"Oh?"
"I rented a storefront." He rolls his lips between his teeth, and his eyes turn hesitant. “What started as exploring possibilities became... well, a three-year commitment."
"That's great! Where?—"
"Two doors down." He gestures vaguely in the direction of the vacant shops near mine. "1875 Butler."
I blink, processing the information. "You... you rented space on this block? Next to my shop?"
"It made sense," he says quickly. "My primary clients are here, it's a convenient location, good visibility?—"
"Brian." I step closer to him. "You rented space next to my bookshop."
He holds my gaze, vulnerability replacing his professional mask. "Is that okay?"
The question hangs between us, loaded with unspoken implications. Is it okay that he's putting down roots here? Is it alright that he'll be a constant presence in my carefully ordered life? Is it okay that he's making choices that would intertwine our futures, even though we barely know each other?
A week ago, I would have run from this intensity, from the speed and scale of whatever is developing between us. But standing here now, looking at this complicated man who makes challah bread, closes million-dollar deals, and treats my bookshop like a sacred space, I feel something inside me shift.
"Yes," I say, surprising myself with the certainty in my voice. "It's more than okay."
The tension visibly leaves his body. "I was worried you'd think it was too much. Too fast."
"It probably is," I admit. "But somehow, it also feels right."
He closes the distance between us, and his strong hands come up to cup my face. "I couldn't stop thinking about you yesterday. All day. When I couldn't reach you, I thought maybe you'd changed your mind."
"About us? There's an us?"
His thumb traces my cheekbone. "I'd like there to be. If you want that, too."
Instead of answering, I rise on tiptoes and press my lips to his. He responds immediately, pulls me closer, his kiss conveying relief and desire in equal measure. When we part, I'm breathless.
"Is that a yes?" he murmurs against my lips.
The bell above the door chimes, and we spring apart like guilty teenagers as an older woman enters the shop. I smooth my sweater, cheeks burning.
"Good morning, Mrs. Goldstein. How are you today?"
"Cold," she announces, unwinding a scarf from her neck. "Much too cold for December. Is that new book in yet? The one about the woman who poisoned her husband?"
I slip into bookseller mode and guide her toward the mystery section while Brian hangs back, watching with undisguised interest. After helping Mrs. Goldstein find her murder mystery, more customers arrive, and Brian settles into an armchair near the register, answering emails on his phone while I work. The morning passes in a comfortable rhythm, him occasionally catching my eye and smiling, me drifting over to refill his coffee when I have a free moment. It's strange how natural it feels to have him in my space—not an intrusion but an enhancement.
During a lull, I approach him with a question that's been forming in my mind since his revelation about the office space.
"Tonight is the seventh night of Hanukkah," I say, fidgeting with a bookmark display.
He looks up from his phone. "It is."
"I was wondering if maybe... if you didn't have plans already..." I take a deep breath. "Would you want to come to my sister's house? For dinner?"
I brace myself for hesitation, for the panic that typically crosses men's faces when invited to meet family too soon. Instead, his expression brightens.
"You want me to meet your family?"
"Is that bananas? It's probably bananas." I'm rambling now. "We barely know each other, and meeting family is a big step, and you don't have to if it feels?—"
"Noa." He stands, taking my hands in his. "I'd love to meet your family."
