Chapter 1 #2
Joel is standing at the stove, with his sleeves pushed up to his elbows, stirring something in a large pot. NPR plays softly from a speaker on the counter, and he's humming along.
"Something smells amazing," I say from the doorway.
He glances over his shoulder and smiles. "Hope you like pasta. I'm making my grandmother's sauce. Nothing fancy, but it's comfort food."
"I love pasta." I move into the kitchen, drawn by the delicious smell. "Can I help?"
"You can keep me company." He nods toward the island. "And maybe taste this, tell me if it needs more salt."
He ladles a small amount of sauce onto a spoon and holds it out to me, one hand cupped underneath to catch any drips. I lean in and taste it, very aware of how close we're standing, of how his eyes are fixed on my mouth.
"Oh my God," I breathe. "That's incredible."
"Yeah?" His voice is lower now, rougher. "Not too acidic?"
"It's perfect." I lick my bottom lip, catching a stray drop of sauce, and watch his gaze track the movement. "Your grandmother must have been an amazing cook."
"She was Italian. Cooking was love." He turns back to the stove, but not before I see the faint flush on his cheekbones. "My ex-wife never really got that. She was always on some diet or another, afraid of carbs."
It's the first time he's mentioned his ex-wife to me directly. I know from Alexis that the divorce was a few years ago, that his wife left him for someone younger.
"Her loss," I say, echoing his words from earlier.
Joel looks at me over his shoulder, surprise flickering across his face, followed by something warmer. "Want to help me make fresh pasta? I know it's extra work, but—"
"Yes." The word comes out too eager, too bright, but I don't care. "I'd love to."
He sets me up at the marble island with flour and eggs while he continues working on the sauce. He walks me through the process—making a well in the flour, cracking the eggs into the center, slowly incorporating everything with a fork.
"You're a natural," he says, coming to stand beside me. "Look at that."
I've made a decent dough, and now I'm kneading it like he showed me, pushing and folding, the repetitive motion soothing. But I'm intensely aware of Joel standing so close, watching me work.
"Here, let me show you." He moves behind me, his chest nearly brushing my back, and places his hands over mine. "A little more pressure, like this."
His hands are warm and strong, guiding mine through the motion. I can feel the heat of his body, the solid presence of him, and every nerve ending in my body lights up with awareness. This is the closest we've ever been. This is—
Dangerous. This is dangerous.
But I don't move away. I let him guide my hands, feeling his breath on my neck, his chest rising and falling against my back. The dough becomes smooth and elastic beneath our joined hands, and the kitchen fills with comfortable silence broken only by the simmering sauce and the soft music.
"There," he murmurs, his voice right by my ear. "Perfect."
I turn my head slightly, meaning to thank him, and find his face inches from mine. His blue eyes are darker than usual, pupils dilated, and he's looking at me with an intensity that steals my breath.
We're frozen like that for a long moment—his hands still covering mine, his body warm against my back, the air thick with something I'm afraid to name.
Then he steps back abruptly, clearing his throat. "I'll, uh, get the pasta roller."
The rest of dinner prep is careful, polite, both of us dancing around each other in the kitchen. We roll out the pasta, cut it into fettuccine, and Joel teaches me how to hang it on a drying rack he's rigged up.
By the time we sit down to eat, the early awkwardness has faded into something easier. Joel opens a bottle of red wine and we eat his grandmother's pasta with the sauce that's been simmering for hours.
It's the best meal I've had in months. Maybe years.
"Tell me about work," Joel says, twirling pasta on his fork. "Alexis mentioned you're doing well at the startup."
I make a face. "It's fine. I mean, I love the company's mission, because sustainable fashion is important. But my ex worked there too, so now it's... complicated."
"Are you going to look for something else?"
"Maybe. I don't know." I take a sip of wine, feeling the warmth spread through my chest. "I've been so focused on my relationship, on trying to make someone else happy, that I kind of lost sight of what I actually want."
Joel's expression softens. "What do you want, Nina?"
The question hangs between us, loaded with more meaning than it should have. I could tell him about career ambitions, about wanting to move to a better apartment, about all the practical things I should want.
But sitting here in his warm kitchen, eating food he made with his own hands, feeling cared for in a way I haven't felt in so long—what I want is dangerously close to sitting right across from me.
