Chapter 2
Joel
Iwake to the sound of wind howling against the windows and the knowledge that Nina Castellano is sleeping down the hall.
This changes everything.
I've been careful for five years. So goddamn careful.
Maintaining distance, keeping conversations appropriate, never letting on that I noticed every single thing about her.
But last night, something shifted. Maybe it was seeing her so broken over someone who didn't deserve her.
Maybe it was the way she looked at me when I called her beautiful.
Maybe it was just that I'm tired of being careful.
The truth is, I'm not wrestling with whether this is wrong. I stopped caring about that somewhere around the second year, when I realized my feelings for Nina weren't going away—they were deepening into something I couldn't dismiss.
What I'm wrestling with is whether I'm brave enough to risk it. Risk Alexis's reaction. Risk Nina realizing I'm not as put-together as I seem. Risk falling completely for someone and having them leave again.
Because if I let myself have Nina, I know I'll fall. I'm already halfway there.
By the time I come downstairs in jeans and a navy sweater, I've decided to stop overthinking this. Nina is here. We have two days before Alexis arrives. Whatever happens between us, we'll figure it out like adults.
The question isn't whether I want her. I do, desperately. The question is what I'm going to do about it.
Then I walk into the kitchen and find Nina standing at my coffee maker, and every good intention flies out the window.
She's wearing black leggings that hug her curves and an oversized cream sweater that slides off one shoulder.
Her dark hair is piled on top of her head in a messy bun with tendrils escaping around her face.
She's barefoot, humming along to something playing from her phone, and she looks so perfectly at home in my kitchen that it makes my chest ache.
"Good morning," I manage, my voice rougher than I intended.
She spins around, one hand going to her heart. "God, you scared me. I'm sorry, I hope it's okay that I—"
"Nina." I move closer, unable to help myself. "You don't have to apologize for making coffee in my kitchen. Mi casa es su casa, remember?"
Her smile is shy, uncertain. "I woke up early and couldn't get back to sleep. Thought I'd make myself useful."
"You're a guest, not staff." I reach around her for a mug and pour myself coffee. "How did you sleep?"
"Better than I expected, actually. That guest bed is amazing." She takes a sip from her own mug, and I watch her full lips touch the rim. "How about you?"
Terribly. I lay awake thinking about you.
"Fine," I lie. "Want some breakfast? I make a mean omelet."
"I'd love that."
We fall into an easy rhythm—me cooking while she sits at the island keeping me company, just like last night. She tells me about some drama at work, making me laugh with her commentary, and I find myself relaxing despite the charged undercurrent between us.
Outside, the snow is falling steadily, already piling up against the windows.
"Wow," Nina breathes, moving to the window. "It's really coming down."
I join her, and we stand side by side watching the world turn white. The trees are already heavy with it, the driveway disappearing under pristine drifts.
"Think we'll be able to dig out?" she asks.
I check my phone, pulling up the weather app.
"They're calling for two feet by tonight, with high winds creating drifts up to four feet in some areas.
The governor just declared a state of emergency—travel ban until at least December 26th.
" I scroll through my texts. "Alexis just sent a message.
She's stuck at her friend's place in LA until the airports reopen.
Earliest flight they can get her on is the twenty-sixth in the evening. "
"So we're really snowed in. Just us. Through Christmas." Nina's voice is quiet, and I can't tell if she's nervous or pleased.
"Just us," I confirm. "I hope that's okay."
She turns to look at me, and there's something in her eyes that makes my heart skip. "It's more than okay."
After breakfast, Nina insists on helping me clean up, and then we're faced with the question of how to spend Christmas Eve snowed in together.
"I usually go to the hospital on Christmas Eve," I admit. "Check on my post-op patients, bring gifts for the kids in pediatrics. But obviously that's not happening today."
"What would you do at home? If you were just... spending Christmas Eve at home?"
I consider this. "I haven't done that in years. Even after the divorce, I'd find somewhere to be. Always had to be useful."
"Maybe that's not a bad thing," Nina says gently. "But today you have to sit still. We both do. So what do you want to do?"
What I want to do is pull her onto my lap and kiss her until neither of us can think straight. But that's not an option.
