to invite me.
Have I been ignoring this potential for half my life?
The conversation shifts to logistics—office locations, associated personnel, and contract provisions. I answer on autopilot, my mind partially elsewhere. If I establish an office in Pittsburgh, I could see Noa regularly. But would she want that?
"Earth to Brian." Wes waves a hand in front of my face. "You with us?"
"Sorry. Jet lag." A weak excuse for a one-hour flight.
"I asked if you'd be at Mom's book signing tonight," Wes repeats. "Since you're representing half her family."
"Book signing?"
"At Bishop Books," Gunnar explains. "Emerson's making me go but ditching me afterward for orchestra practice."
"Aunt Emma's thing," Wyatt explains. "Historical book about Pittsburgh? This one's about firefighters."
Bishop Books. Noa's shop. My pulse quickens embarrassingly.
"I didn't realize that was tonight," I say, aiming for nonchalance. "I picked up a book there during the snowstorm. Nice place."
Six pairs of eyes turn toward me with identical expressions of surprise.
Alder stage-whispers, "Did Brian Klein just compliment a retail establishment?"
"Someone check if he has a fever," Tucker says.
Tim observes with lawyerly precision, "I've never heard you praise any location that wasn't a five-star hotel or Michelin restaurant."
I feel heat creeping up my neck. "It's just a bookstore."
"With a good-looking owner," Hawk says casually, and my head snaps up. He grins. "Lucy mentioned meeting her. Said she was 'refreshingly competent,' which is high praise from my wife."
"I wouldn't know," I lie, reaching for my glass of water to conceal my expression.
The meeting ends with handshakes and promises of revised contracts to come. As the Stags filter out, Hawk lingers behind.
"You know, when I met Lucy, I was convinced relationships and career couldn't mix," he says conversationally. "Turned out I was just afraid of what it meant to let someone matter that much."
I narrow my eyes. "What exactly are you implying?"
He raises his hands in surrender. "Nothing. Just an observation from someone who's been there. The signing starts at seven if you're interested."
For three hours, I pace around my hotel room, alternating between working on contracts for tomorrow and staring out the window in the general direction of Butler Street. The rational part of my brain catalogs all the reasons why showing up at Noa's shop is a terrible idea:
I have basically ghosted her, and my anxiety climbs higher the longer I avoid just fucking calling.
It's a professional event for her, not the place for personal matters.
I'd be surrounded by Stags, who have an uncanny ability to push my buttons.
What exactly is my endgame here?
But rational thought feels powerless next to whatever magnetic pull that draws me toward Bishop Books.
At 6:45, I give in, call for a ride, and choose a navy suit that's slightly less formal than my usual business attire. I leave the tie loose, a small concession to the more casual setting.
The shop windows glow invitingly as my car pulls up across the street.
Through the glass, I can see it's packed—every chair is filled, with people standing along the walls.
Noa moves confidently to the front, adjusting a microphone, her dark curls swept into a loose updo that reveals the graceful line of her neck.
She's wearing a deep blue dress that hugs her curves, appearing every bit the successful business owner.
My throat tightens. She's magnificent.
I wait until she starts speaking before slipping through the door, the small bell announcing my arrival despite my attempt at discretion. I position myself at the back, behind a tall bookshelf, where I can see her but stay partially hidden.
Mid-sentence, her eyes meet mine. For a heart-stopping moment, she hesitates, a slight catch in her professional delivery that probably no one else notices. But I notice. I see the flash of surprise, the almost imperceptible widening of her eyes, the faint color rising in her cheeks.
Then, with impressive composure, she continues, her voice steady even as her gaze flickers back to me once more.
She saw me. And unless I'm completely delusional, that wasn't displeasure in her eyes.
Now, I just need to figure out what the hell to say to her.