Page 15

“I’d like that.”

Nico carefully wrapped the remains of the chocolate bar and reached for a small bottle of cinnamon. He must have bought it because I didn’t keep cinnamon in the house.

“Do you always make cocoa like this?” I gestured to the pan as he sprinkled in some of the spice.

“Yeah.” In the bright light of the kitchen, the slight blush on his cheeks was hard to miss. “Once you’ve had this, you can’t do powder in an envelope again.”

I hoped he hadn’t looked in the pantry where I had a box full of those envelopes. “Where did you discover this?”

“Nadya’s mom.” He grabbed the salt shaker off the counter and shook a small amount into his hand, then tossed it in. “She visited a couple years ago and made this. It’s simple, but so good. It’s all about using good chocolate.”

I couldn’t take my eyes off him as he blew on the spoon he’d been stirring with. His lips pursed just so. A broad smile broke across his face as he sampled his concoction. I stared for a moment, transfixed by his mouth and the slight dimples that appeared.

“It’s perfect.” He got two mugs out of the drying rack next to the sink and poured. Then he pressed one into my hands, his fingers brushing mine. “Let’s drink it out there. There’s something I want to show you in the shop.”

He led me across the cold yard with the mugs steaming between us and pushed open the workshop door. My dining table, or the top of it anyway, lay across the sawhorses, gleaming golden under the lights.

“God,” I breathed. “This is incredible.”

It was even more beautiful than I’d imagined, with each board matched to its neighbor. The edges were smooth and true, with the surface leveled flat. It looked like it had grown that way, as if the tree had been destined to become this table all along.

“It’s coming together.” I caught the satisfaction in his voice. “The wood has been cooperating. These boards were seasoned to perfection.”

“When did you have time to do all this?”

“I’ve been working late the last two nights.” Nico moved around the table, running his palm along the surface to check for imperfections. “I work on the orders that have deadlines during the day and then spend time on this because this wood is calling to me.” He shrugged. “Plus, I thought you might like to see it when you got home.”

His words warmed me more than the cocoa did. Nico had timed his work so I’d come home to it.

“I love it. It’s exactly what I pictured, only better.”

Something small sat on the worktable, set apart from the chisels like it didn’t belong with the working tools. A stamp, the end carved with an intricate design. I knew exactly what it was. My grandmother had one like it, and I’ve got it tucked in a box I haven’t let myself open in years. I picked it up before I thought better of it. “Is this your mark?”

“My grandfather’s, actually.” Nico took it from me and turned it in the light. The end bore letters I couldn’t read, wrapped in a wood grain pattern.

“What does it say?”

“His initials in Cyrillic. He apprenticed in St. Petersburg. This is how he signed work he judged worthy of it. Maybe one piece in ten.” His thumb moved over the carving. “I use it even less.”

When he talked about his grandfather, his accent came forward, the same as when he talked about wood. The consonants eased, like he’d taken a block plane to their edges. I’d started listening for it, and I leaned in closer.

“Did you mark one of your commissions with it?”

“No. I leave it out while I’m working so I see it. It keeps me honest. Reminds me of what I’m building toward.” He set it back in its place, squared to the edge of the worktable. “Your table isn’t there yet. But when it’s finished, we’ll see if it’s earned the mark.”

“We?”

He didn’t answer that. Instead, he held my gaze a beat longer than he needed to and let the word sit there between us.

“Come here,” Nico said, setting down his mug. “Let me show you something.”

I put my drink next to his, and he led me to the other side of the table. The surface there was smoother, with a subtle sheen that caught the light.

“Feel this.” Nico guided my hand to the wood. My brain nearly shorted out at the contact of his warm hand on mine.

I ran my palm across the surface, marveling at the silky texture. “It’s incredible. Like glass.”

“That’s from hand-planing. No sandpaper, just careful work with a sharp blade.” Nico picked up the plane that was on the nearby counter, checking the edge with his thumb. “It takes longer, but the finish is incomparable. Watch.”