But that's not who I am. I don't do that. I grab yesterday's clothes and follow my curvy temptation. I kiss the side of her neck as she fusses at the coffee pot, and then I slide the bread pan into the oven.
"Can you stay until it's ready?" She glances over her shoulder, a hopeful look on her face that I know I'm about to crush.
I shake my head, and Noa nods, punching the button on the coffeemaker with finality.
By the time I'm tucked in and packed—my briefcase seems ridiculous now, a symbol of my interrupted rush—Noa is in the kitchen, fully dressed in leggings and an oversized sweater, her hair pulled back in a messy bun. Two mugs of coffee steam on the counter.
"Black, right?" she asks, slides one toward me.
"Like my soul."
She smiles. "I don't think that's quite right, Brian."
We drink in companionable silence for a moment, neither of us quite looking at the other. There's so much I want to express, but none of it seems to make sense. What could I possibly offer this woman? A night in whichever city I happen to be passing through? A text message when I'm feeling lonely in another hotel room?
"Wait here." Noa suddenly sets down her mug and disappears through the apartment door.
When she returns, she's carries a wrapped package—silver paper tied with a perfect blue bow. A slim paperback is also tucked against her chest.
"For your mother," she explains, handing me the wrapped gift. "The book will mean more if it's presented properly." She hesitates, then extends the second book. "And this one's for you. Something to read on the plane."
I take both books, and our fingers brush against one another. The paperback is well-worn, clearly from her personal collection. "You didn't have to do that."
"I wanted to." She tucks a stray curl behind her ear. "It's what I do. Books and pretty paper. Plus, every good bookstore owner pushes their favorite reads."
My phone vibrates again. The tow truck is outside.
"I should?—"
"Go," she finishes for me. "I know."
I step toward her, cup her cheek in my hand. "Noa, last night was?—"
"Incredible," she supplies. "A winter miracle."
I kiss her then, soft and lingering, trying to convey everything I can't say. When we part, her eyes stay closed for a moment longer than needed.
"Thank you," I whisper against her lips. "For everything."
She just nods, steps back. "Travel safe, Brian."
The walk down her narrow stairwell feels longer than it did last night. Each step takes me further from her warmth and back into the cold reality of my life. The tow truck driver is waiting, stamping his feet against the chill next to a flatbed that will apparently be my ride to the airport.
"Rough night with the storm, eh?" he asks as I approach.
I glance back at Noa's shop, at the window where I know she's watching. "Actually, no. It was perfect."
The flight to Newark is bumpy, the aftermath of the storm creating air pockets that jolt the small regional jet. After texting my sister to ask for a ride, I crack open Noa's book instead of my usual work emails. A small piece of paper peeks out from between the pages—her phone number written in careful script, along with "In case you want to discuss the ending. —N".
It’s called Legends and Lattes, where a nomadic orc warrior sets down roots and opens a coffee shop. By the time we arrive, I'm halfway through, completely captivated by the cozy story about found family, second chances, and creating a home base. I understand why Noa chose this—it's a fantasy novel about a warrior who exchanges her sword for an apron and discovers that the most extraordinary adventure is building a life worth staying for. The parallels aren't lost on me.
And then I land, and the airport is chaos—holiday travelers delayed by the weather, all frantic to reach their destinations. I navigate it on autopilot; the familiar routine of security lines and boarding gates requires none of my actual attention, Noa's book tucked safely in my briefcase.
Rachel is waiting in the arrivals area, bundled in a heavy coat, her expression a blend of relief and irritation.
"You're alive!" she exclaims, pulling me into a brief hug. "Would it have killed you to answer any of the thirty texts Mom and I sent?"
"I was dealing with car trouble," I reply, which isn't exactly a lie. "And then the storm knocked out power."
