Chapter Six #2
I think about the stack of résumés I'd have to send out, the interviews I'd have to charm my way through, the explanations I'd have to craft for why my last big case ended with the client kicking me out of the country.
My hands curl into fists against the counter.
No…. Absolutely not. Luka Popovich might be stubborn, hostile, and determined to self-destruct his career, but I came too far just to give up now.
If he thinks one cold dismissal is enough to make me quit, he's about to learn exactly how wrong he is.
And if I’m going to stay in the Swiss Alps in the middle of January—against that legend’s will—I need to stop dressing like I’m headed to brunch in Seattle.
I glance down at myself.
Jeans and a knit sweater that works perfectly for misty drizzle and forty-eight degrees. A "winter" jacket that has already proven itself deeply uncommitted to actual winter.
My Seattle-cold wardrobe will not survive this. Not even close.
I look back at the receptionist.
"Where can I find warmer clothes?" I ask. "Actual winter gear. And somewhere with reliable Wi-Fi."
She brightens slightly and pulls out a folded village brochure from beneath the counter, spreading it open between us, smoothing it flat with her palm.
"There’s a boutique on site," she says, circling a building with a neat blue pen. "Just a few buildings down from here in the resort’s village."
She draws another circle.
"This café has free Wi-Fi, a light lunch menu, and live music in the evenings. The sushi restaurant also offers Wi-Fi if you prefer something quieter."
"Perfect," I say, seeing a yoga studio a little further down the village. I could use a little meditation, stretching, and de-stressing to keep me sane, having to deal with Luka for the next two weeks. Wearing him down won’t be easy. He’s made that clear.
I fold up the brochure and stuff it into my pocket. "Thank you."
If I’m staying, I’m doing it properly.
I walk out of the hotel lobby, the storm settling just enough that I’m not going to get blown away, and visibility is a little better. The village looks deceptively charming in daylight.
Snow has been plowed into neat banks along the edges of the cobblestone paths, dark stone peeking through where shovels and scrapers have cleared walkways down to their bones.
Grit—maybe rock salt or volcanic sand—has been scattered across the slickest patches, crunching under boots to keep tourists upright and liability claims low.
Smoke curls from the chalet chimneys. Window boxes sit dormant beneath piles of snow that continue to build with the constant snowfall.
Storefronts glow warmly behind fogged glass—little bakeries, a chocolatier, a ski shop with sleek helmets lined up like art pieces.
Luxury name-brand stores made to look like they have been there for over a hundred years.
A narrow wine bar tucked into a corner. A bookstore with a handwritten sign in the window.
A tiny apothecary that smells faintly of pine and eucalyptus even from the doorway.
The village is picturesque in the way Switzerland always looks in photographs. Cobblestone paths carved clean through the snow, strings of lights draped overhead that probably glow gold at night.
It feels like a little village tucked into the mountains, self-contained and intentional.
Not ancient. I’m sure most of it was probably built within the last few decades to look older than it is, but it’s still beautiful.
I’m sure if I had been forced here in the summer, I could have actually enjoyed a little time here, touring the shops.
For a moment, despite myself, I understood why people come here.
The woman’s clothing boutique is exactly what I expect as I walk up.
It's all gleaming wood fixtures, crystal chandeliers with soft lighting, and price tags that make me wonder who in the hell can afford this place to begin with.
I suppose athletes like Luka, with his multi-million-dollar contracts, can.
I step inside, and a wave of warm, vanilla-scented air washes over me. Classical music plays softly in the background. Everything is tasteful, expensive, and designed to make you forget you're about to spend your monthly grocery bill on a coat.
A sales clerk glides over wearing a smile that's polite but utterly indifferent.
"Good morning. How may I help you?"
"I need winter gear," I say, smiling with a confidence I can barely muster, as if I buy obscenely overpriced ski clothes all the time. "Thermal layers, a coat, gloves, and possibly a hat. The works."
Her smile doesn’t waver. "Of course. Right this way."
She moves through the boutique with efficiency, like she could do this blindfolded, pulling pieces from racks without thinking. She hasn’t even asked my size yet.
