My phone chimes with an email from Tahel: a preliminary cost analysis, travel projections, and efficiency metrics. The woman works at lightning speed. The numbers are compelling: I could reduce travel costs by 60% while improving client response time. The Stags alone generate enough business to justify leasing an office.
It makes sense professionally. The personal complications... those I'll have to figure out as I go.
Before I can overthink it, I send a reply: "Move up the Pittsburgh trip. Get me there by Monday. Let's test the waters."
Monday is only three days away. Three days until I can see Noa again to gauge whether what I felt was real or just a storm-induced fantasy.
Three days until I discover whether I'm making a smart business decision or the biggest mistake of my carefully constructed career.
Chapter 11
Noa
"Dad, I promise I'll be there tomorrow night." I wedge the phone between my ear and shoulder while adjusting the display of Emma Stag's latest historical book, Forged in Fire: Pittsburgh's Firefighting Legacy. "I wouldn't miss tonight, but this signing is huge for the shop."
My father sighs dramatically from the other end. "Carol's making brisket. You're going to miss the brisket."
"I'll take leftovers." I straighten a stack of bookmarks. "This event has been planned for months. Emma Stag is a big deal."
"More important than family?" The guilt trip is half-hearted; he knows how much this means to me.
"It's one night, Dad. I'll bring you a signed copy."
After securing a promise that I'll arrive extra early tomorrow to help with dinner prep, we hang up. I take a deep breath and survey my kingdom.
This needs to be my focus. Not a jet-setting man who is just the right amount of bossy in the bedroom. For five days, I've battled the urge to Google him, to search for some trace of the man whose bread is still in my freezer, wrapped in foil—a physical reminder I wasn't ready to discard. I shake my head at my foolishness. He would have at least texted me by now if he was going to reach out. Even though we made no promises, I still feel the loss of what could never be.
* * *
Bishop Books has never looked better. The usual shelves have been carefully rearranged to accommodate six rows of chairs with a center aisle between them. Strands of tiny white lights frame the windows and wind through pine garlands along the bookshelves, creating a warm glow against the early winter darkness. A small podium stands at the front, flanked by tasteful arrangements of white flowers. The signing table is draped with blue cloth, stacked with pre-signed copies for those who can't stay, equipped with Emma's preferred felt-tip pens.
Every detail matters. When I left corporate marketing, my boss told me I was "wasting my organizational skills on a dying industry." Three years later, I've transformed this shop into a community landmark, and events like tonight's are the reason why.
"Is this where you want the refreshments?" Maya, my part-time assistant, gestures toward a side table.
"Perfect. And the napkins?"
"Stacked and ready. Blue and silver, as requested."
I nod, checking my watch. Two hours until the event. The weather forecast promises clear skies, which means we should hit our expected attendance of sixty-five. I've hosted larger events, but none featuring such a high-profile author.
After ensuring the sidewalk and wheelchair ramp are freshly salted, I head to the back room, where three volunteers are already donning the Bishop Books T-shirts I ordered in their exact sizes.
"You all set? Remember who does what?" I hand each of them a laminated card with bullet points. "Any questions?"
They shake their heads, amused by my intensity. I know I'm being Type A, but events like this can make or break an independent bookstore's reputation.
Back on the floor, I adjust the thermostat. Too warm, people get sleepy during the reading; too cold, they'll be checking their watches instead of engaging. Sixty-eight degrees: the sweet spot of literary attentiveness.
For a moment, my mind drifts to the warmth of another winter night—Brian's arms around me as we watched the dancing candlelight during the power outage. I push the thought away. Focus, Noa. Tonight is about Emma Stag and her book, not daydreaming about a man who's probably negotiating contracts in some fancy high-rise by now.
The door chimes an hour before the event, and a striking, red-haired, white woman enters, accompanied by a tall, white man with an intense gaze and tattoos.
"Welcome to Bishop Books," I greet them, immediately recognizing Emma Stag from her author photos. In person, she's more vibrant, her smile warm and genuine. "It's so great to have you here."
"You must be Noa," she says. "Your shop is lovely."
"Thank you. We're thrilled to have you." I extend my hand to her husband. "And you must be Mr. Stag."
