Page 146 of Top Shelf

Wanting him is easy. I can admit that in front of his grandmother and half his family, apparently. It’s everything else that scares the shit out of me.

By afternoon, the table has been cleared and reset twice, the kitchen smells like dill and potatoes and warm bread, and I have been given so many small jobs that I suspect Astrid is either testing me or adopting me through labor.

I slice strawberries and carry plates. I help Alice and Vera gather escaped flower stems from the grass while Hugo tells me at length about a frog named Magnus who may or may not exist.

And through it all, Viktor is never far. Sometimes he’s across the terrace helping Anders move benches. Sometimes he’s near the barn with Johan, lifting a trestle table into place. And sometimes he passes close enough for his fingers to brush mine, checking in to make sure I’m still okay.

Each time, I feel his hands long after he moves away.

Which is why I notice when Anders appears at Viktor’s shoulder and speaks in low in Swedish. Viktor glances out toward Anton in the driveway, then across the terrace to me. A few moments later, he finds me beside the back door.

“I have to go into town for a few hours,” he says. “There are more documents for Solvik that Pappa, Anton and I need to sign.”

I shrug a shoulder and nod. “Okay.”

He doesn’t move, and my eyebrows tick up. “Were you hoping I’d chain myself to the Volvo and refuse to let you leave?”

“No.” His mouth curves, but his attention stays locked on my face. “You will be okay here?”

I catch two fingers in the front of his shirt and tug him an inch closer. “Viktor, you mother has fed me four times since breakfast, Ebba is never far away, and I’m surrounded by wildflowers with a lake sparkling in the sun.” I glance toward the treeline, then back at him. “It’s a terrible burden, honestly. I don’t know how your family has endured it for generations.”

“Mm. You are very brave.”

I grin, but his hand settles at my waist and his expression doesn’t quite lose it’s concern.

“Still,” he adds quietly. “You would tell me if you were not comfortable?”

“Yes.”

“And if you need me, you call and—”

“I know.” I give his shirt another small tug. “Go sign your mysterious Swedish land paperwork, Karlsson. I’ll still be here when you get back.”

His face eases, and then he bends to kiss me. It’s brief, but his hand firms at my waist and his mouth lingers long enough to make my fingers tighten in his shirt before he pulls away.

“I will not be long.”

He isn’t. But it’s strange how much I notice his absence anyway. The afternoon keeps moving around me, with Astrid handing me more strawberries to slice, Hugo eventually showing me Magnus the frog, and Freja recruiting me for flower arrangements. But every so often I catch myself searching for six foot four inches of tattooed Swedish husband.

And when the car finally crunches back up the driveway, Viktor is beside me within minutes, his hand immediately finding the small of my back. After that, he barely leaves my side again as the day slides into evening.

The land seems to stretch under the long light, stitched with wild color at the edges. There are fields beyond the trees, some already turning gold beneath the sun, and the meadow closest to the house hums with bees.

By the time the children start talking about the seven flowers tradition, I am half-convinced Midsummer is less a holiday and more a collective decision to overwhelm outsiders through beauty.

“You know the tradition?” Astrid asks me while tying twine around a bundle of herbs.

“The maypole? Dancing? Flower crowns?”

“No.” She shakes her head. “The seven flowers under the pillow.”

I shake my head, and Alice gasps like I have confessed a crime.

“On Midsommar Eve, you pick seven different wildflowers.”

“In silence,” Vera adds.

“Then you put them under your pillow,” Alice says, “and you dream of your true love.”