Chapter Six
NATALIA
The cold hit me out of nowhere.
A gust of wind slices through the bedroom, so sharp and sudden it yanks me awake.
I jolted upright, disoriented, blinking against the pale morning light filtering through the doorway of the bedroom that had been left open.
The comforter twisted around my legs during the night—not surprising, given I spent most of it trying not to think about Luka sleeping up against me most of the night to keep me warm.
A pillow strategically placed between us to keep things where they belong.
My gaze snaps to Luka’s side of the bed to find it vacant. The clock reads that it’s almost seven thirty in the morning, which means power must have been restored early this morning.
My vision shoots past the open bedroom door to the figure halfway out the entrance of the chalet, broad shoulders, dark hair, ski jacket zipped to his throat.
"Where are you going?" I call out.
Luka freezes, one boot already over the threshold. He doesn't turn around. For a second I think he's going to pretend he didn't hear me, just walk out and disappear into the white blizzard beyond.
But then he looks back. Just his face, profile sharp against the morning brightness.
"Skiing."
He gives me only one word.
"But there’s a blizzard out there. Do you have a death wish?"
"A blizzard means new powder on the slopes. It’s the best snow I’ll get for the entire trip."
"There’s no way the ski resort has the lifts open in this weather," I argue.
"It’s a blizzard, Natalia… not Armageddon," he says, turning back to the outside.
My brain catches up with my mouth. "Wait—Luka, we need to talk."
"No, we don't."
He steps fully outside now, and the door starts to swing closed. I scramble out of bed, my feet hitting the cold floor with a shock that barely registers because I'm too busy trying to process what he just said.
Now that I know how cold the floor is, I’m glad he didn’t let me sleep on the floor last night. I would have frozen my butt off, but right now isn’t the time to swallow my pride and thank him.
"Yes, we do—"
He glances over his ski-jacketed shoulder at me in my freezing pajama shorts. "You’re going home as soon as the airport opens back up." His voice cuts through the wind. "Don’t worry. We’ll survive the separation."
Then he takes a step forward into the blanket of snow, pulling the door with him.
"Luka, hold on—"
But he’s already gone, and the door slamming shut echoed through the chalet.
I lunge forward, grabbing the handle and yanking the door open, immediately regretting every decision I've ever made.
The cold doesn't just hit me. It's a full-blown assault.
The brutal, frigid air of the Alpine cut like a knife straight through the thin cotton of my shirt and wrapped icy fingers around my lungs.
My breath leaves in a visible gasp. Snow glitters in the early morning light, blinding me.
Somewhere beyond the covered porch, I can barely make out Luka's figure through the storm. He’s halfway down the path, skis slung over his shoulder.
I open my mouth to yell after him just as another blast of wind steals the words right out of my throat.
"Jesus—"
I yelp and stagger backward, slamming the door shut so hard the frame rattles. My arms wrap around myself instinctively, rubbing heat back into skin that feels like it's been flash-frozen.
"I hate the snow," I mutter, teeth chattering. "I hate the snow, I hate the Alps, I hate—"
I stop myself before I can finish that sentence. Because hating Luka Popovich isn't going to fix this situation.
And right now, I need to fix it.
An hour later, I'm showered, dressed, and standing in the middle of the chalet's small kitchen area, arms crossed, staring at a sticky note that Luka left for me with the phone number for the airport hotline and a simple note:
CALL EVERY HOUR.
DON’T WANDER.
–L
My jaw tightens.
The presumption that he thinks he can get rid of me that easily makes my blood simmer. I’m not leaving until we work this out and come up with a solution to the Olympic committee issue, which means I have until the airport opens back up to get him to agree to let me help.
I see how I’m an inconvenience to him—why he wants me gone. I showed up uninvited, tracked him across an ocean, and forced myself into his space when he made it abundantly clear he wanted nothing to do with me or the mess waiting for him back at home.
And now he's trying to erase the problem by sending me away.
My gaze drifts to the window, where snow is still blowing sideways, but visibility is better than last night.
The storm is supposed to last all day, if the weather report is to be believed.
Possibly tomorrow as well. I lift my phone into the air and walk in a circle, hoping to find better cell service, but nothing seems to make it better.
Beyond the glass, the Alps rise in stark white peaks against a pale sky, beautiful in the way dangerous things often are.
