Chapter 1
Brian
"No, absolutely not. The billboard needs to be up before Christmas Eve, or the deal's off." I weave through traffic and salt trucks on Butler Street, phone pressed to my ear, searching for Bishop Books. "I don't care if they have to work overnight. Gunnar Stag's face sells shoes, and—damn it."
A city bus blocks my view of the street numbers. According to my map app, which I'm definitely not looking at while driving, the bookstore should be right here. And they better still have that book because my mother has been not-so-subtly hinting about wanting the unauthorized biography of Noah Wylie for weeks.
"Listen, I have to call you back." I end the call without waiting for a response, finally spotting the blue awning with BISHOP BOOKS in silver script. As I parallel park, my phone buzzes—Rachel.
"Before you start, I already got Mom's gift." I fumble with my seatbelt. "I'm literally about to walk into the store to pick it up."
"Brian." My sister’s voice has that tone she uses when she thinks I'm being ridiculous. "You're cutting it awfully close. Your flight's in three hours; they're calling for snow, and if you miss this plane, you'll miss the first night of Hanukkah with us."
My chest tightens. Rachel and I have lit candles together every first night since we were kids, even when work tried to interfere. "I'll make it. I always do."
"You better. Mom's already setting up."
I end the call using the manners I reserve for my immediate family members and hurry toward the storefront, pausing at the display window. It's divided diagonally—one half arranged with gleaming menorahs and dreidels, the other with tiny Christmas trees and stockings. Tasteful. Inclusive.
A burst of children's laughter draws my attention away from the display. Through the glass, I see about a dozen kids seated in a half circle on the floor. They're completely captivated by the woman reading to them from an oversized picture book.
Even from here, I can tell she's gorgeous—all curves, dark curls, and animated expressions as she reads. I've spent years around supermodels at endorsement shoots, female athletes who could grace magazine covers, but something about this woman reading to kids in a cozy bookstore hits me differently. She's wearing a fuzzy cream sweater that hugs her body in all the right places, and when she looks up from the book to make eye contact with her audience, her whole face lights up.
A bell chimes as I open the door, bringing a rush of cold air that intensifies the scents of pine and new books. She glances my way, and the warmth in her face contrasts with the December chill outside. Our eyes meet, and my breath catches. Then her gaze drops to my phone—still in my hand, another call coming in loudly—and one eyebrow arches in silent judgment.
I should put the phone away. Instead, I find myself frozen in place as she returns to her reading, her rich voice washing over me: "And that's when the little latke learned that sometimes the best traditions are the ones we make together."
The kids clap as she finishes the book. I shift my weight, unable to tear my eyes away from her natural grace in interacting with these tiny humans.
"Now remember, everyone," she says, "next week, we'll have cookies and cocoa during storytime. As long as your grownups say it's okay."
A chorus of excited voices fills the shop as the children scramble to their feet. Their caretakers emerge from behind the shelves, gathering their offspring along with stacks of books.
I tuck my phone into my pocket on silent, aware of time ticking away yet transfixed by the way this woman handles her crowd. She high-fives each kid at their eye level, commenting on their holiday sweaters and light-up shoes.
One little girl with curly pigtails tugs on her sweater. "Miss Noa, will there be candy canes next week, too?"
Noa. Her name is Noa. It suits her.
She crouches down. "Not next week, sweetie. But maybe after Hanukkah ends."
Hanukkah. Mom's book. Right. I look over the shop's "Holiday Picks" display but don't see it. My phone buzzes, and I quickly glance at it.
"Can I help you find something?"
I turn, and there she is, looking up at me with warm brown eyes and a knowing smirk. She smells like cinnamon and something sweet—jam, maybe? Her shampoo? She's shorter than I expected, the top of her head barely reaching my shoulder. Up close, I can see a light dusting of freckles across her nose.
"The Noah Wylie biography," I blurt out. "The new one by?—"
"Jacob Goldenberg?" She grins. "You're in luck. I have exactly one copy left."
She guides me toward the nonfiction section, and I definitely don't notice how her hips sway. "Let me guess—last minute gift?"
"For my mother." My phone vibrates again. "She's been hinting."
"Mmhmm." Noa reaches up to a high shelf, her sweater riding up to reveal a strip of creamy skin above her jeans. "And let me guess again—you're in a hurry to get somewhere?"
I blink. "How did you?—"
