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He positioned the plane at the edge of the table and drew it across the surface in one smooth motion. A clean shaving curled away from the blade, thin enough to see through. He worked the plane sure and unhurried with hands that had done this thousands of times.
“Your turn.” Nico held out the plane.
“I don’t know—”
“It’ll be okay. I’ll make sure. Besides, it’s your table. You should understand how it was made.”
I slipped out of my suit jacket, folded it, and put it on a countertop that didn’t have any sawdust on it. Nico studied me as I rolled up my sleeves so I was ready to work.
When that was done, I stepped up to the tabletop and gave him a nod.
Nico positioned himself behind me, his hands covering mine on the plane. His warmth seeped into my back through my shirt. The smell of sawdust and linseed oil that seemed to cling to him enveloped me. We’d never been this close.
“The secret is consistent pressure.” His voice was close to my ear. “Let the blade do the work. The wood will tell you how the plane should move.”
He guided my hands forward. The blade bit into the wood, the clean resistance of it traveling up my arms as a fresh curl of wood peeled away.
“Like that,” Nico murmured. “You hear what it’s telling you.”
We made another pass, then another, Nico’s hands steady over mine, his breath against my neck. The world narrowed to the feel of the plane, the whisper of wood taking shape, and the way Nico’s body curved to mine.
“Perfect,” he said softly.
I set the plane down and turned in his arms until we were chest to chest. Nico’s captivating eyes were wide, his lips slightly parted. This close, the dark hair below the collar of his shirt stood out against his skin. I hadn’t noticed that before.
“Jake.” His voice was soft, more intimate.
“Yeah?”
“I’m glad you’re home.”
Those four words undid the rest of the tension from the road trip. I rested my hands on his hips, right at the waistband of his jeans.
“Me too.”
We leaned toward each other, my breath catching. I lifted one hand toward his cheek—
My phone buzzed.
Then buzzed again.
Then sounded with the team’s specific group text tone that meant someone was in trouble or had news too good to keep to themselves.
“Shit,” I muttered, but I didn’t move away from Nico.
“You should probably check that.” His voice was rough, and his hands were still resting on my shoulders.
“Yeah.” I sighed as I stepped back so I could pull out my phone.
Tommy: Holy shit, boys. Did you see the trade news?
Lawson: What trade?
Tommy: Davidson to Pittsburgh for Halloran and a second-round pick.
Bennett: No fucking way. Are you serious?
Tommy: Dead serious. All over the news.
