Chapter 18
Brian
My palms sweat as we approach Carol's front door, a phenomenon I haven't experienced since pitching my first multi-million-dollar endorsement deal over twenty years ago. Noa squeezes my hand reassuringly, the simple gesture somehow both calming and exhilarating.
"They're going to love you," she whispers, reaching for the doorknob.
Before her finger touches it, the door swings open, revealing a man in his sixties with Noa's eyes and curly hair gone mostly gray.
"You're late again," he says to Noa, then his gaze shifts to me. "And you brought a friend."
I extend my hand, summoning the polished professionalism that's carried me through countless negotiations. "Brian Klein, sir. It's a pleasure to meet you."
Instead of shaking my hand, he pulls me into a bear hug that catches me completely off guard. "I knew my daughter was hiding something. Come in, come in."
Noa shoots me an apologetic look as we're ushered inside. The house buzzes with activity—children racing through hallways, delicious smells wafting from the kitchen, and the menorah waiting on a table by the window.
Carol appears, eyeing me with open curiosity. "Well, well. So, you’re the guy with the big dreidel energy.”
“Carol shut up,” Noa warns her sister as I simultaneously laugh and flush in front of Noa’s family.
A man who must be Daniel approaches with visible relief. "Thank god, another man. I've been outnumbered since I got here." He hands me a beer without asking if I want one. "Daniel. Husband of the interrogator here."
"Ignore him," Carol says. "He's just bitter because nobody calls him a silver fox.”
Dinner is a chaotic affair—loud conversations overlapping, vicious fights over a dreidel, the children periodically interrupting with urgent news about toys or perceived injustices.
It's nothing like the formal business dinners that make up most of my life.
Much closer to the boisterous feel of meals with my own family.
"So, Brian," Noa's father says during a rare moment of relative quiet, "Noa tells me you're in sports management?"
"I represent professional athletes, yes."
"Anyone I'd know?"
"The Stag family?” I take a sip of water. "Hawk, Gunnar…most of the younger generation."
Daniel perks up. "Seriously? The Stags? Man, I've had Fury season tickets since Gunnar signed. That guy's a beast in goal."
And just like that, the tension in my shoulders begins to ease.
As dinner progresses, I find myself relaxing in the warmth of this family.
They tease each other mercilessly but with obvious affection.
They draw me into conversations about books, sports, and Pittsburgh politics.
They treat Noa with a mixture of exasperation and deep respect that speaks volumes about their relationship.
When it's time for the candle lighting, Mr. Bishop hands the matches to Noa.
She lights the first candle, then passes it to me without a word; the gesture is so natural that it takes my breath away.
Together, we light seven candles plus the helper, reciting the words in unison.
Her family watches, smiling, as if my presence here is the most normal thing in the world.
Later, as we prepare to leave, Mr. Bishop loads us down with a container of leftover latkes and strict instructions to return for dinner next week. Carol hugs me goodbye, whispering, "Don't hurt her," in my ear—a threat and approval all in one.
In the car, Noa lets out a long breath. "That wasn't so bad, was it?"
I reach across the console to take her hand. "They're wonderful. Like you."
"Flatterer." But she's smiling, her face flushed with happiness.
"What do you say we go back to your place?" I suggest, my voice dropping lower. "I think I promised to light your fire."
Her laugh fills the car, bright and uninhibited. "That is the cheesiest line I've ever heard."
"Is it working?"
"Drive faster and find out."
I love staring at Noa’s skin while she sleeps. I've been awake for an hour, alternating between checking emails and simply watching her. The peace I feel in this moment defies logic—I've known this woman for precisely one week, yet being here feels more right than anywhere I've been in decades.
She stirs, blinking up at me. "You're staring again."
"Appreciating," I correct, brushing a curl from her forehead.
She stretches against me, all warm curves and sleepy contentment. "What time is it?"
"Almost nine. I've got a video conference at eleven."
"Hmm. I should open the shop by ten." She doesn't move, instead curling closer against my side. "Five more minutes."
My phone buzzes on the nightstand. "That's the third time Ty Stag has called this morning."
"Maybe you should answer."
With reluctance, I reach for the phone. "Klein."
"There he is!" Ty's booming voice fills the line. "We've got a family dinner tonight. Juniper's making a roast. You in?"
I glance at Noa, who's watching me with curious eyes. "Can I bring someone?"
A pause, then Ty's surprised laugh. "Hell, yes. Bring whoever you want. Seven o'clock."
