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“And?”

“And I want to help keep it alive.”

Tommy studied me over his coffee. “Sarah called it, you know. Said you’d like him.”

“Sarah talks too much.” There was no heat in it, especially since I was still thinking about Nico’s eyes, and his hands, and the jolt that had gone through me when our fingers brushed.

“Sarah’s usually right. Terrifying, but right.”

It took about twenty minutes to cross town in our trucks. We pulled up to Nico’s building to find him waiting on the sidewalk with a small woman. She had paint-stained fingers and a direct gaze that felt like she was sizing me up. This had to be Nadya.

“Jake!” Nico walked toward my side of the truck. “Thank you for doing this. I know it’s your day off.”

“No problem. This is Tommy Fitzgerald, Sarah’s husband.”

Tommy came around and shook Nico’s hand. “Nice to meet you. Sorry about your workshop.”

Nico nodded and launched into his introductions. “This is Nadya Volkov. Nadya meet Jake and Tommy.”

She studied both of us with an artist’s eyes, then grinned. “So you’re the hockey player who’s rescuing our Nico.”

“I’m just offering a place,” I said. “Nico’s rescuing himself.”

“Diplomatic answer. I like that.” She looked at Tommy. “And you’re the goalie?”

“Guilty as charged.”

“Excellent. I’ve never met a goalie before. Are you all as crazy as people say?”

Tommy laughed. “Crazier, probably.”

“Good to know.” Nadya turned back to Nico. “Ready to see what we can salvage?”

The next hour was a dance of evaluation and selection. The fire inspector had given us a two-hour window for supervised retrieval. Nico moved through his damaged workshop with the efficiency of someone who knew exactly what he could and couldn’t live without.

The first thing we took out was lumber, including cherry boards Nico said were for my table. It was all undamaged by either smoke or water, since Nico had covered it. After that came a parade of equipment, some of which I couldn’t identify.

“This weighs more than me.” Tommy grunted as he helped me and Nico carry a planer.

“It’s older than you, too,” Nadya said as she passed us with boxes from her studio. “Nico’s grandfather bought it used in 1987.”

“It still works perfectly.” Nico ran his hand along the machine’s side after we got it in the truck. “They don’t make them like this anymore.”

As we carried the planer, his shoulder kept bumping mine. He grunted low with the effort, and I kept my eyes on the load instead of on him. Even so, the care he gave every piece got to me—the reverence for tools he’d maintained for years. It reminded me of how Nana had treated hers. For her, they were partners in creation rather than just objects.

We also secured the pieces Nico was building for clients—a rocking chair, a stack of decorative boxes, a small side table, the table he’d been planing on my first visit—so he could assess and finish them at my place.

“I think that’s everything we can safely move.” Nadya checked her watch. “We’re pushing our time limit.”

Our convoy ran four vehicles deep. Nico’s truck was packed with lumber and tools, while Tommy and I followed with the larger equipment. Nadya brought up the rear in her small SUV with her things as well as a few more of Nico’s.

“Are you sure about this?” Nico asked, climbing out of his truck once we were all at my place. “It’s not too late to change your mind.”

“I’m sure.” I rounded the hood of my truck to stand with him. “Are you?”

“Ask me in a few weeks. But this... it gives me a real chance to keep my business alive.”

“Good.”