Page 21 of The Truth of Our Past

“You’re killing me,” she says but looks relieved I’m here.

“Sweet Mads, I have a life that doesn’t revolve around you. I’ve been extremely busy at work because I hired a new guy, Em.” I soften my words with a hug, like I haven’t been avoiding her. “He’s a great addition to the shop. Thanks for asking,” I joke.

Mads clings to me. “I am so, so, so sorry. I would never hurt you on purpose.”

“I know.” I sigh. “But Mads, when I tell you I don’t want to discuss something, you have to respect that.”

She’s teary and ready to say something when we hear, “Sorry to interrupt.” Von is struggling with a heavy sculpture.

“Let me help.” I rush over to take half of the dragon’s weight. Somehow, this new sculpture looks ancient, it’s a mythical replication of a living creature. It’s magnificent.

Have You Ever Needed Someone So Bad by Def Leppard

Von’s matted hair sticks to his head with sweat and smells smokey. I lied to him—I would pay money to smell the stench of a sweaty Viking as long as it was him.

“Von, why didn’t you use one of the carts?” Mads asks as we set the sculpture on an empty pedestal. His expression is confused. “There are two in the workroom to wheel your art down.”

A light bulb goes off in his head, but he doesn’t say anything. He sweeps his hair back, twists it around itself, and ties his bun in place. I’ve missed his sexy accent.

“I saw Page Seven posted a picture of one of your sculptures. The exposure must be exciting. Congrats.” I’m an idiot and stick my hand out for him to shake.

“Thanks.” He gives me half a smile, taking my hand. I have a brief moment as if I’ve been transported into a romantic comedy, and his touch sends sparks zinging through my body. I shake it off because that’s ludicrous.

“Ready for dinner, Alec?” Mads asks.

“Actually, I ate.” Turning to Von, I beg with a pleading expression. “I’m glad I ran into you. I left some stuff in your apartment. Do you mind if we go get it now?” It’s a lie. He knows it’s a lie but Mads will claim to be sorry and lay a guilt trip.

“Yes,” he says and strolls toward the back hall. I realize that’s the only invitation I’ll get, so I give another quick hug to Mads and chase after Von.

He stops at the elevator to the workshop, not exiting to his apartment, and I stand beside him. “Thanks. I’ll forgive her, but I’m not ready to spend quality time with her yet.”

“Understandable,” Von says, holding the elevator door for me.

I haven’t been up to the workshop in a while, and I wander around checking out all the partially finished pieces. Only half the space is renovated—the other half is wide open with exposed ducts, concrete floors, and workstations. Mads transformed thehalf on the far side into an eclectic hangout space with couches, a kitchenette, and a full bathroom.

I run my fingers over a vase Mads must be working on.

“She comes in early in the morning. Sometimes, we work together if I haven’t been up late,” Von volunteers.

I don’t bring attention to the fact that he spoke two entire sentences without being forced, but I can’t keep the smile off my face. He rolls his eyes at me.

The riot of color is smooth under my fingertips. “I wish I’d finished art school.” The words slip out of my mouth and surprise me.

“You had to drop out because of money.” He says it as a statement, not a question, and closes his eyes when I confirm. He’s so still, but the emotions course through him. “I intended to go to university, but my career opportunities wouldn’t allow for it, and my parents didn’t want me to go, either. I felt I had to choose what they wanted.”

There’s so much information hidden in his confession, an ache thrums through my chest to know it all. But Von will only tell me what he wants to give, so I keep my question on the safe side.

“What would you have studied?” I move closer at an angle, not approaching him head-on.

“Back then, I did not know, so that was a big reason not to go. Study miscellaneous information that the university deems important or start a lucrative career.” He balances his hands as if he’s weighing scales.

“Did you like what you did before?” I’m circling the art, pretending he doesn’t have my full attention.

Von shrugs. “It was the type of thing I loved until it became a job. Then I hated it, but I was good enough to be paid well.”

“I’m sorry,” I say and mean it. “I found something I do love, and although it hasn’t made me rich, I love going to work every day.”

“You think I’m rich?” Von scowls.

---