Free Nordic Lessons by Christine Edwards

about?”
    “Old school mate, lots of bad blood. Too long a story to get into right now, though.”
    He pulls back slightly, eyes raking me from head to toe. “You look beautiful.”
    I flush and glance quickly at my cobalt blue wrap dress and ivory cropped jacket, decorated with several silver zippers, some of them functional. Over-the-knee black suede Prada boots round out the outfit.
    “Thank you. I had the appointment I mentioned to you at the downtown gallery today, hence the proper attire.”
    “I look forward to hearing all about it over steaks tonight, min skjønne . I’m sorry you caught the tail end of that mess out there. Not something I wanted my girl to see.”
    He reaches out to touch me on the hip but freezes when he notices the filth on his hands. “Let me get cleaned up. Jag’s finished, have a look.” He cocks his head to the far bay of the garage. “It was the starter. Put a new one in, and it’s good to go now.”
    I smile and take in his midnight blue, button-down short-sleeved work shirt. His forearms are tanned and thick with honed muscles. Mmm ….
    The oval patch stitched on his right breast pocket reads, ‘Slave driver.’ Stealing a glance at Bern, who’s standing nearby pouring coffee, I see that his reads ‘Jack Meoff.’ ”
    What in the world?
    I burst into an involuntary fit of giggles and finally am able to ask, “What are these ridiculous patches all about? Your idea?”
    His eyes brighten and his lips twitch. “Every Christmas, we have a dark, running joke. We pick out fitting nicknames for each other, order the shirts, and regardless of what you’re stuck with, you gotta wear it every Monday to the shop.”
    I wipe the tears from the corners of my eyes. “And what happens if you refuse?”
    “You don’t.” Curt. Abrupt.
    “But if someone did?” I say between giggles.
    “Then you gotta wear it for two weeks straight.”
    I finally manage to contain my laughter. “That’s outrageous!” I level him with a heated, questioning look before asking, “So, is it true?”
    “What, babe?”
    “ Are you a total slave driver?”
    I watch in fascination as he goes very still, eyelids dropping slightly. Then, holding me in his smoldering gaze, he says with supreme confidence, “Absolutely, Elora.”
    My breath hitches as I whisper ever so softly, “Oh.”
    A dark vision of him as the ultimate master in the bedroom begins to form in my mind; it’s graphic and irresistible. It’s undoubtedly about to become my sensual reality.
    Gunnar walks up, interrupting the sexual fantasy. Speaking in heavily accented English, he tells Mikkel, “Here’s her helmet.”
    I watch him reach out to take it from the huge man. He gives it a once-over, turning it around in his hands. Gunnar’s patch reads, ‘Hugh G. Rection.’ These guys are incorrigible.
    I choke out a laugh. Gunnar grins down at his chest and says, “Like that? Pretty funny, right? They finally picked the perfect patch out for me this year.”
    From the stack of papers he is going through on the desk, Bern pipes up, “Yeah right, Gunnar. You do realize that the guys who have to talk about it don’t have jack shit going on downstairs.”
    Gunnar gives a loud snort before saying sharply, “The ladies are always more than satisfied. Can’t get enough!”
    Mikkel shakes his head in exasperation and I can’t stop laughing at their ridiculous banter.
    “All right, Elora, I’m going to follow you over to your place. I’ll park on the street and wait for you. Need you to carry your helmet in the Jag, no room on my ride.”
    “Of course.”
    He holds out the sleek, matte-black modern helmet that reads ‘Arai Corsair V’ in smoke gray lettering down the side. It looks very expensive and well constructed, which in the motorcycle world must mean top safety.
    “Thank you, Mikkel. It’s very nice. Are you certain?” I’ve come to know him well enough to understand that protesting his generosity is futile.
    He ignores