Page 6 of Top Shelf

“Excuse you,” I say, my voice now muffled by the helmet. “Did you just shut me in?”

“It was open. You need to be closed up to ride.”

“Like luggage.”

“Yes.” His eyes move over the helmet, then back to mine. “Like precious cargo.”

My mouth opens, even though I know he can’t see it. He turns and swings a long leg over the bike, and starts it with a humming growl that travels straight up through the pavement into every traitorous part of me. I stare at the space behind him where I’m supposed to sit and hold onto him.

This is fine. Fine.

It’s a short ride to the clinic for an incredibly important meeting, and I’m a grown-ass woman with multiple qualifications and a working knowledge of motorcycle trauma. I’m absolutely capable of climbing onto the back of this bike without thinking about Viktor Karlsson’s abs.

I climb on behind him and immediately think about Viktor Karlsson’s abs.

There’s nowhere polite to put my hands. And the universe, which has clearly been on a personal vendetta against me since approximately 7:13 a.m. this morning, offers no assistance.

A sudden crackle travels through the helmet speakers, loud enough to make me flinch, followed by bouncy, familiar pop music blasting directly into my ears.

Viktor freezes, and the song cuts off so fast it leaves a ringing silence behind.

I look at the back of his helmet. “Was that ‘Joyride’ by Roxette?”

“No.”

“That was definitely Roxette.”

“Hold on to me.”

“Viktor.”

“Helmet Bluetooth. It connects automatically.”

“To Roxette?”

He says nothing, and I stare at the back of him through my visor while he pretends I didn’t just hear one of Sweden’s peppiest pop songs. After a beat, his helmet turns over his shoulder toward me.

“Priscilla likes Swedish music. Now, hold on.”

“I’m sorry. Priscilla?”

“Yes.” His gloved hand pats the fuel tank in an oddly fond way. “The bike.”

“Your bike is named Priscilla.”

“Yes.”

I wait for more explanation, but in true Viktor style, none comes.

“Right,” I say with a laugh, because what the fuck else is left to do. I’m on the back of a motorcycle named Priscilla with a man who listens to Roxette loud enough to cause soft-tissue damage. “Good. I mean, not great. Kinda feels like information I should’ve had before consenting to this ride.”

Viktor glances back again. “Hold on.”

“I am.”

“You are holding the seat.”

“Yes, because the seat is attached to Priscilla, and Priscilla seems like the most emotionally stable person in this arrangement.”