Page 63 of Shattered

He kissed me right there in the lobby—witnesses, security cameras, the universe bearing witness. Soft. Sweet. Like he’d been waiting for permission and now that he had it he couldn’t stop.

“Come upstairs,” he said against my mouth.

“Okay.”

His apartment was on the thirtieth floor. The doors opened directly into his penthouse and I stepped out into a space that was so perfectly Axel it made me smile.

Modern furniture. Clean lines. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city. Everything organized. Nothing out of place.

“Wait,” I said when he reached for me. “Give me the tour first.”

He looked confused. “A tour?”

“Yes, a tour. I’ve always wondered what your apartment looks like. What your life looks like when nobody’s watching.”

“Delia—”

“Tour. Then you can kiss me again.”

He smiled at this, leading me through the space. Kitchen that looked like it belonged in a magazine. Living room with furniture that had names I couldn’t pronounce. A home office with bookshelves that made my fingers itch to explore.

“It’s very you,” I said.

“Is that an insult?”

“It’s an observation. Everything in its place. Controlled. Organized.” I moved to the bookshelves. “Can I snoop?”

“You’re asking permission to snoop?”

“I’m being polite about it.”

His mouth curved. “Snoop away.”

I did. Ran my fingers along book spines. Technology. Art history. Museum cataloging systems. A section on Swedish literature that made my chest hurt because he’d kept that connection to his mother.

Then I saw it.

A photograph on the mantle. The only personal thing in the entire apartment. A family of three—Axel maybe seven or eight years old, standing between two adults who were clearly his parents.

I moved closer. His mother had the same gray eyes. The same dark blond hair that looked like it wouldn’t behave no matter how much you tried.

“You look just like her,” I said softly.

“Everyone says I have my father’s features.”

“They’re wrong.” I studied the photo. “You have her eyes. Her mouth.” I looked at him. “Is this the only photo you have?”

“Yes.”

The single word carried weight. Years of loss compressed into three letters.

“She was beautiful,” I said. “No wonder you’re pretty.”

His face did something I’d never seen before. A hint of pink formed across his cheek. It was slight, but unmistakable.

I stared at him too excited to let this pass. “Did you just blush?”

“No.”