Somewhere out there, Luka is skiing.
I peel the sticky note off the counter, crumple it in my fist, and toss it into the trash on my way out. Not that it matters. Even if I wanted to call the airport, I have zero cell service up here, which means, for the moment, I’m stranded in Switzerland with him.
He might not want me here, but I have a job to do, and whether he likes it or not, this benefits him too.
The storm is still trying to bang down the door as I walk through, but thankfully, the path to the resort has been recently cleared and visibility is good enough that I can make out the resort a few hundred feet away from me.
I attempt to shake off the snowflakes still clinging to my hair, jacket, and eyelashes the moment I walk into the hotel's lobby.
The scene inside is a little different now than it was last night.
There are still people everywhere, but I smell hot coffee and the aroma of breakfast food from the resort's restaurant wafts through the large space.
People probably gave up standing and waiting for a room in order to get some food this morning.
I make a beeline for guest services, checking my phone as I walk. One bar. Pathetic, but usable. Now I just need Wi-Fi that doesn’t cut out every five seconds, because Luka’s reputation isn’t going to manage itself while I’m stranded here.
"Hi. I’m checking on the status of my room. Natalia Kovac."
The woman types quickly. Her smile stays professional, but I can already see it in her eyes.
"I’m sorry, Ms. Kovac. Your room is still occupied. The current guests are stranded until the airport reopens."
"I can’t continue staying where I am," I say.
Her fingers pause. "Are you unsafe?"
My eyes close for half a second. That came out wrong.
"No, I’m not in danger. If anyone is, it’s him. I’m the one who might suffocate him with a pillow in the middle of the night."
Her brows lift.
"I’m kidding," I add quickly. "Mostly."
She resumes typing, still watching me carefully. "If you feel safe where you are, we strongly recommend staying put. Many guests are sleeping in common areas. We’re short on linens."
Well then, that settles that. I’m stuck with him until the airport reopens.
"I guess I don’t have a choice then…"
"If you tell me where you’re staying, I will have someone from guest services bring you your room key once it’s available for your convenience."
Oh, wonderful… They’ll conveniently bring me the key I should have gotten yesterday. I think, but I don’t say it out loud as I don’t want her to ‘conveniently’ lose my reservation for insulting her.
I blow out a breath instead, "I’m in Chalet 5308."
Her hands stop and she looks up. "Five-three-zero-eight?" she repeats carefully.
"Yes."
A flicker passes between her and the other receptionist. "You’re staying with Mr. Popovich?"
And there it is. A glitter in their eyes I’ve seen before—women eager about their proximity to Luka Popovich.
"Yes," I say.
"Oh." The word is polite. The tone is not entirely neutral.
The other receptionist leans in a fraction, pretending not to, but her curiosity is evident.
Of course. Apparently, this entire resort operates on a Luka sighting alert system.
"You stayed overnight?" she asks delicately.
I offer a tight smile. "I didn’t have much of a choice. It was that or sleeping next to the complimentary coffee kiosk." I nod toward the corner of the lobby. "Unfortunately, I’m more of a tea girl myself."
"Of course," the first one says quickly. "Weather complications."
The second receptionist lowers her voice just enough. "We’ve heard he doesn’t usually… stay."
"With women," the other one clarifies.
I blink. "That’s not relevant to my lack of a room, is it?" Though the question needs no answer.
They exchanged a look. Obvious disappointment in their eyes when they realize that I won’t be spilling any tea on my one night with the Hawkeyes winger.
I could divulge about his obnoxious rules or how he sleeps in the nude for some unknown reason, or how the man has reflexes like a cat, snatching me out of the air before I fell on my face in the ice.
However, none of that is pertinent information that will get me a room any sooner.
It will only further build up his elusive persona.
I didn’t fly for over twelve hours, wedged into the middle seat next to the lavatory, to become Luka’s personal wingman.
"Right. Of course. We’ll note that you’ll remain in the chalet until your room opens."
Her professionalism returns… Thank God, but the curiosity lingers in the air between the three of us, now standing awkwardly.
Apparently, I didn’t just follow a hockey player to Switzerland. I followed a legend.
If only they knew what a real pain in the ass he is and how if I can’t get him to agree to let me help him, I’ll be out of a job in three and a half weeks.