She lights the helper candle—the shamash—and hands it to me. Our voices join together in familiar words as I touch the flame of the single candle on the right. In the growing darkness, her face is illuminated by the small flames. I'm struck by how beautiful she is—not just physically, though god knows she's gorgeous—but in the way she inhabits her space, her life with such certainty.
"I always love this moment," she says softly. "The way the light pushes back the dark." The candlelight plays across her features, catching golden highlights in her dark curls and making her brown eyes gleam.
I place the helper in the center candle spot, careful not to let our hands touch again as she steadies the base of the menorah. I can't afford to be distracted by this woman, no matter how compelling she is. My life doesn't have room for someone so grounded, so rooted in place. And a woman like Noa Bishop deserves more than a man who lives out of a suitcase.
"Oh!" She brightens suddenly. "I almost forgot the donuts. My dad made way too many for my book club meeting." She brushes past me on her way to the kitchen, and I catch another whiff of that cinnamon scent. It's going to linger in my dreams. I already know it.
She stretches up to reach a container on top of the fridge, and I step forward instinctively to help, finding myself right behind her. The warmth of her body radiates against my chest. "We were discussing Emma Stag's latest—I'm hosting her for a signing next week. Her books are incredible."
I nearly choke on my tea, grateful for the distraction from our proximity. "Emma Stag? I know her."
"You do?" She sets a plate of powdered jelly donuts on the coffee table, sinks into the armchair, and tucks her feet under her. Her sweater rides up again, and I crank my eyes back to her face. "Wait, how?"
"I'm her son's agent." At her confused look, I clarify, "I represent several athletes in that family, actually. Alder, Hawk, Gunnar..."
"No way!" Her whole face lights up, and something in my chest clenches. "Small world. Emma's reading is my first big author event, but she's so friendly and hands-on. She sends her own emails."
The wind howls outside, rattling the windows, but inside, it's warm and bright. Noa launches into an enthusiastic explanation of her plans for the signing, her hands animated as she speaks. I knew Wesley's mother was a writer, but I've never asked him about it. Never engaged her in conversation. I'm always in too much of a hurry to close the next deal.
A smudge of powdered sugar clings to Noa's lower lip, and I grip my mug tighter to prevent myself from reaching over to wipe it away.
My phone vibrates in my pocket again, but this time I barely notice. I'm too captivated by the way she lights up, talking about books, community, and the future she's building in this city. Everything I've spent my adult life trying to avoid.
Everything I'm suddenly, terrifyingly, wishing I had.
Chapter 4
Noa
I'm in the middle of explaining my plans for Emma's book signing when the lights flicker once, twice, and then plunge us into darkness. The only illumination comes from our menorah in the window, casting long shadows across Brian's startled face.
"Well," I say into the sudden silence. "Good thing we already lit the candles."
He lets out a low chuckle that does things to my insides. "Does this happen often?"
"Welcome to an old building in a snowstorm." I stand, oddly grateful for the excuse to move. Staying still while he looks at me with those intense blue eyes is getting harder by the minute. I gesture at the jar candles already scattered around my living room. "I have matches in the kitchen."
I know my apartment well enough to navigate in the dark, but I still bump into him as I pass. Maybe it's not an accident... His hands come up to steady me, strong and warm on my waist. "Sorry," I murmur, but I'm not. Not at all.
God, when was the last time a man like this was in my space? My ex, Marcus, was barely older than me, full of boyish charm and a hint of Peter Pan syndrome. Even at twenty-eight, he couldn't commit to anything—not a lease, not a job, certainly not a relationship. Brian Klein is the opposite of everything I thought I wanted when I was twenty-five and naive. He's established, confident, and knows exactly who he is. The kind of man who doesn't need me to mother him or make excuses for his behavior.
"I should check on the car service." His phone illuminates his face as he clicks it on. The harsh light breaks the spell, and I move toward my kitchen.
"Any luck?" I call over my shoulder, locating the matches by touch.
His sigh is answer enough. "They've suspended service until the storm passes. I'm so sorry to impose?—"
"Stop apologizing." I strike a match and touch it to my sugar cookie-scented candle. "I invited you, remember?"
As I light a few candles, the room fills with a warm glow and sweet aroma. Brian has loosened his tie even more, and the top button of his shirt is undone. It's a good look on him. Too good.
A thought flickers through my mind: this feels like my own personal holiday miracle. The legendary oil was supposed to last one night but stretched to eight. My quiet evening alone has transformed into this—snowed in with a gorgeous man who seems to have fallen into my life from nowhere. A gift from the universe, here to bring a spark to my dim apartment.
I sink back into my armchair, twirling a curl around my finger. "You said you spend a lot of time on the road. Do you ever miss having a home base?"
He hesitates, and I wonder if I've pushed too far. "Sometimes," he admits finally. "My father died eight years ago. Heart attack, completely unexpected. Ever since then, I've thrown myself even deeper into work. Being on the road means I don't have to deal with an empty apartment."
"I'm sorry about your father," I say, genuinely moved by this glimpse beneath his polished exterior.
