He shrugs, clearly uncomfortable with the vulnerability. "What about you? Did you always want to own a bookstore?"
"Actually, no." I trace the rim of my mug with my finger. "I was on track for corporate marketing: good salary, benefits, soul-crushing meetings. Then my grandmother died and left me enough money to make a change. The bookstore was up for sale—I'd been coming here since I was a kid—and it just felt right."
"Big leap," he comments.
"I needed roots," I tell him. "My parents divorced when I was twelve. Dad stayed in Pittsburgh, and Mom moved to Seattle. I spent years bouncing between them, never feeling settled. This place"—I gesture to the apartment, the shop below—"is the first thing that's ever felt completely mine."
He nods, and I see understanding in his eyes. "Your dad's donut stash suggests you stayed close."
"We've gotten closer since I opened the store. He lives about twenty minutes away and comes in several times a week. My sister thinks I'm crazy for giving up corporate money, but..." I shrug. "I sleep better now."
"And your mother?"
"Happily remarried in Seattle. We talk every Sunday." I smile, remembering something. "She always said I'd end up with books. When other kids wanted toys, I asked for stories."
I smile at him in the flickering candlelight. "What's it like working with famous athletes?"
He blinks, obviously caught off guard by my question. "I... It's just how the job works."
"I would say it's the same with authors, but I think there's probably a lot more money and pressure and prestige in your line of work."
The wind rattles my windows, but here, it's warm and intimate. Brian studies me like I'm a puzzle he's trying to solve. "How old are you?" he blurts, then immediately looks mortified. "I'm sorry, that's not?—"
"Thirty-two." I can't help but smile at his obvious relief. "Did you think I was some young ingénue?"
"I thought..." He shakes his head and laughs. "I've been feeling like a creep all evening."
"Because you're what, forty-five?" At his surprised look, I shrug. "I'm good at reading people. It's an occupational hazard." And I’m fairly sure I’m sensing some serious attraction between us, which feels like the perfect glaze for this donut of a day.
"Are older guys... an issue for you?" he asks, and there's genuine uncertainty in his voice.
I consider this. "My last relationship was with someone my age who still needed his mother to remind him to pay his electric bill and thought loading a dishwasher was 'women's work.' Age is just a number, Brian. Maturity is something else entirely." The compliment isn't lost on him; his eyes darken slightly as he watches me.
"You've given this some thought." His voice is lower now, almost husky.
I stand and move to perch on the arm of his chair. Maybe it's the darkness, the storm, or the holiday magic, but I feel reckless tonight. Tomorrow, I'll return to being responsible for Noa Bishop, a small business owner. But tonight? I can take what the universe has dropped in my lap.
My fingers find his tie and toy with the silk. "I thought about you from the moment you walked in my door. Only now I'm worried you're about to check your phone again instead of kissing me."
His breath catches. "Noa..."
I lean down and press my lips to his, soft at first, then with increasing urgency when he responds immediately. His hand comes up to cup my face, and I melt into him, sliding from the arm of the chair into his lap.
When we break apart, we're both breathing heavily. He rests his forehead against mine. "I should check?—"
"Your phone?" I nip at his lower lip. "The car service isn't coming tonight, Brian. You might as well stay put."
His hands grip my hips. "Are you sure?"
I think of the melting candles lit in the window, small but persistent against the darkness. Sometimes, miracles come in unexpected forms—like a snowstorm and a stranded stranger. Like bravery in taking a chance on one perfect night.
Instead of answering, I kiss him again, deeper this time. He groans into my mouth, and the sound rushes through me. When I pull back, his eyes are dark with desire.
"My bedroom's this way," I whisper, standing and holding out my hand. "Unless you'd rather check your messages..."
He glances at his phone one last time, then deliberately places it face-down on the coffee table. When he takes my hand, his grip is firm and confident.
But as he rises to his feet, something flickers across his face—a hunger, barely restrained. His jaw tightens, and he pulls me close, his voice dropping to a rough whisper.
