Chapter 3 Nina
Nina
Iwake up to silence.
Not the peaceful kind—the thick, heavy kind that comes after a snowstorm. I lie in the guest bed for a long moment, staring at the ceiling, my body still thrumming with awareness from last night.
I've been in love with you since I was twenty years old.
I said it. I actually said it out loud. And Joel looked at me like I'd given him something precious and terrifying all at once.
Tomorrow, he'd said. Let me court you properly.
I press my fingers to my cheek where he kissed me goodnight. It was barely a brush of lips, but it set my entire body on fire. Then I'd kissed him back, just the corner of his mouth, close enough to taste the promise of what could happen today.
My phone says it's 8:47 AM. Late for me, but I barely slept. Every time I closed my eyes, I felt Joel's hands on mine, smelled his cologne, heard his voice saying You're everything.
I take a long shower, trying to calm my racing heart. I want to look good today but not like I'm trying too hard, so I settle on dark jeans that hug my curves and a soft red sweater—festive but casual. I let my hair down in loose waves and put on just enough makeup to look awake.
When I finally work up the courage to go downstairs, I find Joel in the kitchen, and my heart stutters in my chest.
His hair is slightly damp from the shower, and he's moving around the kitchen in a way that I’ve always found devastatingly attractive. Coffee is already brewing, and something smells amazing in the oven.
He turns when he hears me, and the look on his face is filled with want and tenderness and even a little nervousness, makes my knees weak.
"Merry Christmas," he says, his voice rough.
"Merry Christmas." I move into the kitchen, suddenly shy. "You're up early."
"Couldn't sleep." His eyes track my movement as I approach the island. "You look beautiful."
Heat floods my cheeks. "You always say that."
"Because it's always true." He pours me coffee and slides the mug across to me. "I'm making cinnamon rolls. The fancy kind from scratch that my mom used to make. They'll be ready in about ten minutes."
"Joel, you didn't have to go through the trouble."
"I wanted to." He's standing close now. "I told you I wanted to do this right. That starts with proper Christmas breakfast."
We stand there for a moment, just looking at each other, and the air between us feels charged with possibility.
"I have something for you," he says quietly. "Well, two things, actually. Can you wait here for a minute?"
I nod, not trusting my voice, and watch him disappear into what I assume is his home office. He returns carrying two wrapped boxes and sets them on the island between us.
"This one," he says, sliding the larger box toward me, "is technically from Alexis. But I need to be honest with you about something."
"Okay..." I look at the beautifully wrapped package, then back at him.
"Last month, she texted me from that boutique in LA she loves.
Sent me pictures of about five different scarves, asked which one I thought you'd like.
" He runs a hand through his hair, looking almost embarrassed.
"I picked this one. Spent about twenty minutes staring at the photos like an idiot, trying to imagine which color would look best against your skin. "
I carefully unwrap the box and pull out the most beautiful scarf I've ever seen—soft cashmere in a deep burgundy that somehow seems to shimmer in the light. It's clearly expensive, the kind of thing I'd never buy for myself.
"It's gorgeous," I whisper, running my fingers over the fabric.
"Hold it up," Joel says, his voice low.
I drape it around my neck, and he steps closer, reaching out to adjust it. His fingers brush my throat and I shiver.
"Perfect," he murmurs, his eyes locked on mine. "I knew that color would be perfect on you."
"You picked this thinking of me," I say softly. "A month ago."
"I've been thinking about you for five years, Nina. A month ago is nothing."
The admission hangs between us, heavy with meaning. Then he reaches for the smaller box, and I notice his hands aren't quite steady.
"This one... this one I bought for you in September.
Saw it in an antique shop in Boston and I couldn't leave without it.
" He slides it across to me. "I told myself I'd give it to Alexis to give to you.
But I kept it. In my desk drawer. Took it out sometimes just to look at it and imagine your face when you saw it. "
My hands are shaking as I unwrap the small package. Inside is a vintage cookbook—Italian Grandmother's Kitchen—with the most beautiful illustrations on every page. The cover is worn leather, clearly old and well-loved, and when I open it, I see handwritten notes in the margins.
"Joel." My voice breaks.
