Page 2 of Top Shelf

“Yes,” I say, because although I forget where I put my keys every single morning of my life, if there’s one thing my brain can do during a crisis, it’s remember minor details with clarity. “I looked at my speedometer about a second before you ignored your stop sign and drove into the side of my car.”

His mouth tightens. “I didn’t ignore it.”

“You rolled through it.”

“I stopped.”

“You paused only in your imagination.”

The man stares at me, and I stare back. A car creeps past us, slowing enough for the driver to absorb every crumb of this breakfast theatre, and I force myself to breathe through my nose.

My phone buzzes in my palm. Probably Carina. Maybe Moreno. Or possibly God, calling to ask why I didn’t leave ten minutes earlier like I’d planned to, instead of spending eight of those minutes finding the right sports bra—the one that doesn’t make my ribs itch.

“Look,” the man sighs, his tone immediately making my skin prickle as he moves his sunglasses onto his head. “Why don’t we both calm down and exchange details?”

“I am calm.”

His gaze flicks to my outfit again. “Sure.”

Behind me, beyond the rush of traffic and the metallic tick of my poor wounded car, an engine purrs low. Definitely a motorcycle. The sound bubbles louder through the air as it gets closer, then cuts off near the curb. I hear a bike stand click down, and boots touch pavement, but I don’t look back. I register it only on the edges, as I’m too busy watching Sunglasses McStop-Sign pull his phone from his pocket.

“I have a meeting,” I say quickly, because if I don’t get the words out now, they’ll jam up. “A funding meeting, actually. It’s very important. And my car clearly isn’t going anywhere, so I need your insurance details, name, phone, and plate number. I also need to call a tow company, and probably my boss, although technically Dr. Moreno isn’t my boss in this specific situation because this is a partnership pitch, but he’s definitely gonna give me that look where he becomes ninety percent giant eyebrow, and I—”

“Whoa,” the man cuts in, raising his palm. “Let’s start with your name, sweetheart. Can you manage that?”

My morning narrows to a pinpoint. Work, the meeting, Kevin the damn snail, Randy the love-language criminal, my broken tire, the throbbing pulse in my throat and the hot pink flash of my sleeve in the sun.

I feel the exact moment my nervous system stops being nervous and becomes focused, because fuck this and fuck him.

“My name,” I say, smiling with every tooth, “is Dr. Heidi Grant. PT, DPT, OCS, CSCS.”

His mouth opens, but I lift a finger.

“That’s licensed physical therapist, Doctor of Physical Therapy, board-certified orthopedic clinical specialist, and certified strength and conditioning specialist. Would you like me to repeat those letters for you, or did you manage to get them the first time?”

The man’s face flushes above the collar of his crisp shirt. “I didn’t mean t—”

“No, you meant to be condescending because I’m wearing pink and talking fast, which must mean I’m too dumb to know the difference between a hard stop and the suggestion of one.” My voice stays light—the same voice that makes Carina smirk at whichever poor soul has underestimated me. “But luckily for both of us, my career revolves around observing movement, assessing impact, and noticing when men compensate for being wrong by swinging their metaphorical dicks around.”

His jaw works, and I smile back, then turn to point at his SUV.

“Your bumper has a minor crush injury. My wheel alignment is currently in need of the ICU.” I spin to gesture at the side street he came from next. “That stop sign is visible from space, there’s a security camera on the corner of that building, and the woman in the blue Subaru who just drove by slowed down long enough to collect enough witness testimony for both of us. So,” I continue, turning back toward him. “We can either exchange information like adults, or I can continue explaining basic accountability to you while standing here dressed in what I assume you believe is far too much pink.”

The man looks past me again, and this time I let myself glance back. Which is unfortunate, because I promptly forget what oxygen is meant to do.

Viktor Karlsson stands beside a matte black motorcycle, with a helmet tucked beneath his arm, and one boot planted on the asphalt. He’s leaning at an angle that suggests he’s been standing there long enough to enjoy watching me dismantle a stranger in traffic for at least a few minutes.

He’s in his usual black jeans, white T-shirt, and black leather jacket combo, exuding his brand of calm that feels deeply unrealistic before nine in the morning.

His honey blond hair, which he usually has tied in a rough topknot, is flattened slightly from the helmet. The tops of his tattoos peek out from the collar of his T-shirt, and when my eyes finally meet his own icy blues, I’m met with an expression I know too well. Unimpressed.

Except, maybe not.

With Viktor, everything has to be translated twice. Once from Swedish to English, and then from whatever emotionally stunted dialect he speaks when his face refuses to participate.

“Heidi,” he says with a nod.

My stomach gives a traitorous twist, because my name in his Swedish accent has no business sounding like that. Especially as it’s not the first time I’ve heard him say it. He exists in the loose, messy orbit around my life. A former patient, current Colorado Storm defenseman, and occasional silent giant at backyard gatherings and team-adjacent brunches.