"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?"
She considers this. "I don't know. Maybe all the times I made someone laugh when they were sad? All the social media campaigns that actually worked and helped the company grow? The times I was there for Alexis when she needed me?" She pauses. "What about you?"
"All the surgeries, I suppose. All the people who can walk without pain now, the kids who can play sports again." I look at her. "And maybe yesterday—taking in a beautiful, heartbroken woman and reminding her how extraordinary she is."
Nina's breath catches. "Joel?"
"It's true." I shift closer, unable to help myself. "You are extraordinary, Nina. You're brilliant and funny and warm, and you light up every room you walk into. If your ex couldn't see that, he's blind."
"Stop," she whispers, but she's leaning toward me.
"Why should I stop?" My hand comes up to her face, and I trace the curve of her jaw with my thumb. "Why should I stop telling you the truth?"
"Because you're looking at me like—" She breaks off, her eyes dropping to my mouth.
"Like what?"
"Like you want to kiss me."
"Idowant to kiss you." The admission hangs between us. "God, Nina, I want to kiss you so much."
It's just us, snowed in together, and every reason I have for not kissing her feels flimsy in the face of how badly I need to.
I cup her face with both hands, my thumbs stroking her soft cheeks. She's so beautiful it hurts to look at her. I lean in slowly, giving her time to pull away, watching her eyes flutter closed in anticipation.
Our lips are a breath apart. I can feel her warmth, smell the wine on her breath, and I want this more than I've wanted anything in years.
Then I do something that surprises us both—I smile.
"What?" Nina breathes, her eyes searching mine.
"I've imagined kissing you about a thousand times." The confession comes out rough, honest. "And now that I'm finally here, I'm terrified I'm going to fuck it up."
Her expression softens, and she lets out a breathy laugh. "You're not going to fuck it up."
"You don't know that." I stroke her cheeks with my thumbs, memorizing the feel of her skin. "I've been thinking about this for five years, Nina. Five years of watching you walk into my house and trying not to stare. Five years of listening to you talk and hanging on every word. Five years of knowing you were completely off-limits and wanting you anyway."
Her eyes widen. "Five years?"
"Since that first Thanksgiving. You wore a green turkey sweater and you laughed at all my terrible jokes and I thought—" I break off, shaking my head at myself. "I thought, this is the most beautiful woman I've ever seen, and she's twenty years old and my daughter's best friend. I'm the worst person alive."
"You're not—"
