Chapter 15
Noa
I've been awake for several minutes, just watching Brian sleep—the steady rise and fall of his hairy chest, the way his face softens in sleep, with hardness melting away from his features.
This morning feels different from our first one together. No rush, no storm clearing, no sense of a fleeting connection. Instead, there's a tentative permanence to the way his arm drapes possessively across my waist, the way our legs remain tangled beneath the sheets.
His eyes flutter open, instantly finding mine. "You're staring," he murmurs, his voice rough with sleep.
"Appreciating," I correct him, echoing his words from last night.
He smiles, pulls me closer, and presses a kiss on my forehead. We lie like that for several minutes, neither speaking, just existing in the quiet intimacy of the morning.
"I finished your book," he says suddenly. "The fantasy one about the orc."
My heart skips. "You did? What did you think?"
"I loved it." His fingers trace lazy patterns on my bare shoulder. "You were right about the parallels." He meets my eyes. "Your margin note about familiar faces really got to me."
Joy blooms in my chest. He not only read it, he understood why I chose it for him. "I'm so glad you liked it."
"It made me think about what I want my life to look like." He pauses. "Speaking of which, I have my contract meeting with the Stag family today. To finalize yesterday’s discussion."
My heart skips again but for a different reason. "You're really doing it? Moving to Pittsburgh?"
"That's the plan." His voice carries quiet certainty. "It makes sense professionally. The Stags are my most stable clients, and they're all here."
I hear the unspoken reason hanging between us. Me. I'm here, too.
"It's a big change," I say carefully. "Are you sure it's not too... sudden?"
He props himself up on one elbow, looks down at me with those intense blue eyes. "I've been living out of suitcases for twenty-five years, Noa. Trust me when I say this feels right."
The certainty in his voice should be reassuring, but a knot of anxiety forms in my stomach. We've spent a total of two nights together. Is that enough to upend an entire life? To change a decades-long pattern?
"What about your other clients?" I ask. "Your family in New Jersey?"
"Newark is a ninety-minute flight. I'll still handle the important meetings personally, but I'm bringing on associates for day-to-day management." He brushes a curl from my face. "I can see those wheels turning. What are you worried about?"
I take a breath. "That you'll wake up in a month and regret this. That I'm not enough reason to change your whole life."
His expression softens. "This isn't just about you, though you're a compelling factor." He kisses me lightly. "It's about me, too. What I want. Who I want to be for the second half of my life."
Before I can respond, his phone buzzes from the nightstand. He glances at it and sighs. "Tim Stag. I should get this."
While he takes the call, I slip out of bed and into the shower. The hot water helps clear my head, but the questions remain. Is this real? Or just the afterglow of incredible sex and holiday sentimentality?
By the time I emerge, Brian is dressed in yesterday's suit, looking remarkably put-together for a man who spent the night making me scream his name.
"I've got to run," he says, checking his watch. "The meeting got moved up, and I need to change at the hotel."
"Of course." I adjust my robe. "Will I see you later?"
He crosses to me and tilts my chin up for a kiss that quickly deepens and leaves me breathless. "Count on it." Another quick kiss. "I'll call you after the meeting."
Then he's gone, the apartment suddenly quiet in his absence. I stand motionless, fingers pressed to my lips, the scent of his cologne lingering in the air.
This is happening too fast. Isn't it?
I move through my morning routine on autopilot, and my mind replays Brian's words. Trust me when I say this feels right.
Does it? Could someone really change their entire lifestyle after one snowstorm and two nights together? I put away the folding chairs and restore bookish order to the space as I ponder the cyclone of my life at the moment.
The bell above the door chimes at precisely 10:15, and I look up to see my sister entering, carrying a tray with two coffee cups.
"I come bearing caffeine," Carol announces, setting the tray on the counter. "Figured you'd need it after the big event last night."
"The signing was amazing," I agree, accepting the cup gratefully.
Carol studies me over the rim of her coffee. "You look different."
"I'm wearing the same outfit I always do."
"Not your clothes." She narrows her eyes. "Your face. You're... glowing."
I busy myself straightening a stack of bookmarks. "Good skincare routine."
"Bullshit." Carol perches on a stool behind the counter. "You got laid. Finally."
The heat that floods my cheeks confirms her suspicion before I can deny it.
"I knew it!" she crows. "Who is he? Please tell me it's not that weird guy with the cats who always buys the maritime histories."
"It's not," I assure her.
"So? Details. Now."
I hesitate, then decide there's no point hiding it. "Remember that guy I mentioned? From the snowstorm?"
Her eyes widen. "The silver fox who bought the Noah Hot Wylie book? He came back?"
"He's in town for business." I fiddle with my coffee lid. "We ran into each other at Emma Stag's signing."
"And immediately jumped into bed," Carol supplies. "Good for you. God knows it's been long enough."
"It's not just sex," I admit reluctantly. "He's... talking about moving to Pittsburgh. Opening an office here."
Carol's eyebrows shoot up. "After how many dates? Two?"
"Kind of."
"Wow." She takes a sip of coffee. "Either this guy is seriously impulsive, or he's fallen hard."
"Or both," I mutter.
"And how do you feel about it?"
I stare at my sister, the weight of the question settling on me. "Terrified. Excited. Like I'm twenty again, making decisions with my heart instead of my head."
"That doesn't sound like the Noa Bishop I know," Carol says, but her tone is gentle. "The woman who researches toaster ovens for three months before buying one."
"I know," I groan. "That's why I'm scared. This is moving so fast, and it's so intense, and I barely know him, but..."
"But?"
"But I can't stop thinking about him. About what it would be like if he really did stay."
Carol reaches across the counter to squeeze my hand. "Sometimes the best things happen when we stop overthinking them."
"Says the woman who made a pro-con list before agreeing to a second date with Daniel."
"And now we've been together for years," she points out. "The list just confirmed what my gut already knew."
We're interrupted by the arrival of a customer, then another, and soon the morning slips into afternoon. Carol leaves with a reminder not to be late for dinner with the family. "Dad's making chicken today. Six o'clock sharp, he says to remind you. In my stern voice."
"I'll be there," I promise.
But at 3:30, Maya calls in sick, leaving me alone to handle the afternoon rush.
Then, just as I'm catching up, a delivery truck arrives with a massive shipment that wasn't supposed to come until next week.
By the time I've signed for everything and stacked the boxes in the stockroom, it's after five, and my phone is dead—I forgot to charge it last night, too distracted by Brian's presence.
I plug it in by the register and type out a quick message to tell Brian I have family commitments tonight before I continue shelving new arrivals. I lose track of time until I glance at the clock and see it's nearly 6:30.
"Shit," I mutter, grabbing my coat and phone, which failed to send my message. On top of that I’ve got three missed calls from my father, two from Carol, and one from Brian. A text from him:
Meeting went great. Can we talk tonight? I didn't know how to reach out all day - kept picking up the phone and putting it down. This is new territory for me.
No time to respond now—Dad will send a SWAT team if I'm any later.
I lock up the shop and sprint to my car, guilt gnawing at me from two directions.
I've missed the first half of family dinner, and I haven't spoken to Brian all day after he spent the night in my bed. I don’t want to text and drive, though, and there’s a strict no phones policy during family dinner.
I’ll have to remember to quickly hit send as I race up the walk. “Focus, Noa.”
Traffic crawls through town, every red light conspiring against me. By the time I pull up to my father's house, it's past seven. Through the window, I can see the family gathered around the dining table, the candles unlit on the sideboard.
They've waited for me to light it. The realization tightens my throat as I hurry up the walkway, wondering if Brian is waiting for me, too.