I extend my hand, summoning the polished professionalism that's carried me through countless negotiations. "Brian Klein, sir. It's a pleasure to meet you."
Instead of shaking my hand, he pulls me into a bear hug that catches me completely off guard. "I knew my daughter was hiding something. Come in, come in."
Noa shoots me an apologetic look as we're ushered inside. The house buzzes with activity—children racing through hallways, delicious smells wafting from the kitchen, and the menorah waiting on a table by the window.
Carol appears, eyeing me with open curiosity. "Well, well. So, you’re the guy with the big dreidel energy.”
“Carol shut up,” Noa warns her sister as I simultaneously laugh and flush in front of Noa’s family.
A man who must be Daniel approaches with visible relief. "Thank god, another man. I've been outnumbered since I got here." He hands me a beer without asking if I want one. "Daniel. Husband of the interrogator here."
"Ignore him," Carol says. "He's just bitter because nobody calls him a silver fox.”
Dinner is a chaotic affair—loud conversations overlapping, vicious fights over a dreidel, the children periodically interrupting with urgent news about toys or perceived injustices. It's nothing like the formal business dinners that make up most of my life. Much closer to the boisterous feel of meals with my own family.
"So, Brian," Noa's father says during a rare moment of relative quiet, "Noa tells me you're in sports management?"
"I represent professional athletes, yes."
"Anyone I'd know?"
"The Stag family?” I take a sip of water. "Hawk, Gunnar…most of the younger generation."
Daniel perks up. "Seriously? The Stags? Man, I've had Fury season tickets since Gunnar signed. That guy's a beast in goal."
And just like that, the tension in my shoulders begins to ease. As dinner progresses, I find myself relaxing in the warmth of this family. They tease each other mercilessly but with obvious affection. They draw me into conversations about books, sports, and Pittsburgh politics. They treat Noa with a mixture of exasperation and deep respect that speaks volumes about their relationship.
When it's time for the candle lighting, Mr. Bishop hands the matches to Noa. She lights the first candle, then passes it to me without a word; the gesture is so natural that it takes my breath away. Together, we light seven candles plus the helper, reciting the words in unison. Her family watches, smiling, as if my presence here is the most normal thing in the world.
Later, as we prepare to leave, Mr. Bishop loads us down with a container of leftover latkes and strict instructions to return for dinner next week. Carol hugs me goodbye, whispering, "Don't hurt her," in my ear—a threat and approval all in one.
In the car, Noa lets out a long breath. "That wasn't so bad, was it?"
I reach across the console to take her hand. "They're wonderful. Like you."
"Flatterer." But she's smiling, her face flushed with happiness.
"What do you say we go back to your place?" I suggest, my voice dropping lower. "I think I promised to light your fire."
Her laugh fills the car, bright and uninhibited. "That is the cheesiest line I've ever heard."
"Is it working?"
"Drive faster and find out."
* * *
I love staring at Noa’s skin while she sleeps. I've been awake for an hour, alternating between checking emails and simply watching her. The peace I feel in this moment defies logic—I've known this woman for precisely one week, yet being here feels more right than anywhere I've been in decades.
She stirs, blinking up at me. "You're staring again."
"Appreciating," I correct, brushing a curl from her forehead.
She stretches against me, all warm curves and sleepy contentment. "What time is it?"
"Almost nine. I've got a video conference at eleven."
"Hmm. I should open the shop by ten." She doesn't move, instead curling closer against my side. "Five more minutes."
