Page 43 of Top Shelf

“I can repeat it with more drama.”

A laugh bubbles out of me, and I shake my head. “That won’t be necessary.”

I read on because that’s now the safer option than looking at his mouth while the word fuck is still echoing around the room.

Viktor watches my hand reach for the pen beside my keyboard again, and start writing more notes into the margins. I add a term for no unauthorized studio decisions without explicit prior consent from me, then underline it twice.

He leans forward to read it, and I get a faint scent of rain and woodsy cologne. “I agree with the clause.”

I hum. “Men agree to all kinds of things before they decide they know better.”

“I will not decide I know better about your studio.”

“You’d better not.”

I move to the next section, adding in more notes on public statements about the studio, its funding, or personal history. I agree that a marriage expiry date needs to be negotiated clearly before signing. Add that separate bedrooms are required unless mutually renegotiated in writing for the purpose of optics during travel. No sex required, implied, assumed, or used as evidence of marriage validity.

I stop, and the red pen hovers over the page. Viktor is very quiet across from me as he reads my annotations. I add one more, then I underline it so hard the pen nearly tears through the paper.

No feelings.

Viktor sucks in a deep breath. “That clause may be difficult to enforce.”

My laugh comes out sharp. “Is that a legal observation or a personal warning?”

“Legal.”

“Good.”

“Mostly.”

My eyes snap to his. He looks back at me, unreadable as ever, but the air shifts between us regardless. His knees are close to mine under the desk, and the ring box gleams stupidly in my peripheral vision. I swallow, turning back to the page to write whatever idea pops into my head first to pull me away from eyes the same color as aquamarine.

“Helmet use mandatory,” I add.

He blinks. “What?”

“On Priscilla. If I’m required to participate in marital optics involving your death machine, helmet use is mandatory.”

“That is already law.”

“I don’t care. It goes in the contract.”

“Fine.”

“And no riding if I say no.”

“Okay.”

“And also no riding if I have wet hair.”

He frowns. “Why wet hair?”

“Because, I—” I shudder and make a face. “I just feel like it’d be gross.”

“Fine.”

“No Roxette ambush through helmet Bluetooth without warning.”