"You're ignoring the family?" Tim appears in the doorway, arms folded across his chest. Unlike his pro-athlete brothers, Tim projects authority through stillness rather than physical prowess. "We were starting to think you'd abandoned us for your bigger clients."
"Never." I shake his hand firmly. "You're the best-behaved clients I have."
The room bursts into a mix of protests and laughter.
"Remember when Gunnar got married in Vegas?" Alder chimes in.
"To a complete stranger," Tucker adds.
Gunnar throws a wadded napkin at his brothers. "Who is still my beloved wife, you jackasses."
"Language," Tim warns as a petite blonde woman wheels in a catering cart laden with covered dishes. "Alice spent hours on this lunch."
Alice Stag, Tim's wife and the firm's corporate chef, starts to unveil platters of turkey and stuffing sandwiches, cranberry salads, and what appears to be homemade pumpkin pie.
"Alice, this is incredible," I say, genuinely impressed. "You didn't have to go to all this trouble."
She waves away my thanks. "When Tim said all the Stag men were gathering with Brian, I knew I needed to feed you properly. Hotel room service and airport food..." She makes a face of pure disgust.
As we settle around the table, I take mental inventory. Hawk, now coaching professional soccer after his playing career; Wyatt, visiting from his team in London; Wes, the striker; and the hockey trio of Gunnar, Alder, and Tucker. Plus, Tim, the counselor who keeps them all legally protected. Six clients from one family, all gathered in one city.
All the reasons I have to be here regularly.
After we've filled our plates and exchanged the usual small talk, Tim clears his throat. "So, Brian. Your admin mentioned you wanted to discuss restructuring?"
I take a careful sip of water. "I'm exploring the possibility of establishing a satellite office here in Pittsburgh. My assistant pointed out that my travel costs are astronomical. It makes fiscal sense to focus my personal attention on my core clientele—the Stag family—while building a team to handle my other clients."
The room falls silent. Hawk leans forward. "You're putting down roots? What happened to 'I sleep in more cities than I have socks'?"
"People change," I say with a casualness I don't actually feel.
"Since when?" Gunnar scoffs through a mouthful of sandwiches.
"Since about four days ago, apparently," Tucker mutters to his twin.
I shoot him a sharp look. Has Tahel been gossiping?
"This is excellent news," Tim intervenes smoothly. "Having you local would streamline our operations considerably. We'll need to discuss the legal implications, of course, but I think this arrangement could benefit everyone."
Tim's enthusiasm helps quiet the voice in my head, questioning whether this is a smart business move or merely an elaborate excuse to be near a certain bookstore owner.
Hawk shakes his head. "Brian, dude, I've known you for decades. And now you'll be around for Sunday dinner!" I pause, sandwich halfway to my mouth, considering his words. Do these men really view me as that much of a friend? Sure, I've been to their weddings. But I thought they felt professionally obligated to invite me. Have I been ignoring this potential for half my life?
The conversation shifts to logistics—office locations, associated personnel, and contract provisions. I answer on autopilot, my mind partially elsewhere. If I establish an office in Pittsburgh, I could see Noa regularly. But would she want that?
"Earth to Brian." Wes waves a hand in front of my face. "You with us?"
"Sorry. Jet lag." A weak excuse for a one-hour flight.
"I asked if you'd be at Mom's book signing tonight," Wes repeats. "Since you're representing half her family."
"Book signing?"
"At Bishop Books," Gunnar explains. "Emerson's making me go but ditching me afterward for orchestra practice."
"Aunt Emma's thing," Wyatt explains. "Historical book about Pittsburgh? This one's about firefighters."
Bishop Books. Noa's shop. My pulse quickens embarrassingly.
