Page 6 of The Truth of Our Past

The couple leaves with a painting, one of Madyson’s ceramic vases, and a necklace. They spent more than I could have guessed they could afford. But Alec nudged them without pressure, and they were thrilled when they left.

“Nice job,” I say.

“Don’t need to compliment me, Viking, I’m all yours.” Alec’s smile should be infuriating, not sexy. He turns serious. “I’ll teach you the closing procedures. I doubt there’ll be another sale.”

“Do you have art here?” My curiosity slips out.

He lets out a loud belly laugh that bounces off all the walls and wraps around me. “No,” he replies, daring me to ask more questions.

Forcing myself not to nod, because that seems to be my standard form of communication with him, I try not to frown. I want to know more about him. But it feels dangerous.

“I’m a tattoo artist.” His dimples appear deeper. “I bet your skin is milky white all over, Viking.”

“I have a couple of tattoos,” I admit, trying not to envision all the artwork I’m sure covers his irresistible body.

“Wow, look at us bonding and finding all the things we have in common. By the time Mads gets back, we’ll be engaged.”

“Hilarious,” I reply, cursing the fact that he’s funny and my dead insides come alive when I’m with him.

“I’m here for your entertainment.” He bites his lip as he juts his chin toward the computer, which makes his dimples disappear. I scowl, wanting to see them again. He starts explaining how to close the day out but stops mid-sentence, probably because of my expression, and asks, “If you have somewhere to be, I can do it.”

Attempting to let go of my tension, I scrub my hand over my face. “No, please show me. I have to learn.”

Alec launches into an expert tutorial, as if he is not concerned about my odd behavior. His endless talking relaxes me, knowing I don’t have to carry the conversation. He tells me about his tattoo parlor and his friend Cole, who has over fifty paintings Alec hopes he’ll donate to the charity event. My insecurities flare until Alec explains Cole’s paintings are from decades of work.

The man is in constant motion and honestly could hold a conversation with a painting. He drags answers out of me, and after a while, I notice I’m willingly participating in our exchange.

Alec is human sunshine and, in his presence, I laugh as if I’m carefree.

The feeling of normalcy shocks me so much that when it’s time to leave, instead of saying goodbye, I flee out the back door.

I cannot find this flirty, loud American appealing.

Chapter four

Alec

“What’s up, boss?” I lean in the door to Cole’s office, responding to his bellowing call. He grimaces at me, and I’ve made my point. We might be friends, but at work he’s the owner and I’m the manager.

He’s unusually grouchy today, and if I had to guess, it’s because Shane’s been working long hours. For a while I had to call him out so he wouldn’t scare the rest of the staff, but now it’s to shake him out of his mood.

“Why’d you order more ink for the first weekend in November?” Cole looks up from his computer screen. Thanks to his genius––literal term––boyfriend, Shane, our computer system links everything, and Cole can monitor it from his laptop.

“No offense, boss, but if you checked the calendar, you’d see it’s the weekend of the marathon.” An influx of people will want to commemorate their accomplishments with a tattoo. We always have more walk-ins than we can handle.

He scrubs a hand over his face. “Damn.” His shoulders drop and some of the tension bleeds out of his body.

Sometimes he forgets little details, but I’m here for that stuff. And I love it.

“I couldn’t do this without you.” He’s stepped back from managing the day-to-day so he can spend more time with Shane. It was a necessary change. He worked eighty-hour weeks trying not to remember he’s a widower.

Shane dragged him back to life and changed things for the better. For Cole and the shop. Shane even helped spark his creativity, so he’s painting again.

Shane accomplished what I could not. Helping Cole move on.

“If you play your cards right, you’ll never know.” I toss my head as if I have hair to throw over my shoulder and then sober to dive into this conversation.

“I have an idea I want to talk to you about.” Cole raises an eyebrow, so I focus on the goal and continue. “What do you think about donating some of your old paintings to a charity auction for The Q?”

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