"I remembered you telling me your grandmother was Italian. That she used to cook for you when you were little, but she passed away before she could teach you all her recipes." He's watching me carefully, anxiously. "I thought maybe... I don't know. It's probably silly—"
I'm crying before I can stop myself. Not sad tears—overwhelmed tears. Because this gift is so thoughtful, so personal, so perfectly chosen that it breaks my heart wide open.
"Hey, hey." Joel moves around the island, pulling me into his arms. "I didn't mean to make you cry."
"These are good tears," I manage, pressing my face against his chest. "This is the most thoughtful gift anyone's ever given me. You listened. You remembered something I said months ago and you—" I pull back to look at him. "How are you real?"
He cups my face in his hands, thumbs wiping away my tears. "I pay attention to you, Nina. I always have. Every word you say, every story you tell—I remember all of it."
"Why?" The question comes out as a whisper.
"Because you matter to me." His voice is rough with emotion. "You've mattered to me since the moment we met. I tried not to let it happen, tried to keep my distance, but Nina—you're impossible not to fall for."
"Joel."
"I need you to understand something." He's still holding my face, his blue eyes intense.
"This isn't just attraction. This isn't just..
. wanting you, though God knows I do. I'm—" He takes a shaky breath.
"I'm falling in love with you. Maybe I've been falling for five years.
But being here with you these past two days, watching you exist in my space like you belong here—I can't pretend anymore. "
My heart is pounding so hard I can barely breathe. "Say that again."
"I'm falling in love with you."
"Joel." I rise up on my toes, my hands fisting in his sweater. "I'm already there. I've been in love with you for so long I don't remember what it feels like not to be."
The sound he makes is somewhere between a groan and a growl, and then his mouth crashes into mine.
It's not gentle. It's five years of pent-up want exploding between us. His tongue invades my mouth, claiming, possessing, and I moan into the kiss. One of his hands tangles in my hair, pulling my head back so he can kiss me deeper, while the other grips my ass and hauls me against him.
I can feel how hard he is through his jeans, pressing against my stomach, and I grind against him shamelessly.
"Fuck," he breathes against my lips. "Nina."
"I need you." I'm already pulling at his sweater, desperate to feel his skin. "Now. Please."
He backs me up against the kitchen island and lifts me onto it effortlessly. My legs wrap around his waist automatically, and when he grinds against me, the friction through my jeans makes me gasp.
"You have any idea how many times I've jerked off thinking about this?" His voice is ragged as he kisses down my neck, teeth scraping. "About bending you over this counter? Making you scream my name?"
"Joel!"
"About burying my face between your thighs until you're begging me to stop?" His hands slide under my sweater, rough and demanding. "About fucking you so hard you can't walk the next day?"
Heat floods between my legs. "Yes! Please!"
He yanks my sweater over my head, and when he sees the red lace bra I wore—hoping, praying this would happen—he grins.
"Damn." His hands cup my breasts, thumbs brushing over my nipples through the lace. "You wore this for me." A feral look flashes across his face. He reaches behind me, unclasps my bra, and tosses it aside. Then his mouth is on my breast, hot and demanding, and I cry out.
He's not gentle. He sucks hard, teeth grazing, while his hand palms my other breast roughly. It's almost too much but I don't want him to stop. I thread my fingers through his hair, holding him against me.
"More," I beg. "Joel, please!"
He switches to my other breast, giving it the same treatment, and I'm writhing against him, desperate for friction. His hand slides between us, cupping me through my jeans, and even through the denim the pressure is perfect.
"So fucking wet already," he groans. "I can feel it through your jeans. You're soaked for me, aren't you?"
"Yes—God, yes—"
Joel, my best friend’s father, unbuttons my jeans with one hand, yanks down the zipper, and shoves his hand inside my panties.
When his fingers slide through my wetness, we both groan.
He pulls his hand out and I whimper at the loss.
But then he's dragging my jeans and panties down my legs, and I lift my hips to help.
When I'm bare from the waist down, spread open on his kitchen island, he steps back and just looks.
"Fucking gorgeous." His hand palms himself through his jeans. "Spread your legs wider. Let me see you."
I obey, heat flooding my face, and his eyes darken.
"Touch yourself."
"What?"
"You heard me." His voice drops an octave. "Touch that pretty pussy. Show me how you touch yourself when you think about me."
My hand trembles as I reach between my legs. I've never done this in front of anyone, but the way he's looking at me like he's going to devour me makes me bold.
I circle my clit, and his jaw clenches.