Page 63 of Top Shelf

Viktor: I will come.

Me: I’m a grown woman with a phone and an excellent passenger rating.

Viktor: No. I will come.

Me: You’re a very bossy husband.

Viktor: See you in ten minutes

I start typing about independence and ride-share technology and that it was champagne in a locked commercial unit, not absinthe in a ditch, but then I look around the empty studio and realize I don’t want to argue with him. I want the extra minutes alone, and after that, I want him to show up.

When Viktor pulls up ten minutes later, I’m already waiting on the curb with my shoes dangling from my hand, and the lease folder hugged against my chest. He gets out of the car and glances down at my feet.

“You’re barefoot,” he says.

“Mm, I was feeling too lazy to put them back on.”

“It is a parking lot.”

I ignore him and lift the folder. “I signed a lease.”

A warmth shifts through his face as he takes me in. “I know.”

“No, but I signed it, Viktor. With a pen. My hand did the big swoopy doop signature thing while Halbrook watched. It was a very erotic commercial real estate experience.”

His mouth twitches. “I am sorry I missed it.”

“You should be. I was very professional all day. Then I took my shoes off and drank champagne on the floor.”

“That sounds more like you.”

He says it with an affectionate tone I decide to ignore and gesture toward the studio windows instead. “Do you wanna see it?”

Viktor’s eyes lift to the dark glass behind me. “Now?”

“Yes, now. You’re here, I’m here. The walls are here. Everything is in the one place.”

“Mm. How much did you drink?”

“Just a celebratory amount of champagne. Come on, pleeeease?”

“Okay. Show me, then.”

He takes the keys from my hand without comment when I fumble them, which is unfairly attractive. Inside, I flick on the lights and step into the empty space with my arms wide and my grin wider, unable to help myself.

“Okay. Imagine less dust. And mirrors there.” I point. “Reformers there, and strength work along that wall. Mobility in the corner and a small lounge area by the windows, because athletes pretend they don’t need somewhere to sit until you give them somewhere to sit.”

Viktor stands near the door, looking at all the places I point to. He doesn’t interrupt or rush me, but his eyes keep dragging back to me.

“It’s empty,” I say, softer. “But it’s mine.”

“No.” His gaze stays on mine. “It is waiting. And beautiful.”

I stare at him.

“Okay, that was unfairly good.”

His brow creases. “What?”