Chapter Five #3
"I didn’t hire you to do anything. And yet, here you are. This could count as stalking," he says, a challenge in his eyes.
"Don’t flatter yourself. I’m not one of your crazy female fans going through your trash to get your location and whereabouts."
He glances up, hands pausing, an eyebrow cocked as if I’d just admitted I keep a shrine of his game-used tape in my closet.
Okay, going through his trash was oddly specific.
"You’re not exactly making a great case for yourself," he says.
I ignored his comment. I know that didn’t land well, but stalking?... Come on. That seems a little dramatic to accuse me of.
"What did she ask you?" I ask as he returns to wiping himself down.
His jaw flexes, but he doesn’t look back up as he continues to wipe off his sweater.
"What did she ask?" I press again.
Finally, he glances back up, holding my gaze.
"She asked if you were my wife."
My stomach flips and I have no idea why. Being married to Luka Popovich sounds like an absolute nightmare. Maybe even worse than being stuck in a snowy hellhole without a room.
"And what did you say?"
"You witnessed the entire thing. I barely got a word out before she baptized me." Apparently, glancing to see what woman she was referring to was stalling. Which, logically, in her mind, made me guilty."
Heat climbs up my neck.
"That’s not what I meant to do," I say. "I was just—"
"What?" he cut in. "Marking your territory?"
My spine stiffens. As if I would ever lay claim to a man like Luka. A cocky hockey player who will never settle down. No way, not my type. "I don’t care who you go home with."
"Clearly. Considering your timing is impeccable. Just a coincidence then?"
I glance at his soaked sweater. "You were about to leave with her, weren’t you?"
He stands, stepping closer.
Wet fabric clings to his chest. The scent of whiskey and cologne wrapped around me.
"Yes. And you couldn’t let that happen, could you?" he asks quietly.
I lift my chin. "You’re supposed to be in Seattle smoothing things over with the committee. Not vacationing across the world picking up women in a bar."
"Is that what that was?" he asks softly. "Professional concern?" The space between us shrinks as he steps closer. "I told you back in Seattle to go home."
"And I told you," I say, matching his volume, "ignoring a problem doesn’t make it disappear."
His eyes narrow. "Did my agent tell you to fly out here?"
"Yes," I say.
"And you did it."
"Well, I’m not a mirage."
"I’d say that’s been made evidently clear by the Moscow Mule I’m currently dripping in."
I don’t point out the irony in the drink, or how fitting it is of the man wearing it. Both that he’s from Moscow and that he’s as stubborn as a mule. They really ought to just rename the drink Luka Popovich. But now’s not the best time to point that out.
Instead, we stand there, face to face. Both of us are calculating our next moves.
"Why can’t you let this go?" he asks.
There’s no way I’m telling him that if he doesn’t cooperate, I’ll lose my job.
"I have my reasons. Maybe you're just the kind of charity case I need for some good karma."
He smirks. "I know what Randolph paid the last two PR agents that tried to get me to cooperate, and my guess… he’s paying you at least double."
"Triple," I counter.
Finally, a real smirk pulls at his lips. "Good to know Randolph still thinks I’m worth the investment. So, you lied. This is about the money… not good karma."
"Maybe it’s both." I lift a brow and stand a little taller on instinct, as if posture can make up for the fact that without heels, he’s got almost a foot on me.
"What kind of sins have you committed that require karma to wipe them clean?" he asks, a ghost of a smirk.
"None that concern you."
"That’s disappointing. For once our conversation might have gotten interesting."
His gaze flicked over my coat. My damp hair. The faint exhaustion and jet lag I’m trying not to show.
"You don’t have a room," he says.
It isn’t a question. He’s annoyingly observant, and I’m currently standing in the bar of a hotel with all of my luggage instead of checking into my room.
I glance toward the lobby, where the front desk is still drowning in stranded guests. I have no idea where I am going to end up tonight. Hopefully, a room opens up tomorrow.
"No," I admit. "Unless the resort offers a deluxe chair-and-blanket package."
Luka huffs a casual laugh. It’s short, but it’s the first time I’ve seen his I-don’t-give-a-fuck mask slip.
"This place is booked solid," he says. "I know. I rent my chalet a year in advance."
I don’t need him to tell me what the woman at the front desk already made clear. I’m not getting a room.
"Chalet?" I repeat.
"Yes."
"And you’re here alone," I say, because I need to know what I’m walking into before I ask.