"Actually," I say, remembering the closet full of gifts in my study. "I have about twenty presents I bought for the kids in the pediatric ward. Usually I'd bring them to the hospital today, but with the storm..." I trail off. "They're not wrapped yet. Think you could help me?"
Nina's face lights up. "Of course. Show me."
We head to my study, and I pull out boxes of toys—action figures, dolls, books, art supplies. Things that might make a kid's hospital stay a little brighter.
"You do this every year?" Nina asks, her voice soft.
"Since I started at the hospital. Some of these kids will be there through Christmas. Seemed like the least I could do."
She looks at me with something in her eyes that makes my chest tight. "That's really wonderful, Joel."
We spend the next two hours at the dining room table, surrounded by wrapping paper and ribbon. Nina's surprisingly good at this—her corners are crisp, her bows perfect. I, apparently, am terrible.
"How are you a surgeon with hands this uncoordinated?" she teases, watching me struggle with tape.
"Completely different skill set," I defend. "I can suture a torn ACL blindfolded but wrapping paper defeats me."
She laughs, reaching over to fix my disaster of a package. Our hands brush, and we both freeze.
"Nina," I say softly.
"Yeah?"
"Thank you. For this. For being here."
"There's nowhere else I'd rather be," she whispers.
The moment stretches between us, charged with possibility. I lean in slightly, watching her eyes drop to my mouth—
I clear my throat and step back. "We should probably finish these."
"Right. Yeah." But her cheeks are flushed, and I can see her pulse racing in her throat.
By the time all the presents are wrapped—a small mountain of colorful packages that I'll somehow get to the hospital after the storm—it's late afternoon and the snow is still falling.
"I should probably start dinner," I say, looking at the clock.
"What are we making?"
We. Like it's assumed she'll be right here beside me.
"I have a beef tenderloin in the fridge. Was planning to serve it for Christmas dinner tomorrow with Alexis, but we might as well have it tonight."
"Fancy." She grins. "I'll be your sous chef."
"You're a terrible sous chef. You keep eating the ingredients last night."
"I ate one piece of cheese!"
"Three pieces. I counted."
She laughs, and the sound fills every corner of my empty house, chasing away years of loneliness.
Dinner preparation is an exercise in torture. Nina moving around my kitchen, asking where things are, reaching past me for spices, her body brushing against mine in a space that suddenly feels too small even though it's huge.
I pour us each a glass of red wine while the tenderloin rests, and we sit at the island with the roasted vegetables I prepared and fresh bread.
"This is incredible," Nina says around a bite of perfectly pink beef. "You really know your way around a kitchen."
"Had to learn after the divorce." I take a sip of wine. "Turns out I'm better at cooking than I thought."
Nina's quiet for a moment, then says, "Can I ask what happened? With your marriage? You don't have to tell me if—"
"She left for someone younger." I keep it simple, factual. "Made me feel like I wasn't enough. Took me a while to realize that was her issue, not mine."
Nina reaches across the island and places her hand over mine. Her touch is warm, grounding. "Her loss."
I look up at her, surprised by the fierce protectiveness in her eyes.
"Your turn to hear this, since I dumped all my heartbreak on you yesterday," she continues. "You're not inadequate. You're not too old or too boring or too anything. You're incredible. And anyone who can't see that doesn't deserve you."
We're staring at each other across the island, hands linked, and I can feel the air crackling between us. I want to pull her around the counter, want to lift her onto the marble and step between her legs, want to show her with my hands and mouth exactly how much her words mean to me.
Instead, I squeeze her hand gently and release it. "Thank you. I needed to hear that."
We finish dinner with lighter conversation, cleaning up together in that same careful choreography as last night. Then Nina suggests we watch something Christmas-y, and we end up on the couch again with It's a Wonderful Life on the TV.
But tonight is different. Tonight, without discussing it, we sit closer. Nina curls into the corner of the couch with her wine glass, and I settle in the middle, close enough that her knee is almost touching my thigh.
"I love this movie," she says softly. "Even though it makes me cry every single time."
"Why?"
"Because George Bailey spends his whole life thinking he's a failure, that he hasn't accomplished anything important. And then he gets to see how many lives he touched, how much he mattered. Everyone should get to see that about themselves."
"What would your angel show you?"