Page 68 of Shattered

“I was in the neighborhood.”

“You live in Brooklyn.”

“So? I can’t visit my boyfriend at work?”

Something in his face softened at the word boyfriend. Like every time I said it, it became more real. “Come in.”

His office was huge—windows overlooking the city, expensive furniture, art on the walls that made my fingers itch to examine them properly.

I closed the door behind me.

“You can’t come here and be this beautiful during work hours,” he said, eyes raking over me. “Company policy.” His voice dropped into a drawl.

“Then, does this policy allow you to kiss me?”

He moved, pulling me against him, kissing me like he’d been thinking about it all day. His hands slid into my hair and I pressed closer and forgot where we were until someone knocked.

We broke apart, breathing hard.

An assistant came in and dropped some files on his desk. Axel scowled; I grinned at him sheepishly.

“Show me something,” I said, nodding toward the files. “Show me what you do.”

He pulled up something on his laptop. Showed me the software that ran in museums across the world. He explained algorithms and search functions and data management in that nerdy way he had—the one that made him light up.

“You love this,” I said.

“I like solving problems.”

“No. You love this. I can tell.”

He smiled. “Maybe.”

“Show me more.”

He did. Pulled up project proposals and expansion plans and talked about connecting art to people who needed it. About making culture accessible instead of hidden behind institutional gates. The whole time I watched him more than the screen because Axel Irving talking about things he cared about was better than any art I’d ever seen.

“What about your paintings?” he asked suddenly. “Why don’t you show them? Exhibit them?”

“They’re not good enough.”

“That’s not true.”

“How would you know?”

“Because I’ve seen them. Even when we were kids, you were always my favorite artist.”

I stared at him. “Where did this sweet tongue suddenly come from?”

“It’s not sudden. And it’s true. I’ve always thought your work was incredible.”

“I paint for passion. The world doesn’t need to see it.”

“What if I think the world does?”

“Then you’re biased.”

He pulled me onto his lap. “Maybe I am. But I’m also right.”