I stare at my sister, the weight of the question settling on me. "Terrified. Excited. Like I'm twenty again, making decisions with my heart instead of my head."
"That doesn't sound like the Noa Bishop I know," Carol says, but her tone is gentle. "The woman who researches toaster ovens for three months before buying one."
"I know," I groan. "That's why I'm scared. This is moving so fast, and it's so intense, and I barely know him, but..."
"But?"
"But I can't stop thinking about him. About what it would be like if he really did stay."
Carol reaches across the counter to squeeze my hand. "Sometimes the best things happen when we stop overthinking them."
"Says the woman who made a pro-con list before agreeing to a second date with Daniel."
"And now we've been together for years," she points out. "The list just confirmed what my gut already knew."
We're interrupted by the arrival of a customer, then another, and soon the morning slips into afternoon. Carol leaves with a reminder not to be late for dinner with the family. "Dad's making chicken today. Six o'clock sharp, he says to remind you. In my stern voice."
"I'll be there," I promise.
But at 3:30, Maya calls in sick, leaving me alone to handle the afternoon rush. Then, just as I'm catching up, a delivery truck arrives with a massive shipment that wasn't supposed to come until next week. By the time I've signed for everything and stacked the boxes in the stockroom, it's after five, and my phone is dead—I forgot to charge it last night, too distracted by Brian's presence.
I plug it in by the register and type out a quick message to tell Brian I have family commitments tonight before I continue shelving new arrivals. I lose track of time until I glance at the clock and see it's nearly 6:30.
"Shit," I mutter, grabbing my coat and phone, which failed to send my message. On top of that I’ve got three missed calls from my father, two from Carol, and one from Brian. A text from him:
Meeting went great. Can we talk tonight? I didn't know how to reach out all day - kept picking up the phone and putting it down. This is new territory for me.
No time to respond now—Dad will send a SWAT team if I'm any later.
I lock up the shop and sprint to my car, guilt gnawing at me from two directions. I've missed the first half of family dinner, and I haven't spoken to Brian all day after he spent the night in my bed. I don’t want to text and drive, though, and there’s a strict no phones policy during family dinner. I’ll have to remember to quickly hit send as I race up the walk. “Focus, Noa.”
Traffic crawls through town, every red light conspiring against me. By the time I pull up to my father's house, it's past seven. Through the window, I can see the family gathered around the dining table, the candles unlit on the sideboard.
They've waited for me to light it. The realization tightens my throat as I hurry up the walkway, wondering if Brian is waiting for me, too.
Chapter 16
Brian
Tim Stag's corner office is as elegant as any I've seen in New York or LA. The conference table is covered with documents, spreadsheets, and coffee cups—evidence of our three-hour meeting that's finally winding down.
"These terms look good, Brian." Tim slides the revised contract across the table. "The Stags are pleased to be your anchor clients in Pittsburgh."
"You're making a smart move," Hawk adds. "This city's soccer team just signed a major international player, the hockey team has championship potential, and there's talk of a women's basketball expansion."
I sign the final document with a flourish, sealing my commitment to this new chapter. "It makes business sense," I tell them, though we all know there's more to it than that.
Wyatt, who rarely talks to me, leans forward. "So, Bishop Books, huh?"
I keep my expression neutral. "What about it?"
"Just seems like an interesting coincidence you'd fly in the same night as Aunt Emma's signing."
I carefully cap my pen. "I appreciate good literature. And my favorite family."
The elder Stag brothers exchange knowing glances. Tim clears his throat. "Well, if you're planning to stay in Pittsburgh, you'll need office space. I've had my real estate contact pull some options."
He slides a folder toward me, and I flip through listings of downtown offices and suburban corporate parks. None feel right.
