Page 132 of Top Shelf
“Yes, I can.”
“Viktor.”
His thumb stills. “They will like you because you are you.”
My chest pulls tight, and the plane might as well vanish beneath us, because he says it as though it’s the simplest thing in the world.
I look down at our joined hands, and my ring catches the light through the window, sparkling against the dry skin around my knuckle. “I’m not exactly the most normal wife to bring home to family.”
“I don’t care. You are my wife.”
“For inheritance purposes.”
His jaw shifts almost imperceptibly, and I wish I hadn’t said it—or I wish I’d said it differently. Or maybe I just wish it didn’t feel so awful to reduce us to the legal agreement we made when there is nothing legal about the way his hand feels wrapped around mine.
Viktor looks toward the window for a second, then back at me. “My family knows why we married quickly.”
“Yes, but they think we were dating beforehand.”
“Yes. But they are just curious, Heidi. They want to celebrate. They are not cruel.”
Curious, I can handle. Probably. Maybe. And cruel, I know what to do with. Cruel gives you walls and distance and polite exit strategies. Warmth and curiosity are harder, because they ask you to sit down at the table and eat something made with love while the vulnerable parts of you are on display.
The turbulence fades into smaller tremors and the seatbelt sign stays on, but the flight attendants start moving again. Viktor doesn’t let go of my hand.
“Teach me something useful,” I say, because if the feeling sits between us much longer, I’m going to do something alarming like confess my feelings at cruising altitude. “Like some useful Swedish sayings.”
His brows lift. “Useful Swedish?”
“Yes. For your family. More than the standard hello and thank you.”
“Hej. Tack.”
“I already know those.”
His mouth lifts at the side. “Trevligt att träffas. Nice to meet you.”
I repeat it badly, and he says it again slowly, his accent shifting around the words in a way that does rude things to my concentration.
“Trevligt att träffas,” I try.
“Better.”
“Your face says that’s a lie.”
He huffs a laugh. “It is good enough.”
“Viktor! That means it’s still bad!
“They will understand you, min fru.”
I practice it twice more until he nods, then learn snälla for please, förlåt for sorry, and hjälp because apparently, the possibility of me needing to yell for help in his grandmother’s kitchen amuses him.
“What’s something else I should say?” I ask.
He looks at me for a long moment, and I raise a brow, waiting for him to continue. Then he leans closer with his mouth to my ear, voice low and smooth.
“Jag vill ha dig.”