His eyes cut back to mine.
"Do you want to ask me if I’m alone," he says, "or do you want to ask me for what you actually want?"
Heat crawls up my throat and though inconvenient, Carey’s words come flying back at me, "Try not to sleep your way into this…" Not that I ever have or ever would. If I were ever going to start, it wouldn’t be with Luka Popovich, who probably has to see his doctor for an STD checkup so often that they’ve issued him a stamp card. The tenth visit is free.
"Do you have an extra room?" I ask, glancing around the bar, the idea that if he doesn’t, I’ll be sleeping on the floor with the rest of these patrons. "A couch, maybe? If I’m honest, I’d take the floor at this point."
He studied me for a long moment.
Long enough that I start to wonder if he’s just waiting me out to make me suffer.
Then he says, "That’s a bad idea and we both know it." And walks around me toward the exit of the bar.
My heart drops.
For half a second, I consider letting him go. Let him walk away and leave me standing here. Let him drown in his own arrogance… and his Olympic disaster, for that matter.
But I didn’t fly halfway across the world to lose a staring contest in a ski bar.
I swallow what’s left of my pride, grab the handle of my luggage, and go after him.
"What do you mean by, ‘that’s a bad idea’?" I ask, hurrying to keep up with his long strides.
"I don’t put myself in those positions," he says without slowing. "You’re a stranger. For all I know, you could be an axe murderer."
I blink. "An axe murderer? Luka, you’re twice my size. I doubt I could overpower you even if I tried. And I’m a reputable PR agent. I don’t think Legacy PR would keep me on if I had a habit of murdering clients."
"I’m not your client," he says as I continue to keep up with him through the lobby with even more stranded guests than before.
"Actually, that is the exact definition of our working relationship. You are my client. Otherwise, I would not have chased you all the way out to my own personal hell," I say.
He stops without warning, and I slam straight into his back. An "oof" escapes me as I bounce off what feels like a six-foot-four brick wall. He doesn’t even wobble. All five-foot-five of me feels so much smaller than him.
Slowly, he turns his head just enough for me to see the edge of his profile. "Your own personal hell?"
"I don’t like the cold, and I especially don’t like skiing. It’s one of the many reasons I live in Arizona."
He shakes his head. "You hate the cold, you don’t ski, and you thought it would be a good idea to follow me into a blizzard."
I place a hand on my hip. "To save your career… yes."
And mine, I say in my head.
He blows out a deep sigh and looks around at the reception area packed with pissed-off vacationers. He knows exactly what I’m up against tonight if he doesn’t agree to give me a small place to sleep.
"Fine. You can stay with me, but you’ll have to share half the bed."
"Share half the bed? Are you crazy?" I shake my head. "No, that’s fine. I’m sure there is a couch or chair… or rug that will suit me just fine until this all gets cleared up tomorrow and I get my room."
He lets out a humorless snicker. "There’s no chance of you getting a room for another few days at least. This mess is going to take a while to clean up.
As much as I’d be happy to let you sleep on the floor, the Chalet doesn’t have any extra blankets.
I only have the duvet on the bed, and with people sleeping on floors in the hotel lobby, there’s no chance of the hotel having any spare blankets to hand out.
" He looked me up and down in my parka. "And since the cold is your own personal hell, I’d say you’re not the kind of girl that will survive the night without a blanket.
It gets cold even with the fireplace and the central heating. "
"I’m not sleeping with you. That’s not going to happen."
"It is," he replies. "Or you’re going to freeze your ass off. You keep to your side, and I’ll stick to mine, and with any luck, we’ll get you back on a plane out of here as soon as possible."
"I’m not leaving until you agree to come with me," I tell him.
"That’s not how this is going to work."
I exhale through my nose, gripping the handle of my suitcase hard enough that my fingers ache.
"You’re enjoying this," I mutter.
"That you’re getting instant karma for stalking me and scaring away my entertainment twice?" he asks. "Yeah, I might be."
Then he turns back around and pushes through the massive double doors of the resort and heads out into the snow.
"You coming," he asks, not glancing over his shoulder to see if I am, "or are you sleeping in the lobby with everyone else?"
I hate him. I really hate him.
"I’m coming," I bite out and take my first step outside into the cold, my luggage clutched tight.
The storm hits me the second we step outside. This isn’t a winter wonderland like the airport advertised on their posters. This storm has claws and teeth that steal my breath so fast I almost choke on it.