If only she knew. I turn back to the dishes, determined to focus on the present, on what's real and lasting. Last night was just that—one night. A perfect memory to tuck away, nothing more.
But as I drive home later, past streets still dusted with snow, the image of Brian's face as he said goodbye plays in my mind. The tenderness in his otherwise sharp eyes. The lingering press of his lips.
I push the thoughts away. One night doesn't change a lifetime of patterns. Men like Brian Klein don't suddenly decide to settle down, and women like me don't uproot their lives for fleeting passion.
Still, as I pass the spot where his car was stranded, I can't help but slow down. The electric charging station at the end of the block now displays an "Out of Order" sign. I smile despite myself and send a silent thank you to whatever mechanical failure led to my festival of light-up sex.
Chapter 10
Brian
My Chicago hotel room feels even more sterile than usual. The same generic abstract art hangs above the king-sized bed, and the same beige curtains frame a view I've seen a dozen times before. After a night in Noa's apartment—with its colorful walls, overflowing bookcases, and the scent of cookies and cinnamon—this place feels like a sensory deprivation chamber.
I check my watch: 7:30 AM. I've been awake since five, nursing a terrible hotel coffee while reviewing the day's agenda. Basketball star Jamal Hawkins needs damage control after his third DUI, track champion Savannah Ellis-Parker is threatening to sue her sponsor over a dropped contract due to her pregnancy, and three separate football rookies need contract negotiations handled yesterday.
Just another day in the life of Brian Klein, extraordinary sports agent.
Except today, the thought of playing fixer fills me with uncharacteristic exhaustion.
My phone buzzes with my assistant's hourly update.
Jamal's publicist sent over the statement draft. Legal says it needs work. Conference room booked for 9 AM. Savannah will video call at 11. Flight to Pittsburgh confirmed for Thursday.
Thursday. Five days from now. Five more days of hotel rooms and conference calls before I can see Noa again.
Woah, Brian. You didn't even text her.
I shake my head, trying to clear the image of her sleepy morning smile from my mind. This is ridiculous. I've had good sex before. Great sex, even. One night with a bookstore owner shouldn't be hijacking my thoughts during billable hours.
But it wasn't just about the sex, was it? It was the way she laughed with her entire body when I told her about Gunnar Stag's Vegas wedding. The casual way I baked in her kitchen and rummaged in her linen closet for sheets. The peace I felt watching her light the menorah, her voice blending with mine in familiar rituals…
The rented conference room is already half full when I arrive, and Jamal's team of handlers is looking anxious. I slip into professional mode automatically, my voice shifting to the commanding tone that's become my trademark.
"The statement needs a complete rewrite. It reads like he's sorry he got caught, not sorry he endangered lives." I toss the paper onto the table. "And we need to get ahead of the suspension. Preemptive community service, substance abuse program, the works."
Jamal's manager begins to protest, but I interrupt him.
"You hired me to fix this, not coddle him. He's one incident away from losing everything." My voice carries the authority of someone who's seen careers implode. "If he wants to maintain his endorsements, he follows my plan to the letter."
By the time we break, I've outlined a rehabilitation strategy that might salvage Jamal's career if he actually follows through on it. As everyone files out, I find myself wondering what Noa would think of all this. Would she see me as ruthlessly efficient? Would this version of me put her off—the one who steamrolls opposition and speaks in terms of damage mitigation rather than actual redemption?
I rub my temples and try to focus. I've never cared what a woman thought about my work before. Why start now?
Savannah's video call provides a welcome distraction. At six months pregnant, the Olympic gold medalist's face fills my laptop screen, and her frustration is evident.
"They buried it in the contract language, Brian. Page forty-two, subsection C. If I'm unable to compete for any reason, they can reduce payment."
"Pregnancy discrimination is illegal," I remind her.
"Tell that to their legal team. They're calling it 'physical inability to perform obligations.'"
I pull up the contract on my second screen and scan the relevant sections. "We have options. Public pressure, legal action, or renegotiation with performance criteria based on your post-pregnancy return."
As we discuss strategy, my mind unexpectedly drifts to an image of Noa, her belly swollen with pregnancy, reading to children in her bookstore. The vision is so vivid it momentarily steals my breath. I've never had that reaction before—never imagined a woman carrying my child. I'm pushing fifty. What the hell is happening to me?
"Brian? Did you hear what I said?"
I snap back to the present. "Sorry, connection issue. You were saying?"
