Page 27
“Nico.” Jake turned on his stool to face me fully. “What if I don’t want you to be fine? What if I want you with me and my family?”
The offer hung between us, and my pulse picked up. Meeting Jake’s parents, and being included in his family’s traditions…
“It’s too soon,” I said quietly.
“Says who?”
“Your parents will think you’ve lost your mind, bringing home some random guy you just met.”
Jake reached over and took my hand, his thumb brushing across my knuckles. “First, you’re not some random guy. Second, they’ll like you.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do, actually. Because they’ll see what I see. Someone who’s talented and passionate and kind. Someone who makes me happy. What parent doesn’t want their kid to be happy?”
“Jake...” His honesty left me speechless.
“Think about it,” he said. “That’s all I’m asking.”
I nodded, not trusting my voice to stay steady. I wanted a place at that table more than I’d wanted anything in years, and the want was so strong it surprised me.
We finished eating while chatting about family holiday traditions, with the rest of the day stretching out before us.
After we cleaned up the dishes, we headed out to the workshop. Jake went to the rocking chair.
“This is beautiful work.” He studied it closely. “Mrs. Whitfield’s going to love it.”
“I hope so. It’s for her granddaughter’s nursery—first Christmas gift from the new Grandma.” The delicate spindles had come out exactly as I’d hoped. “There’s something special about making furniture for new families. Knowing it might be the first thing they pull themselves up on, the chair where someone reads them stories.”
“Furniture with a future,” Jake said.
“Exactly.” I filed that away. It was a great slogan. Sarah had been trying to get me to have something like that since she’d bought her first piece from me.
We settled in side by side after that. Jake worked on the last components of his mother’s jewelry box. I wrapped the Andersons’ table in moving blankets and then got the rocker ready too. Winter sun streamed through the windows and kept the shop warm. The quiet between us was comfortable as we did what we needed to do.
Jake reached past his sanding block for a clean rag and came up with one of my sketchbooks instead. I had a habit of having a few around at any given time so I could draw whenever inspiration struck.
“Do you mind if I take a look?”
I stole a glance at him. “Of course.”
Out of the corner of my eye I watched as he flipped pages, sometimes stopping on designs for a few seconds before moving on.
Then he stopped on a page and hummed.
I knew what he’d found before he turned it in my direction. His hands. I’d drawn them the morning after we met, two quick studies of the way his fingers had traced the edge of the cherry. I’d dated the corner out of habit. December eleventh.
“These are mine.” It wasn’t a question.
“You have good hands.” True, but also not the entire story. “I draw what I can’t stop thinking about.”
His eyes dropped to the date in the corner. “The morning of the fire.”
I joined him to look at the page. “Yeah. A few hours before.”
He closed the sketchbook and put it back where he’d found it. He didn’t say anything else, but he left his hand flat on the cover a moment longer than he needed to.
Heat crept up my neck. I hadn’t meant for him to find that book. It was my fault he did because I’d forgotten what was in that one. I’d also said far more than I should’ve.