Merino wool base layers. A mid-layer fleece so soft I can’t help reaching out to touch it. It feels like it costs money. Then she selects a sleek black insulated jacket and guides me toward a changing room, arranging everything neatly inside as if I’m about to step into a curated Alpine fantasy.
God... this woman has no freaking idea who just stepped into her boutique.
I’m tempted to ask her if she's working up here of her own free will, or if she’s being held against her will. Blink twice if you need me to send for help and get you the hell out of here.
Fuck it. Just make a run for it, and I’ll cover the door.
"These are our most popular options for this weather," she says, holding the door open. "Waterproof, windproof, rated to negative twenty degrees Celsius."
Negative twenty. I ran my hand down the front of the jacket.
I reach out and run my hand down the black jacket. I don't ask the price because I don’t want to know.
Forty minutes later, I'm standing at the register, watching the total climb on the screen with each scan of the barcode reader. The clerk reads off the total, and I have no clue what that translates into dollars, but I swipe my card and pray that my card doesn’t decline.
In all reality, the cost of finding a new job, paying to relocate, starting from the bottom again and working my way up… that all has a steep price too. Either way, I’ll be paying out the nose. This way, at least I get to keep the clothes.
Maybe after all of this is over and I tell Gabriella that I am never working with Luka again, I’ll donate my Switzerland survival wardrobe to whatever poor soul Gabriella assigns his next big fuck-up to. I have a feeling his next PR agent, aka victim, will need it with him.
The machine beeps, and I can’t tell if I’m relieved or disappointed.
There’s a tiny part of me that wishes I had a legitimate reason I could give up.
Like facing certain death by way of hypothermia.
No one could blame me for packing it in and coming home with all my fingers and toes still attached, could they?
The clerk hands me the receipt with a polite "Thank you, enjoy your stay."
I’m about to tell her, "Not on your life." But decided that might be a little overdramatic.
Instead, I take the bags, heavy but completely necessary, and step back out into the cold.
This is all temporary, I tell myself. Just until you get him to cooperate.
Just until my job is secure and I can go home and never think about snow or Switzerland or the name Popovich ever again.
I'm halfway across the plaza, bags cutting into my palms, with plans to get back to the chalet, grab my laptop, and head back out to the café, when I pass by the hotel, towards the ski lifts and I see him.
Luka.
He's standing near the base of the ski lift, skis propped beside him, and he's not alone.
There's a woman with him.
A different blonde than last night. Tall. Leggy in a way that makes ski pants look like high fashion instead of functional outerwear. She's laughing at something he said, her head tipped back, one hand reaching out to touch his arm.
And she's wearing his beanie.
The dark knit one I saw him wearing this morning before he disappeared into the dark morning and freezing sideways snow. It sits on her head now, casual and intimate, as if it's the most natural thing in the world.
Luka smiles.
The kind of smile I’ve only seen directed at me once, when I stopped him in the Hawkeyes stadium after the post-game interviews, when he thought I was a journalist interested in more than a story.
They turn toward the lift line together. So much for coming here to ski alone. Not that I ever bought that.
Annoyance hints at the fact that he's out here being charming and human with some ski bunny while he treats me like a particularly persistent mosquito he can't quite swat.
I tell myself it has nothing to do with the way she's looking at him, or the way he's looking back. I tell myself it doesn't matter, because it doesn’t. He’s my client, and I’m only here for one reason.
They disappear into the lift line, swallowed by the crowd of brightly colored jackets and the mechanical hum of the cables overhead.
I stand there in the middle of the plaza, bags heavy in my hands, watching the empty space where they were.
A text comes through from Carey:
I heard the client ran. Can you do this or not?
I shot off a text:
I’ve got this under control.
Her next text comes in immediately:
His agent isn’t so sure. Lock this down. Randolph has a huge portfolio. This could be a bigger win than just Luka. You have four weeks, Natalia. Gabriella won’t be extending the time. Get it done or start brushing up your resume… you’ll need it.
My lips pursed at her text. I look up and see Luka and his new little friends dangling from the lift.
Fine, if Luka wants to keep running to the slopes, then I'll follow him there.
Because clearly, waiting around the chalet for him to be reasonable isn't working. Trying to have a civil conversation isn't working either. Appealing to his better judgment, assuming he has one, definitely isn't working.