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.
