I hesitate, then add, "I have tea upstairs. And heat. You're welcome to wait while they sort out your car."
His eyes widen slightly. "You shouldn't invite strange men up to your apartment, Noa." He hesitates for a moment, and his face softens. He rubs a hand on the back of his neck, wrinkling his nose. "I overheard one of the children use your name."
I smile and tug my sweater tighter against the cold. "You're not that strange." I look up at the sky as the flakes really start to gather steam. "Just a guy who bought his mom a book about a sexy actor. Besides, it's nearly sunset, and I was going to light the menorah. Would you like to join me?"
A gust of icy wind ruffles his hair, and I resist the urge to reach up and smooth it back into place. What is it about this man that makes me want to comfort him and ease the tension I can see in the set of his shoulders?
His expression shifts; something softens around his eyes. "I was supposed to be going home to see my family, but..." He gestures at the dead car, then glances at his watch. "Are you sure?"
"It's the season of miracles, right? What's more miraculous than finding someone to warm you up when you're stranded?" I'm rambling now, but the snow is picking up, and he looks so lost standing there in his fancy coat. "Plus, I make delicious tea. And I might have some donuts..."
He raises his brows. "Jelly filled?"
"My dad's recipe. He stress-bakes during the holidays."
Brian looks at his phone again, then at the darkening sky. A particularly fierce gust of wind whips snow between us, and I watch his resolve crumble. "Alright. Thank you. Just until the car service arrives."
"Of course." I gesture toward the side door that leads to the stairs of my apartment. "Though fair warning—I might talk your ear off about books. It's an occupational hazard."
I lead him toward the side entrance, very aware of his presence behind me. He moves with an athlete's grace despite his obvious exhaustion, and when I glance back, I catch him studying me with an intensity that sends warmth through my chest despite the bitter cold. What am I getting myself into, inviting this gorgeous stranger into my space?
Chapter 3
Brian
The stairwell to Noa's apartment is narrow and adorned with evergreen boughs and blue ribbons, forcing me to turn sideways to navigate around the corner. She apologizes for the tight squeeze, a musical laugh in her voice that stirs something within me. I'm hyper-aware of how close we are in this confined space, her curves just inches from me as we ascend through the fragrant hall.
I don't even pretend I'm not staring at her ass as we walk up the stairs. Her cinnamon scent mingles with the fresh pine, making my head spin.
Noa's apartment is precisely what a bookstore owner's home ought to be—walls lined with built-in shelves, cozy furniture, and candles everywhere, waiting to be lit and enjoyed. The space is small but intentional, every corner both beautiful and functional. A reading nook by the window overlooks Butler Street, complete with cushions and a fuzzy blanket.
This is a home. A real one, cultivated with care. Not at all like the hotel rooms and temporary spaces I drift between.
"Make yourself comfortable," she says, hanging her coat on a hook by the door. She's obviously much younger than me. I need to stop ogling her like some creep. But then her cream sweater clings to her curves as she stretches up, and I have to force myself to look away. "I'll put the kettle on."
I loosen my tie but remain standing, absorbing the details of her life. This isn't a sleek hotel room or minimalist condo where I typically end up after charity galas and award ceremonies. Those women—beautiful, interchangeable, ultimately forgettable—never showed me anything of substance, never revealed a life beyond designer labels and social media aesthetics. This woman's apartment tells a story. Each object feels intentionally chosen and meaningful: fresh white flowers on the coffee table, well-worn paperbacks stacked beside an armchair. A collection of menorahs arranged on the windowsill chronicles her history—from childhood crafts to an elegant silver piece that must be an heirloom.
It's a comforting reminder of home in a world where Christmas seems to have exploded everywhere.
The authenticity of her space feels both foreign and magnetic to me, much like discovering a book I didn't know I needed to read.
She glides through her small kitchen with effortless grace as she reaches for mugs. Every movement is a quiet testament to belonging, to knowing exactly where everything lives. When she bends to retrieve something from a lower cabinet, I have to stifle a groan at the way her jeans hug her ass.
"The brass one was my grandmother's," she says, catching me staring—at the menorahs, thank god, not her curves. "That's the one I usually light."
My phone buzzes again. Rachel, probably wondering why I haven't responded to her warnings about the storm. Or my mother, concerned as per usual. Instead of checking, I silence it completely.
"Here." Noa hands me a steaming mug that reads, 'I like big books, and I cannot lie.' Her full lips curl up in a smile, and I'm mesmerized by the way she tucks a dark curl behind her ear. "Earl Grey okay?"
"Perfect." Our fingers brush again as I take the mug, and that same spark shoots through me. Stop it, Brian. You're being gross. "Thank you. For all of this."
She shrugs, but I catch a slight flush on her cheeks. "Nobody should be alone on a holiday." She moves to the window, picks up her grandmother's menorah. "Even grumpy strangers with car trouble."
I watch as she arranges the candles, her movements precise and practiced. How many holidays has she spent in this apartment, looking out over her neighborhood? Everything about her radiates permanence—she's built a life here with roots sunk deep into Pittsburgh soil. I wonder again how young she is.
"Would you like to light the first candle?" she asks, and something in my chest tightens. Have I ever shared this ritual with someone outside my family?
"I'd like that."
