1. Chapter 1

Signing this contract could be the biggest mistake of my life or the best decision I have ever made.

I stare at the blank line where I should sign my name next to Madyson Rose's signature, the owner of The Artistic Edge Gallery. Resting my elbow on the desk, I grind my throbbing forehead into my palm.

I have been through all the pros and cons of becoming a contract sculptor but did not realize that taking the final step would be so hard. Madyson offered to give me more time, but I declined to put off the inevitable.

I want to do this. Helvete, I need this move for my sanity.

A bead of sweat runs down my back at the enormity of an impulsive move halfway around the world from Sweden to New York City. My mind runs through all the reasons why I should do this.

Last year was the worst year of my life, and a fresh start is a relief. The grief and media speculation are too intrusive in my home country. I crave the anonymity of New York. No one here knows who I am, so I can breathe again.

My friend Lars has always been more famous than me since he plays for the New York Enforcers NHL team. Visiting him is the perfect escape. Deep down I must have been planning to stay because even though it was supposed to be a ten-day trip, I packed enough clothes for a month.

Time ticks by as I stare at the contract. It obligates me to be an exclusive artist for The Artistic Edge in exchange for a free workspace. Yesterday, I met Madyson and her husband Jayce through Lars. Jayce is a retired player who works for the Enforcers. Madyson and I immediately bonded over art. She invited me for a tour of her gallery and proposed a contract based on the pictures of my sculptures I showed her on my phone.

As soon as I saw the gallery, I knew it was the right place for me. The gallery personifies the name Edge. It's bold and colorful. Where most galleries are bland to let the art shine, everything in here is art. The walls are a soft gray with lots of crown molding and the artists created the lighting, with soft hues of rainbow colors shining throughout the space.

Madyson has displayed the widest variety of art I have ever seen outside of a museum. There are sculptures of different materials: ceramics, clay pottery, jewelry, and abstract items. Madyson's personal art is all ceramic and incredibly detailed. I believe she is, in her words, a sucker for a starving artist, but it's clear she has a good eye and an even bigger heart.

I will never get a better deal with a lease for a place to live included. The furnished loft and access to the artists' workshop are bonuses in the contract. It requires every artist to donate time as both an art handler and an assistant.

Being here, I cannot hide away as I've done the past year. I am obligated to attend shows and participate in the communal management of the gallery. Exposing myself as I learn my craft and the business makes me nauseous, but this is the right time and the right place.

My hand hovers over the document as a pang of regret hits me. I've only created art in my grandparents' garage workshop. Art has been my hobby, so I have never sold it outright; instead gifting it to people I care about and donating it to charity auctions.

My past career took up all my time and I do not have any other employable skills. Failure is terrifying.

My parents don't know my true reason for staying. They want to be supportive but cannot understand my choices, so their quiet disapproval wears on me. It's hard enough when the national media criticizes and attacks my decisions and character, then added pressure from my parents makes it worse.

My mother insists if I give up my former career, I should marry and have children. I cannot imagine love in my life at this point. The grief is too overwhelming, and I have told her countless times, I do not want children.

Today, the bright and cheery office is the opposite of my very being. I can almost feel my body repelling anything that resembles happiness. The stress of interacting with people, despite their kindness, is taking its toll on me. To calm myself, I take a deep breath and inhale rose and sandalwood from the diffuser on the display shelf.

It occurs to me that if I fail, at least it won't be in the headlines. Eventually, people will connect my name to my art, but the process won't be scrutinized.

Now I will succeed or fail all on my own. It is freeing…absolutely liberating and totally terrifying. I have always done what was expected, fulfilling all the responsibilities thrust upon me. Until this point, my life was micromanaged and scheduled without my input.

Running my fingers through my hair, I nearly laugh at the absurdity of giving myself a pep talk.

There is nothing left to do except move forward.

Madyson has started the paperwork to amend my tourist visa, so I will have a work-sponsored visa. And my life is packed in two suitcases and a duffle bag, sitting around the corner in the hall, waiting for me to start my new life.

It will be more challenging to succeed here than back home. Somehow, it's easier knowing this is only temporary. The best part of New York City is the anonymity. I'll find out if my mediocre success in Sweden as a sculptor was due to my name recognition or my talent. I will return to Sweden with either a new career or energized from being out of the public eye.

I hear the clink of glasses and know that Madyson and Jayce are waiting for me to celebrate. The office wall facing the gallery is glass, so they have a view of my back. If I turn around, I could see them sitting in the lounge area. They have given me more than enough time and will probably swoop in once I set the pen down.

