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One

Jake

I stood at the bottom of the narrow stairs, second-guessing myself for the third time in as many minutes. The address Sarah had scrawled on a napkin led to this converted building in the South End.

It sat squeezed between a boutique selling overpriced candles and a coffee shop already closed for the day. Golden light spilled from the third-floor windows, framing a silhouette that moved with the smooth, repetitive pull of someone running a plane across wood. The sight brought with it a wave of nostalgia.

Just go up there and ask about a dining table. Sarah wouldn’t steer you wrong.

Same psych-up I used before taking a hit from a guy thirty pounds heavier. You do it because it’s the right thing to do.

The conversation from dinner two nights ago still echoed in my head. Tommy had been giving me grief about my empty house again. Sarah had finally lost patience with both of us. Meanwhile, our teammates Tyler and Kevin looked amused, but stayed quiet. They’d heard variations of this lecture for a couple of months now.

“Stop trying to buy furniture online.” She’d pointed her fork at me like a weapon. “You keep saying you want pieces that’ll last. That mean something. So go talk to someone who actually builds them.”

“I don’t know anything about⁠—”

“You know about wood.” Sarah had cut me off. She’d been married to my best friend for five years, so she had the authority to do that. “You’ve been working with your hands since you were twelve. Go see Nico Stolyarov. I buy pieces from him for clients all the time. Everything he does is gorgeous. He doesn’t do bachelor pad nonsense.”

I finally went inside. Climbing the worn wooden stairs, I caught the scent of wood shavings. Christmas music drifted down. It was an acoustic guitar version of “Silent Night.” The sound of a hand plane moving across wood accompanied the melody.

The workshop door stood open, probably for ventilation despite the December cold. I paused outside, taking in the scene through the doorway.

The space was bigger than I’d expected, maybe a thousand square feet. Windows on three sides would flood the room with natural light during the day. Now, with evening settling over Boston, a warm yellow glow came from work lamps and a string of simple white lights draped along the glass. It was the kind of understated holiday touch that made the workshop welcoming rather than commercial.

And there, bent over what looked like a dining table in progress, was presumably Nico Stolyarov.

My first thought was that Sarah hadn’t mentioned how young the guy was. Late twenties, with dark hair that needed a cut and fell forward as he worked. He wore a flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up and jeans that had seen better days. A fine coating of sawdust covered both. His movements were precise and economical as he guided the plane across the wood’s surface, creating thin curls that peeled away like ribbons.

There was something almost meditative about watching him work. This man’s entire focus was on the inches of wood beneath the plane’s blade. I leaned against the doorframe, content to observe for a moment longer.

Which turned out to be a mistake, because the old building’s floorboards chose that instant to creak under my weight.

Nico’s head snapped up, and I got my first look at his face. Sharp cheekbones, a jaw that probably looked stubborn even when he wasn’t frowning, and the bluest eyes I’d ever seen. For a second, we stared at each other. Then Nico straightened and set the plane aside with the careful precision of someone who respected his tools.

“We’re closed.” Nico’s voice was low and unhurried. “If you’re looking for the restaurant, it’s downstairs.”

“Actually, I’m looking for you.” I stepped into the workshop, pulling off my winter coat. “Nico Stolyarov, right? I’m Jake Sullivan. Sarah Fitzgerald sent me. She said you might be able to help with some custom furniture.”

The mention of Sarah seemed to make him less wary, but he still had the look of a man deciding how much to give away.

“Sarah’s an interior designer,” Nico said. “She usually handles her own client consultations.”

“I’m not her client. Her husband is my teammate.” I moved deeper into the workshop, drawn by both Nico and the half-finished table he’d been working on. The wood was a rich, warm cherry that seemed to glow under the lights. “Tommy Fitzgerald? He’s our goalie. Sarah got tired of listening to him and my teammates complain about my empty house.”

“You’re a hockey player.” It wasn’t a question, and Nico’s tone didn’t change, but I caught the slight tightening around his eyes.

“Defenseman for the Blizzard.” I stopped next to the table, running my fingers along the edge where Nico had been planing. The wood was silk-smooth. “This is beautiful work.”

“Most hockey players want leather recliners, big sectionals, and huge TVs on the wall.” Nico watched my hands on his work with the same careful attention he’d been giving the wood. “Man cave furniture.”

I looked up from the table to find his blue eyes fixed on me with startling intensity. “Do I seem like a man cave kind of guy?”

For the first time since I’d arrived, the corner of Nico’s mouth tipped up—not a smile, but close. His gaze traveled from my button-down shirt to my dark jeans and back up to my face.

“If Sarah sent you, probably not.”

I moved around the table, noting the way Nico had joined the planks, the attention to grain direction. “This is cherry, right? Looks like it came from the same tree.”