"Thatcher," he corrects with a smile, shakes my hand. "Emma's been looking forward to this. She says your event coordination has been refreshingly seamless."
I feel my cheeks warm at the compliment. "I try to handle the logistics so authors can focus on connecting with readers."
"Well, it shows." Emma glances around. "Mind if I check out the space before everyone arrives?"
As I show her the setup, more Stags begin filtering in. Gunnar, the hockey player, arrives with his wife, Emerson, a cellist whose presence causes a minor stir among the early arrivals. A younger couple introduces themselves as Odin and Thora, followed by an intimidatingly attractive woman named Lucy, who seems to be the same age as Emma and Thatcher.
Before long, the front row becomes a Stag family reunion, their easy banter and casual touches signaling deep bonds. I watch them during quiet moments of preparation, fascinated by their dynamics—the inside jokes, the playful ribbing, the casual physical affection. They radiate a sense of belonging in a way that makes my heart ache slightly.
With fifteen minutes remaining, the shop is filling up nicely. I'm checking the microphone when I overhear a snippet of conversation from the Stag family section.
"Shame Brian couldn't make it," Emerson is saying to a short brunette. "Didn't he fly in specifically for tomorrow's meeting?"
"That's what Tucker said," the brunette—Thora, her name is—replies. "Something about restructuring his agency."
My heart stutters at Brian's name. He's in Pittsburgh? Again? The knowledge sends an electric current through me. I want to interrupt, to ask if they're talking about Brian Klein, to find out where he's staying, to get his number. But what would I say? "Hi, I'm the bookshop owner who had mind-blowing sex with your agent during a snowstorm"?
Instead, I focus on adjusting the podium with shaking hands.
At exactly seven o’clock, I step up to the microphone, surveying the packed venue with professional pride. This is what I've built. My domain.
"Good evening, and welcome to Bishop Books. We're honored to host bestselling author Emma Stag for the launch of her newest historical work, Forged in Fire."
As I begin my introduction, highlighting Emma's contributions to Pittsburgh's documented history, I notice movement toward the back. The bell above the door tinkles softly as a late arrival slips in. I keep my professional smile fixed, holding my rhythm as I list Emma's accolades.
But my heart knows before my eyes confirm it.
Standing at the back of my shop, dressed in an immaculate navy suit under a snow-dusted wool coat, is Brian Klein.
Our eyes lock across the crowded room. For one dangerous moment, I forget the words I've rehearsed a dozen times. His slight smile—is it just for me?—nearly undoes me completely. With superhuman effort, I bring my attention back to my notes and finish Emma's introduction without further stumbling.
As applause fills the shop, I step away from the podium, and my body burns with awareness of his presence.
Chapter 12
Brian
I've taken a thousand flights, but this one has my nerves rattled like I'm a rookie athlete before his debut game.
My phone buzzes with Tahel's third message of the morning. I bark an unnecessarily terse response, then immediately call back to apologize.
"Sorry about that. Just?—"
"Stressed about this trip? Yeah, I gathered." Her voice carries knowing amusement. "Your hotel is confirmed. Corner suite at the Fairmont. The car service will meet you at baggage claim."
"Thanks. And the meeting?"
"Social lunch at eleven at Stag Law—Tim's office—then serious business tomorrow morning, same building but in the conference room."
I watch Pittsburgh's skyline emerge through breaks in the clouds as we descend. Somewhere in those streets is a bookshop with blue awnings and a woman who's turned my carefully structured life upside down.
The Stag Law building occupies prime downtown real estate, all gleaming glass and steel above the giant tree and ice rink set up for the December holidays. Tim Stag, a grumpy bastard just like me, has a corner office on the thirty-second floor with views of all three of the city's rivers.
I'm escorted to a spacious room where the Stag family athletic contingent has already assembled. They're loud, physical, and exude the easy confidence of men who've spent their lives being exceptional at something.
"There he is!" Hawk claps me on the shoulder with enough force to stagger a smaller man. "The man who refuses to answer his phone on a weekend."
I set down my briefcase. "I just don't feel like talking to you anymore." I grin and pull him in for a hug.
