Chapter 16
Brian
Tim Stag's corner office is as elegant as any I've seen in New York or LA. The conference table is covered with documents, spreadsheets, and coffee cups—evidence of our three-hour meeting that's finally winding down.
"These terms look good, Brian." Tim slides the revised contract across the table. "The Stags are pleased to be your anchor clients in Pittsburgh."
"You're making a smart move," Hawk adds. "This city's soccer team just signed a major international player, the hockey team has championship potential, and there's talk of a women's basketball expansion."
I sign the final document with a flourish, sealing my commitment to this new chapter. "It makes business sense," I tell them, though we all know there's more to it than that.
Wyatt, who rarely talks to me, leans forward. "So, Bishop Books, huh?"
I keep my expression neutral. "What about it?"
"Just seems like an interesting coincidence you'd fly in the same night as Aunt Emma's signing."
I carefully cap my pen. "I appreciate good literature. And my favorite family."
The elder Stag brothers exchange knowing glances. Tim clears his throat. "Well, if you're planning to stay in Pittsburgh, you'll need office space. I've had my real estate contact pull some options."
He slides a folder toward me, and I flip through listings of downtown offices and suburban corporate parks. None feel right.
"Actually," I say, closing the folder, "I saw a vacant storefront on Butler Street. I'd like to look at that first."
Hawk's eyebrows shoot up. "Near Bishop Books?"
"Is it?" I ask innocently. "I hadn't noticed."
The commercial realtor shows me the first building and then mentions another option.
This one is two doors down from Noa's bookshop and apartment, separated only by a brick wall and a vacant shop that I consider buying immediately, just to knock it down and create a walking path connecting my space with hers.
"It's been vacant for about three months," the realtor explains, unlocking the door. "Former tenant was a boutique clothing store that moved to Shadyside."
I step inside, taking in the high ceilings, original hardwood floors, and large front windows. The space is small, but more than adequate for my needs, with several floors I can fill with staff.
I walk the perimeter, mentally placing desks, conference tables, and a comfortable reception area. This is madness. I'm choosing an office location based on proximity to a woman I've spent two nights with. A woman who looked distinctly uncertain about my plans this morning.
"What's the lease term?" I ask, despite the voice of reason screaming in my head.
"Minimum one year, but the owner prefers three."
I nod, run a hand along the smooth wood of the counter that remains from the boutique. "I'll take it. Three-year lease."
The realtor blinks. "Don't you want to see the other properties?"
"No need." I pull out my checkbook. "What's required for the deposit?"
An hour later, I'm the proud leaseholder of 1875 Butler Street. The keys feel heavy in my pocket as I step outside, and reality crashes over me in waves. I've just committed to a three-year stay in Pittsburgh. Three years next door to Noa's shop.
What started as 'testing the waters' has become jumping into the deep end. There's no backing out now—this isn't just a satellite office. This is my life.
I pull out my phone to call her, to share this monumental decision, but I hesitate. She was so cautious this morning, so concerned about the speed of things. Maybe I should give her space to process?
However, the need to tell her prevails. I tap her contact and listen to the phone ring until voicemail picks up. "Hi, it's Noa. Leave a message!"
"Hey, it's Brian. I have some news. Call me when you get a chance."
I end the call and stare at her shop's blue and silver awning. Should I go in? Would that seem too eager, too presumptuous?
Before I can decide, my phone rings—Tahel.
"So?" she demands without preamble. "Did you sign your life away to Pittsburgh?"
"Three-year lease," I confirm. “Done and dusted.”
She whistles. “Smooth, boss."
“I’m not sure about that, but it’s … something.” I start walking toward my hotel, needing to move. "What's the status of the client transition plan?"
"In progress. I've scheduled video conferences with all affected clients for tomorrow and Friday. Most seem fine with the arrangement, especially since you're retaining direct oversight."
"And the staffing?"
"Three potential associates identified, interviews next week. I also have a shortlist of local assistants in Pittsburgh."
I've always appreciated Tahel's efficiency, but today, it feels like a lifeline. At least one part of this massive change is proceeding logically. "What would I do without you?"
"Crash and burn," she says cheerfully. "So, when do I get to meet this woman who's got you uprooting your entire existence?"
"I don't recall mentioning a woman."
"Brian, I've worked for you for eight years.
In that time, you've never once made a decision that wasn't calculated to the last decimal point.
Then you spend one night in Pittsburgh during a snowstorm, and suddenly you're reading books, signing multi-year leases, and restructuring your entire agency. "
Put like that, it does sound wild. "I'll introduce you when you come out to set up the office," I promise.
"I'm holding you to that. Oh, and your mother called. Twice. Something about candles."
Right. Night six of Hanukkah. "I'll call her back."
After ending the call, I check my watch—3:15 PM. I try Noa again, but it goes straight to voicemail this time. Her phone might be off or have a dead battery. No reason to worry yet.
By six o’clock, after three more unanswered calls and two text messages, concern has taken root. I pace my hotel room, alternately rationalizing and envisioning worst-case scenarios. She's busy with the shop. Her phone died. She's having second thoughts and avoiding me.