After hanging up, I explain the invitation to Noa. "It's not a Hanukkah thing, just dinner with the Stags. Would you like to go?"
"Meeting two families in two days? We're really accelerating this relationship schedule." But she's smiling as she says it. "I'd love to."
Ty and Juniper's sprawling home buzzes with the distinctive chaos of the Stag family—louder than Noa's family dinner, more physical, with constant movement and overlapping conversations. The moment we step through the door, I'm accosted by the twins, both talking simultaneously about shoe deals.
"Guys," I interrupt, "can we not do business tonight? I'd like to introduce you to my girlfriend."
Every head in the room turns our way, a moment of surprised silence followed by an explosion of welcome. Gunnar claps me on the back hard enough to make me stumble. Emma hugs Noa like they're old friends. Hawk mutters something that sounds suspiciously like "about damn time" in my ear.
"So, you're the reason Brian's going domestic on us," Ty booms, handing Noa a glass of wine. "He's renting office space, talking about 'work-life balance.' What did you do to him?"
Noa blushes. "I just gave him a book to read."
“Your shop is amazing!” Fern exclaims. "Didn’t you host a Chloe Petals signing last fall?"
"I did," Noa confirms. "Are you a fan?"
"I've read every book she's written," Fern gushes. "Her latest made me cry three times."
Thora joins the conversation, equally enthusiastic. "I loved that one! The scene where he brings her coffee exactly how she likes it without asking? I died."
As Noa discusses romance novels with the Stag women, I'm struck by how effortlessly she fits in with this chosen family of mine. These people, who have been my clients for years and whom I've kept at a professional distance, are drawing her in, including her, accepting her without question.
Dinner is loud and delicious, stories flying across the table, sports arguments breaking out and resolving in minutes, everyone talking over each other in the particular rhythm of long familiarity.
Noa holds her own, matching wits with Juniper and asking Thatcher insightful questions about his art while also connecting with Emma over the challenges of small business ownership.
"We should probably head out," I say eventually, noting Noa trying to stifle a yawn. "It's been a long week."
"One more thing before you go," Gunnar says, grabbing my shoulder. "You're coming to Christmas, right? Everyone will be at our ski house."
I hesitate, glancing at Noa. "I'll let you know."
Alder punches his brother. “Dude. They’re doing Hanukkah stuff.”
Gunnar punches back. “They can do Christmas dinner, too. I think. Brian?”
I smile. “We can do dinner. I just want to make sure I check Noa’s schedule.”
As we drive back to Noa's apartment, she watches me with a soft smile. "They really care about you. Not just as their agent."
"They're good people," I agree. "The closest thing to family I have outside of my mother and Rachel."
"And they want you at their Christmas celebration."
I turn onto Butler Street. "Would that be weird? If we went?"
"Why would it be weird?"
"Because of... us. Because it's so new."
“Nah,” she says, patting my thigh in a way that wakes up my lower half. “We’re all in, remember?”
Noa beams at me in the streetlights, and the realization hits me—the Stags had seamlessly incorporated Noa into their circle, just as her family had welcomed me. Everyone around us sees us for what we already are: a unit.
Back at her apartment, we stand before the fully lit menorah. All eight candles, plus the helper, burn brightly in her window, casting a warm glow over her face. I stand behind her, arms wrapped around her waist, my chin resting on her head.
"It's beautiful," I murmur, watching the lights reflect in the window glass. "All of them lit."
She leans back against me. "The complete festival of lights.”
Something about this moment—the culmination of eight nights, the woman in my arms, the sense of fullness and completion—overwhelms me. "Noa, I know this is fast. Probably too fast. But I think I'm falling for you."
She turns in my arms, looking up at me with those clear, intelligent eyes. "You think?"
"I know," I amend. "I'm falling for you."
She smiles, gesturing toward the blazing menorah. "You know, Hanukkah celebrates how unexpected light can change everything. One small flame that burns longer and brighter than anyone thought possible."
"Are you comparing us to a jar of oil?"
Her laugh vibrates against my chest. "I'm saying sometimes the most miraculous things begin with the smallest chance encounters. A snowstorm. A dead car battery. A book."
I kiss her then, soft and reverent, different from our earlier passionate embraces. When we part, I rest my forehead against hers. "So where do we go from here?"
"Forward," she says simply. "Together. One day at a time."
Behind us, the lights burn bright and steady, eight flames plus the helper illuminating the night—no longer a solitary ritual in a hotel room, but a shared light, a beginning.