Page 6

By the time Jake’s truck pulled up to the curb, Nadya was talking to the restaurant’s chef. I was watching my entire world disappear behind a wall of smoke and emergency vehicles.

He got out of his truck and crossed to me as he ran his hand through his red hair, mussing it. His suit jacket was open, and his tie was loose with one shirt button undone. My entire world was on fire, and some useless part of me still took in how well the gray suit fit him.

Not now, Stolyarov.

“Jesus, Nico. Are you okay?” His green eyes were wide with concern.

“I’m fine. But the workshop...” I gestured at the building, where smoke was billowing from several second-floor windows. “I’m not sure there’s going to be a workshop anymore.”

Jake took in the scene and then turned back to me. “When did it start?”

“They’re not sure how long it was smoldering before anyone noticed, but it probably started after the lunch rush.” Another fire truck arrived as I talked. “I wrapped my grandfather’s tools and tarped what I could before they made me leave. Now I just have to hope it was enough.” The sound of glass breaking pulled my attention.

“Thank God you got out. Are you insured?”

“Some. Not enough to replace everything and find a new space and cover my living expenses while I rebuild.” The words came out flat. I couldn’t afford to break down, not here on the sidewalk with Jake watching me lose everything.

“What about your Christmas commissions?”

“I covered them. Hopefully, the worst is a little smoke damage. But I can’t finish them without a workshop.” I shoved my hands in my pockets, trying to stop them from shaking. “I’ll have to refund the deposits. Figure out how to explain to my clients that their Christmas gifts aren’t going to happen.”

Jake was quiet, studying my face. Then he said, “Work at my place.”

“What?” The word came out louder and sharper than it should’ve.

“My carriage house. It’s got electricity, heat, plenty of space. You could set up your workshop there.”

I stared at him. “Jake, I can’t⁠—”

“Why not?”

“Because this isn’t your problem. We barely know each other. And I don’t take charity.”

“It’s not charity. It’s a business arrangement.” Jake stepped closer, his voice dropping to that quiet, certain tone he’d used last night to talk about wood grain. “I still want my table. You need a place to build it. This way we both get what we want.”

“You have no idea what you’re offering. Woodworking is messy, loud⁠—”

“I’m a hockey player. I understand messy and loud.”

The offer was generous beyond reason, and we both knew it. The fact that he was willing to give up his space for someone he’d met less than twenty-four hours ago should have set off every warning bell I had.

Instead, the tightness that had gripped my chest since this disaster began eased just a little.

“I couldn’t pay you rent,” I said quietly. “Not until I finish these commissions and get paid.”

“Did I ask for rent?”

I stole a glance at where the firefighters were still working to contain the blaze. Then I looked at Jake, standing there in his expensive suit, offering me salvation without asking for anything in return.

“Why are you doing this?”

“Because you need help,” Jake said simply. “And I can help. It doesn’t have to be more complicated than that.”

A fire inspector was walking toward us, clipboard in hand and an expression that didn’t bode well. In a few minutes, I’d learn how bad it was.

But standing here with Jake Sullivan offering me a chance to rebuild, maybe everything would work out.

“Okay,” I said. “But I pay utilities, and I clean up after myself, and the minute you want your space back, you tell me.”