The pen is currently tangled in my long hair, stuck between my scalp and fingers. Untangling it, I steady my hand and sign my name.

This new opportunity is a privilege to become a working artist, creating sculptures from recycled metal. I can move forward in my life and find the passion that escapes me.

As expected, seconds after I push the contract to the other side of the desk, Madyson's heels click across the floor and the door opens. "Congratulations," she exclaims, sitting on the corner of the desk with three champagne glasses in hand. With a head toss, she flips her fiery red hair over her shoulder.

"Big day." Jayce's large hand lands on my shoulder.

I do my best to smile, but I'm grimacing. They are a picturesque couple. Jayce is huge—an inch or two taller than my six feet but much bulkier. All the years of weightlifting and skating with over twenty pounds of gear show, even in his suit.

Madyson has a default stern expression, but she lights up when she looks at Jayce. I've decided that her face hides a soft heart. She defies the stereotypical New Yorker and has been extremely helpful.

If Jayce weren't so in love with his wife, he'd be my type. It has been years since I have dated, but I do prefer my partner to be muscular. Both men and women.

Dating is out of the question right now. It requires things my heart is not yet capable of.

I am determined to put the past year behind me and not wallow. Grief and denial are unsuitable for love, but someday I hope to find it. A love like my parents', stable and reliable, with immense trust. Predictable and reserved, unlike Americans who thrive on thrill seeking and never hesitate to voice their opinions.

"How did your parents take the news?" Jayce pours the champagne.

I hesitate. "They are supportive." Mamma and Pappa are stoic and would never voice their disappointment, and I can pretend their silence is approval.

"It never gets easier for parents, even when we're older." Jayce hands me a glass. "Mothers never want to lose their sons, especially their firstborn. When I left Minnesota, you would've thought I was going to Mars. Even though she knew I dreamed of a shot at college hockey and the NHL since I was a kid."

"Are you a firstborn?"

"Yes, and the only son." Jayce kisses the side of Madyson's head as he hands her the champagne. "My poor sisters have to hear my mother either sing my praises or curse my name. You?"

"Firstborn and I have a sister as well." The truth tightens my throat, clogging the untold lie I might choke on. I hold up my glass. "To success." My hollow laugh falls flat as I try to fake optimism.

"Success is all a matter of personal definition." Madyson clinks my glass, giving me a side-eye as if she knows I cannot picture success as an artist. I wonder if all Americans are this direct, or if it's New Yorkers, or only this redhead. Or maybe she googled me.

"To all forms of success." Jayce raises his glass.

"You know…" Madyson pauses as Jayce sits in her chair, and she snuggles into his lap. "New York City has a reputation as a place where dreams come true. Coming here, meeting us, it's all kismet." Her smile is wide, showing all of her perfect bright white teeth.

"That's sweet." Jayce nuzzles her neck.

Madyson's laugh erupts out of her. "Who knows, Von, maybe you'll never want to leave."

Even though the thought of going back to Sweden fills me with dread, this is temporary. The work visa should be valid for three years, the maximum time I can live here before I return home—a lifetime. I could always reapply for a work visa or apply for a green card, but I cannot imagine living here permanently.

They have been so helpful and friendly, but I'm waiting the socially acceptable amount of time to excuse myself and retreat to my new loft. Small talk is not something I am good at or want to engage in.

The front door crashes open, startling me, and an obnoxious voice sings, "Honey, I'm home!"

Madyson squeals and scrambles out of Jayce's lap to meet the late-night guest. I catch a glimpse of an emotion cross Jayce's face, but it's gone too fast to identify. He asks me about the weather in Sweden compared to here, but his eyes stay on Madyson.

After a few minutes of excruciating small talk, he rises slowly with a sigh. "It appears this celebration is over. Come meet Madyson's friend and then I'll show you to your loft."

The man's voice is boisterous, and Madyson clearly welcomes him. His tone radiates joy and everything in me fights not to run. It's agonizing to be subjected to the newcomer's easygoing cheerfulness.

The familiarity of it breaks loose the pain I've tried to wrestle into submission.

I hang my head, dreading an introduction and more small talk before I can leave.

I turn to face the voice standing between me and peace and quiet.

Helvete. The voice is attached to a stunning man. He's tall, well built, with a lazy smile, and has eyes full of mischief. He gestures with carefree confidence.

But worst of all, he has my kryptonite.

Dimples.

I need to leave immediately.

Dimples are my downfall.