Page 3 of Top Shelf

I know Viktor well enough to be annoyed by him, but tragically, I also know him well enough to notice how good he looks standing beside that damn bike.

“Viktor,” I answer back, a little too sharply.

His gaze drops to my coffee-stained sleeve, to the folder held tightly against my ribs, then to the ridiculous angle of my car wheel.

“Your car is broken.”

I stare at him, and hear Sunglasses McStop-Sign shuffle beside me.

“Yes,” I reply. “Thank you for lending your professional analysis to the scene.”

Viktor’s gaze drifts to my tire again. “It needs a tow.”

“Yes, I’d gathered that from the way my car is trying to kneel.”

He nods at my folder. “You have meeting? At Moreno Clinic?”

“I do.” My heart drops through my ribs as I remember the time. “And now I’m late.”

“Moreno does not like late.” His eyes return to my sleeve. “And you have coffee on you.”

I inhale and look up toward the sky. “I’m aware.”

“It looks like Finland.”

I almost laugh, and I hate him a little for it.

Sunglasses McStop-Sign clears his throat. “Are you two—”

“No,” I say at the same time Viktor says, “Yes.”

My head whips toward him. “Excuse me?”

He looks at the man, then back at me. “We know each other.”

“That wasn’t what he was gonna ask.”

“It was what I was answering.”

I open my mouth, close it again, and decide the safest thing for everyone is to redirect my frustrations toward survival.

“Insurance,” I say to the man, holding out my hand. “Please.”

Maybe it’s my credentials, maybe it’s Viktor looming nearby in leather, looking like the president of a Scandinavian motorcycle club. Or maybe this guy has just finally realized reality is not taking his side on this one. Whatever the reason, he hands it over.

Within a few minutes, I have photos of both vehicles, his license, his insurance card, the corner camera, the damage from six angles, as well as my own plate, because I’m exactly the type of person who will forget her own registration number.

My hands tremble again once the task is done and the tow company is organized. It’s just adrenaline burning off into the jittery aftermath once Sunglasses McStop-Sign drives off, but I hate that Viktor notices.

“You can go,” I mutter, glancing up at him. “I’m gonna get a cab.”

I tap through my phone, ignoring the four missed calls. Two from Carina. One from the clinic. Another from Moreno’s own number, which is somehow worse than a voicemail from the IRS. My stomach folds in on itself. “Shit. Shit, shit, shit.”

Viktor steps closer. “I will take you.”

Frowning, I look up. “What?”

“To the clinic.”