Page 24 of Iron Cross

I was a sell-out, and that was fine by me.

“You don’t give yourself enough credit, sweety.” Magda fretted, as she placed her things away, locking them behind her little stand, hiding her knitted wares for the afternoon, until we came back tomorrow morning. “Your paintings really are stunning. They sell themselves. But my gosh, you are just a born saleswoman.”

I wasn’t a born saleswoman. I was a trained one. So many things that were attributed to talent were really just the product of a thorough education.

“I’m having dinner at my house! Family only.” Magda smiled at me, the familiar invitation floating in the air between us. “I think you and little Cillian would be a great addition. We love kids! We could even give you a small break from that beautiful little handful.”

Small towns loved small kids. And grandmothers like Magda wanted more children around, all the time.

Magda, who had occupied the kiosk across from mine, had insinuated herself into my life the moment she saw me with Cillian in a tight bundle of a sling across my chest the first day I opened. If I needed a babysitter, she was there. If I had to leave early when Cillian got sick at daycare, she locked up for me. Once, when I couldn’t get out of bed, she came to my house and drove Cillian to and from daycare so that I could get some sleep.

I didn’t like to over use her. Cillian was my job. Motherhood was my burden and I did not want to share it. There were too many terrible stories of mothers who allowed harm to come to theirbabies because they were careless. I refused to be that. Not after everything we had fought for.

“One of my nephews just got out of a bad relationship!” She tried to sound casual, but I could see the matchmaking glee in her green eyes. “He loves kids…”

She said the last bit with a tone heavy with implication.

“I’ll think about it,” I said with a smile. Hoping that she wouldn’t ask again, and I could avoid the subject entirely.

I wasn't supposed to get involved. I wasn’t supposed to get close.

And I was still a legally married woman.

I had to be ready to leave in a moment's notice, if Blink ever got word that I’d been burned. I religiously scoured the news and online gossip columns for signs of my estranged husband, just to stay one step ahead.

There had been plenty of coverage: his father’s funeral, and Aoibhean’s wedding to the notorious Bratva kingpin. The galleries and galas, where he’d graced the red carpet, and sometimes had women standing beside him that I didn’t know. Jealousy had burned me then, but I tried to comfort myself with the reminder that if he was with another woman, then he wouldn’t be looking for me.

But that was no comfort at all. It kept me up at night with an aching heart that I couldn’t attribute to a bad burrito.

“Are you closing up?” A slight southern drawl called out from behind me. “Pity, I was just coming over to do some window shopping.”

“Oh, most of us are closed!” Magda’s face lit up. “But she’s going to be open for a few more minutes, aren’t you, Anna?”

I turned to see what had her so excited and when I did… well, let’s just say that the man was a tall drink of water.

Long, chestnut hair grazed the top of his ears in a roguish, unruly way. His beard had a slight red tint to it, and the bridge of his nose was crooked, like it had been broken a time or too. His deep, brown eyes looked amused as he smirked at me, like a joke had just run through his head and he was quietly enjoying it.

He tilted his head, and lifted a single brow. It would have been charming if not for the lightning quick thought that entered my mind -he’s not as handsome as Eoghan.

No one was as handsome as the monster of my past life.

I sighed, almost disheartened that any flutter I had felt was quashed with the memory of onyx black eyes, and a voice that would weaken my knees.

“I really should close up,” I said, reaching down to grab the nearest canvas, ready to stack and lock them up in the kiosk.

“Anna!” Magda chided, giving me a reprimanding glare.

There was that matchmaking glint again.

Magda, who had loved her late husband with all of her being, truly thought that the key to happiness was finding the rightperson to share it with. It was her job to help young women find the satisfaction she’d had in life. It was practically herraison d’être.

“Anna?” The man asked, his head tilting to the side as he smirked at me.

“Anna Jones,” I said, nodding my head, saying my fake name with the irritation I had when Blink bestowed it on me.

He really was shit at giving me names. First, Picasso. Now…Anna.

It was a fine name, but fit me like a too-tight dress. It felt wrong.

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