“Twenty-five forged. Twenty-five real.”
I turn to Leks when I’ve made my verdict.
At some point during my analysis, he slid his leather jacket over my shoulders. I was too absorbed to notice. His lips curve into a half-smile, and he pulls me against his side.
The contact feels like something I desperately need right now. The news about my father has upended my whole world and I feel unsteady on my feet as I try to take it in, to make it real to me.
Leks presses a kiss to the top of my head. I’m pretty sure my hair is a frizzy mess at the moment but he doesn’t seem to mind.
“That’s what Ponytail said as well. Took twice as long as you, too.”
“Ponytail?”
“The art curator from the Met. Needed someone who knew what they were talking about.”
“You hired an art curator from the Met?”
His lips curve into a dark smile, like I’ve said something funny.
“I didn’t exactly hire him.”
I blink at him, not understanding, as Leks locks up the vault and loops his arm around my waist.
“So you… What, held him at gunpoint?”
He shrugs. “I kidnapped him.” His neutral, conversational tone of voice makes it sound as if kidnapping an art curator from the Met is just a day-to-day activity.
“Kidnapped?”
“Not even for twenty-four hours. Barely counts. And he was happy to do it, once he saw the paintings. Even asked to stay in there for longer.”
I don’t know why this annoys me, but it does. Those are my paintings.
“I could have told you.”
Leks arches an eyebrow. “Are you jealous that I kidnapped the Met curator instead of you? It was before we were married, I promise.”
I punch him in the side, a pointless endeavor which only ends up hurting my hand. His half-smile turns into a full-on grin.
“From my memory, you weren’t my biggest fan back then.”
It’s midday when we enter the loft, but I’m exhausted. I pull a fluffy blanket over me and curl up on the couch next to Dasha, letting the tiredness weigh down my limbs until I fall into the best sleep I’ve had in a while.
I wake up late at night to the smell of frying bacon and eggs.Leks turns to me as though he’s been waiting for me to wake up.
“You need to eat something. Trust me.”
He sets down a full plate on the coffee table in front of me.
“You know, at first I thought you were a good cook, but I’m now realizing you only know how to cook breakfast food.”
The couch dips as he settles on the cushion beside me, wrapping an arm around my shoulders.
“I’ll take feedback when you figure out how to wash a single dish, okayzolotse?”
23
NATALIA