"I want to matter to someone," I say quietly. "Really matter. Not as a project to fix or a disappointment they're stuck with. Just... as I am."
Joel sets down his fork, his eyes locked on mine. "You matter, Nina. More than you know."
My heart hammers against my ribs. "Joel—"
"Sorry, that was—" He runs a hand through his hair, looking flustered in a way I've never seen him. "I just mean you're important to Alexis. To our family. We all care about you."
Right. Of course. That's what he means.
"Thank you," I manage. "That means a lot."
We finish dinner making careful small talk about Alexis's job, about Joel's practice, about anything except the tension crackling between us like static electricity.
After we clean up, Joel washing, me drying, he suggests we watch something in the living room.
"Nothing heavy," he says. "Just something to wind down."
We end up on opposite ends of his massive sectional couch, Christmas Vacation playing on the TV. I'm tucked under a throw blanket, my feet curled beneath me, trying not to stare at Joel's profile in the flickering light from the screen.
He laughs at something Chevy Chase does, and the sound is so warm and genuine that it makes my chest ache. When was the last time I felt this comfortable with someone?
"This is nice," I say without thinking. "Thank you for... everything today. I know you didn't sign up to have your daughter's heartbroken friend show up early."
Joel turns to look at me, the TV's glow playing across his features. "I'm not babysitting you, Nina. And you're not just Alexis's friend."
"No?" My voice comes out breathy.
"No." He holds my gaze, and I can see him waging some internal battle. "You're—"
His phone rings, shattering the moment. He glances at the screen and his expression shifts. "It's Alexis."
He answers, putting it on speaker. "Hey, sweetheart, you at the airport?"
"Dad, I have bad news." Alexis's voice sounds stressed, with announcement chatter in the background. "They just canceled my flight. There's a massive blizzard hitting the East Coast—they're saying it's going to be historic. Everything out of LAX to anywhere east of the Mississippi is grounded."
My stomach drops.
"When's the next available flight?" Joel asks, his voice calm and measured.
"That's the thing... They're saying this storm is going to last through Christmas Day. The earliest they can get me out is the twenty-sixth. Dad, I'm so sorry. I know you were looking forward to having us both there."
"Don't apologize for the weather." But I can hear the disappointment in his voice. "You'll get here when you can."
"Is Nina there? I know she's probably freaking out—"
"I'm here," I manage. "And I'm not freaking out."
"Liar," Alexis says with a weak laugh. "Look, at least you two won't be alone for Christmas.
You can keep each other company, watch movies, eat too much food.
Dad makes amazing French toast on Christmas morning.
And Nina, maybe this is good? You need the distraction, and Dad's house is the best place to hide from the world for a few days. "
I look at Joel, whose blue eyes are fixed on me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle.
"Yeah," I say softly. "Maybe it is."
After we say goodbye and Joel hangs up, silence settles over us—heavier now, weighted with implication.
"So," Joel says carefully. "Looks like it's just us for Christmas."
"I can find a hotel," I offer, even though the thought of leaving this warm house, leaving him, makes my chest ache. "I don't want to impose—"
"Nina." There's that tone again. "You're not imposing. I want you here."
The way he says it—I want you here—sends heat flooding through me.
"Okay," I whisper. "Thank you."
We settle back into the movie, but everything feels different now. The knowledge that it's just the two of us, alone in this house for the next two days, hangs in the air between us. Outside, I can hear wind starting to pick up, the first hints of the storm that's stranding us together.
We watch in comfortable silence, and at some point, exhaustion from the long day catches up with me. My eyelids grow heavy, my body sinking deeper into the plush cushions.
"Nina?" Joel's voice sounds far away. "You should get some sleep."
"Mm-hmm." I'm too tired to move. "In a minute."
I feel the blanket being tucked more securely around me, feel gentle fingers brush hair back from my face. "Sleep well," Joel murmurs, and then his lips—his lips—press softly against my forehead.
It's brief, barely there, probably just a friendly gesture. But it sets my entire body on fire.
When I force my eyes open, he's already standing, putting distance between us. His expression is conflicted, almost pained.
"Good night, Nina."
"Good night," I whisper.
I watch him leave, then lie there in the darkness, listening to the wind howl outside and the old house settle around me. Tomorrow is Christmas Eve. Just me and Joel Hartford, snowed in together while the rest of the world disappears behind walls of white.