My chest tightens.
I flip to the piece of paper with her number and trace the careful digits with my finger. I should text her. Tell her I'm mostly through the book. Ask what she thought of chapter twelve. But what then? What future could I possibly offer someone so settled, when my life is just airports and hotel rooms?
I open my laptop at the kitchen table, pull up real estate listings in Pittsburgh—initially, just office spaces; small places where I could establish a satellite operation. Then, almost without conscious thought, I'm looking at apartments. Condos. Places with actual furniture, not hotel suites.
"What are you doing?"
I jump at my sister's voice, close the laptop too quickly. "Work stuff."
Rachel raises an eyebrow. "On Hanukkah? Mom will have a fit."
"Just a quick check."
She studies me for a moment. "Something's different about you. What happened in Pittsburgh?"
"Nothing," I say too quickly. She doesn't believe me—Rachel never does—but she lets it slide and tugs me back toward the family gathering.
As I settle onto the couch and watch my nephew play with his new toys, I try to focus on the present. On the family I already have. On the life I've carefully built.
But my mind keeps drifting to a bookshop with a blue awning, to Brie in bed, to a woman who sees through my polished exterior to the man underneath. To margin notes that feel like love letters, to a phone number I'm terrified to call.
I could have even more reason to be there regularly.
The thought should fill me with dread—commitment, routine, roots. Instead, I find myself fighting a smile as I mentally rearrange my schedule.
Chapter 9
Noa
After sending Brian on his way with my favorite book and a lingering kiss, I pull the golden bread from the oven. It smells heavenly, with each plait of the braided loaf perfectly twisted. I can't bring myself to eat it, so I try to doze off on the couch. The bed feels far too empty, still holding onto the scent of him and our night together. The couch feels safer, more neutral ground.
I wake up to an empty apartment, the silence almost oppressive after hours filled with his voice, his laughter, and his groans of pleasure. For a moment, I wonder if I dreamed the whole thing—the storm, the candlelight, Brian. But the pleasant ache between my thighs tells a different story. I stretch, feeling the delicious soreness in muscles I'd forgotten I had, each movement reminding me of how thoroughly I was claimed last night.
My quick nap ends up lasting until 9:30. I overslept, but given that I was up half the night engaged in Olympic-worthy sexcapades, I'll forgive myself. I have just enough time to properly shower and open the shop.
Under the hot spray, I catalog the evidence of our joining: a bite mark on my inner thigh, fingertip bruises on my hips, lips tender from his kisses. My reflection in the steamy mirror reveals a woman I barely recognize—flushed, satisfied, and somehow more vibrant than the person who stood here yesterday morning.
But as I dress and make more coffee, practicality sets in. Brian Klein has already left the Steel City, probably sitting in some airport lounge, checking emails, as our night together fades into memory with each mile between us. A winter miracle, indeed—fleeting and magical, never meant to last.
Downstairs, the bookshop feels strangely transformed, as if the space itself knows what happened above it. I straighten stacks of books that don't need straightening, dust shelves I cleaned only days ago. When I reach the nonfiction section, I pause, my fingers tracing the spot where the Noah Wylie biography once sat. Where I first felt that spark when our hands touched.
"You're being ridiculous," I mutter to myself as I flip the store sign to OPEN.
Morning brings the usual weekday regulars—Mrs. Abernathy with her romance novel obsession, Professor Coleman searching for obscure poetry collections, the high school kids who hide in the corner, reading manga during their free period. Their familiar presence helps ground me and pulls me back into the rhythm of my real life.
The shop phone rings and startles me from my thoughts.
"Bishop Books, how can I help you?"
"You forgot to call last night." My father's voice, concerned but trying not to show it. "Everything okay, sweetheart?"
Guilt overwhelms me. I know Dad's a huge worrier, and I didn't even text.
"Sorry, Dad. The storm knocked out power. I went to bed early." Not technically a lie, though certainly an omission of critical details involving a sexy silver fox.
"Well, you'll make it up to me tonight, yes? Carol's bringing her crew. The kids are excited to see their favorite aunt."
I smile in spite of myself. "I'm their only aunt."
