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To this day, Noah was amazed he’d become a fire fighter, that he’d stuck with it long enough to assume the role of chief, but it made sense. He’d never shied away from his scars, never hesitated when wearing short sleeves or extending his scarred hand when meeting new people.
Fitz had been the sort of man Noah had always wanted to be—the type of man he knew he never could be. The sort of charismatic, happy-go-lucky man who took tragedy with the same enthusiasm as he took joy. Noah did like that about him. He liked that Fitz had matured into a kinder, softer person. He liked that he never hesitated to try and include Noah, even when it meant encroaching on his quiet time Wednesday morning.
“My brother has a food truck, you know,” Noah pointed out. “I don’t need to set up a booth if Adam is going to be there.”
Fitz shuffled his feet a little and gave him an imploring look. “We all love Adam’s new thing.” He waved his hand around in an absent gesture. “It’s good. But Bubbe’s stuff is part of downtown.”
“I just don’t know if I have the manpower to do a booth and the store,” Noah admitted. Paxton would be useless at the shop by himself, and Noah wouldn’t trust him anyway, but turning him loose at the Forsyth Farmer’s Market would be a recipe for disaster—and a possible sexual harassment suit.
“It’s in the evening. I mean, Bubbe’s closes early anyway, right?”
Noah couldn’t argue there. “Yes, but…”
“You can keep a limited menu. Just…cookies and maybe the bagels.” He drawled the last word to remind Noah how often the station ordered bagels from them, and he fought hard to suppress a smile. “Bubbe used to do it when we were kids.”
Noah’s gut clenched a little because that was true. She loved it. It reminded her of the market back home, and it had been that little piece of Israel she’d been able to keep. Noah had been tasked with keeping an eye on Adam, who wanted to touch anything and everything, but he was usually content with a snow cone and Spider-Man face paint.
It had been years since Noah had set foot in the market.
“We made sure it was moved back from Friday nights,” Fitz told him softly.
Noah raised his eyes, startled a little by the admission. “You…”
“Not just for you,” Fitz said like he understood Noah didn’t want special treatment or to be put on the spot like that. “But it’s a bonus, right? Please?”
He wasn’t going to say no. He’d known that the moment Fitz had walked into the shop with the familiar flyers clutched in his hand. “I just need to make sure Adam doesn’t mind the competition.”
“He doesn’t,” Fitz said. “He’s the one who told me to come over here.” Fitz leaned over and snagged a piece of rugelach from the dome-covered plate of samples—a batch that had burnt just enough that he couldn’t sell them. But Fitz groaned like it was heaven, and Noah felt his cheeks heat. “I’ll add your name to the list, and I’ll come by with your booth assignment. Do you think you can start up next week?”
The market had been going on since the start of September, but it never really picked up until October when the weather got nicer and they had more visitors from around the area than not.
“That should be fine,” he said quietly.
Fitz patted the counter twice with the flat of his palm, then winked when Noah looked up at him. “See you soon.”
Noah sagged against the marble once the door swung shut, and he had half a mind to flip the sign to closed. No one was going to come in for end-of-day pastries anyway, and if he really was going to do this next week, he needed time to plan. Part of him wanted to send a message to his brother and chew him out for doing this, for putting him on the spot like that.
Wanting to be a little more social was one thing, but forcing him to integrate into a town that had spent the early part of his childhood ruthlessly mocking him for his differences wasn’t what he had in mind.
He liked some of the locals. He tolerated Talia as best he could, and Oscar, the guy who ran the ’90s-snacks-themed restaurant next door to Bubbe’s, was a good guy.
He’d even started to consider himself actual friends with Will. So he wasn’t totally alone, but this seemed like so much.
And yet, he also recognized it for what it was—an olive branch. Adam understood the food truck was competition with Bubbe’s. This was his way of making peace and making space for him. It made the guilt worse, knowing none of this would really matter. He just wanted to stay afloat long enough to ensure the debt wouldn’t totally crush him when he closed the doors for good.
Rubbing at his tired eyes, Noah crouched down, feeling an ache in his knees as he set the flyer under the register. He heard the small chime of the bell as he tucked the paper into the corner and fought back a groan as he stood up.
And then his world narrowed down to one single thing, one single sight.
Sylent—no—AdrianoMoretti was standing with his hands shoved into the pockets of tight-fitting sweats, his lower lip between his teeth like he was nervous, eyes searching Noah’s face.
Adriano was there.
Adriano was…
“What are you doing here?” The words slipped past his lips before he remembered, but Adriano seemed to understand because he took long strides with powerful legs and closed the distance between them.
Noah’s entire body reacted, a visceral thing. His cock was so hard he could have cut steel, and the only thing that saved him was the counter between the two of them. He pressed his hips against it, then said a small prayer he wouldn’t come because he was close.