Unable to stand it any longer, I grab my coat and head back to Butler Street. The winter evening has settled over the city, and streetlamps cast pools of light on the sidewalks. When I reach Bishop Books, my heart sinks. The shop is dark, with a “CLOSED” sign prominently displayed.
I cup my hands around my eyes and peer through the window. No movement inside. Looking up at her apartment windows, I see only darkness there as well.
A chill that has nothing to do with the December air runs through me. Did she flee? Did I come on too strong this morning? Or am I just being paranoid? Here I am, having just signed a three-year lease basically on her doorstep, and I can't even reach her.
Back at the hotel, I stare at the menorah I've traveled with for years. Six candles for tonight, plus the helper. Normally, I light it alone in whatever city I happen to be in, a solitary ritual that's become so routine I barely think about it.
But lighting the candles with Noa felt different. Like the ritual had meaning again beyond obligation.
The clock on the nightstand reads 7:30 PM. Time to call my mother before she sends a search party. I set up my laptop for a video call, positioning it so she can see the menorah.
Her face appears on screen, eyebrows already raised in silent question. "There you are! I was starting to worry."
"Sorry, Ma. Busy day."
"Too busy for your mother?" But she's smiling as she says it. "Rachel's here too. We're about to light the candles."
My sister leans into the frame. "Hey, stranger. Nice hotel room. Where are you this time?"
"Still in Pittsburgh, actually."
My mother's eyes narrow. "You're supposed to be in Newark by now with us. Your flight was this morning."
"Change of plans." I arrange the candles in my menorah, avoiding her gaze. "I'm staying in Pittsburgh for... a while."
"Define 'a while,'" Rachel says.
"I signed a three-year office lease today."
Silence, then a chorus of exclamations. I wait for them to quiet down before continuing.
"I'm restructuring the agency. Focusing personally on the Stag clients while building a team to handle the others."
My mother studies me through the screen. "This is very sudden."
"It makes business sense," I say automatically.
"Bullshit," Rachel replies. "This is about a woman."
I should deny, deflect, or change the subject. Instead, I sigh. "Her name is Noa."
My mother's face lights up. "Noa? A nice Jewish girl?"
"Yes, Ma. She owns a bookstore."
"A bookstore!" My mother clasps her hands together. "Intelligent, then. And Jewish? When do we meet her?"
"It's not—we're not—" I struggle to define what exactly Noa and I are. "It's complicated."
Rachel leans closer to the camera. "You look miserable. Trouble in paradise already?"
"I haven't been able to reach her all day," I admit. "She seemed uncertain about me staying in Pittsburgh this morning, and now her shop is closed, her apartment’s dark and she's not answering her phone."
"Did you scare her off?" Rachel asks.
"I don't know." I run a hand through my hair. "Maybe. I signed a lease for the storefront next to her shop today."
My sister whistles. "That's either very romantic or very stalker-ish."
"You're not helping, Rachel," my mother chides before turning back to me. "Brian, darling, have you considered she might just be busy? Not everyone lives attached to their phone like you do."
"She said she'd call," I mutter, aware I sound like a teenager.
"And she will," my mother says confidently. "Now, let's light the candles. You can tell us more about this Noa after."
We light our flames together, the familiar ritual connecting us across hundreds of miles. As the candles flicker on my screen, I find myself wondering if Noa is lighting her menorah right now, if she's thinking of me.
"So," my mother prompts after we finish, "tell me about this bookstore owner who has my son signing real estate leases without a fifty-page analysis first."
Despite my worry, I find myself smiling. "She's... unexpected. Smart. Independent. Keeps me on my toes."
"Sounds like my kind of woman," Rachel says.
"She has this bookshop that's become a community hub. Author events, reading groups, and storytime for kids. She built an amazing resource."
My mother nods approvingly. "A businesswoman. And does she want children? I'm not getting any younger, you know."
"Ma!" I protest. "We've spent exactly two nights together. We haven't discussed kids."
"Mom, I've given you three grandchildren," Rachel interjects.
My mother waves dismissively. "I need more. Variety is important."
I roll my eyes, but there's no heat in it. This is just my mother being herself.
"The real question," Rachel says, "is whether you're really ready for this. Putting down roots. Being in one place. It's not exactly your natural habitat."
The question hits at the heart of my uncertainty. "I don't know," I admit. "But I want to find out."
"Well, I think it's wonderful," my mother declares. "You've been running long enough, Brian. Time to build something lasting."
Coming from my mother, who's spent years trying to lure me back to Jersey, this support is unexpected. "You're not going to tell me I'm being impulsive and reckless?"
"Would it change your mind if I did?" she asks shrewdly.
"No."
"Then what's the point?" She adjusts her glasses. "Besides, I like seeing you like this. Uncertain. Vulnerable. It means you're finally taking a real risk on something that matters."
After the call ends, I stare at the flickering candles. Their light reflects in the dark window of my hotel room. My mother's half right—I am taking an emotional risk. The biggest of my life. And for what? A woman I barely know but can't stop thinking about.
I pick up my phone and send one last message to Noa:
Let me know you're safe. Worried about you in this weather.
The gesture feels both inadequate and excessive—concern disguised as a casual check-in. But it's all I can do for now.