Chapter Nine
NATALIA
The cold burns my lungs the moment I step outside. I was an idiot to follow him here… to think he would be alone.
I should have thought this through. I also should have known that he would have already cozied up to someone in the bar by now.
It was a misstep. I can admit that to myself, but luckily, no harm was done. I didn’t totally put my foot in my mouth. Tomorrow, Luka can go back to ignoring me, and I can go back to obsessing over finding a solution to get him out of his mess and re-stabilize my position at Legacy PR.
"Natalia."
I hear that voice and I instantly know the man it belongs to. Damn it, he just had to follow me.
Snow crunches under my boots as I walk faster than I should on slick ground, refusing to look back even though I can feel him behind me.
"Natalia," he calls again, but I don’t stop walking.
"What are you doing?" I call over my shoulder, not slowing down. "Aren’t you busy?"
"With what?" His voice is closer, his long legs eating up the distance between us faster than I can escape. Stupid hockey players and their impeccable sense of balance on ice. It’s annoying, and oddly… hot. Or at least when it comes to Luka.
"Your balcony tour."
"My balcony tour of what?"
"Oh God, don’t tell me I scared off another one. I left as soon as I realized what was happening. I didn’t try to screw it up for you again. I know I’ll never hear the end of it."
"You didn’t scare her off. I left to find out what you needed to talk to me about."
"Just forget I came to talk to you."
But he doesn’t. He gets ahead of me, cutting me off until he’s standing right in front of me.
My foot slips slightly as I try to stop, and I hate that he’s close enough to notice. His hand almost reached for me, but I steadied myself first. I don’t need him thinking I require rescuing.
"Will you stop and talk to me?" he says. "Why did you come to the bar?"
"It’s not important, Luka. We can talk later."
I try to step around him, but he moves to cut me off. For an offensive player, he certainly doesn’t mind making the block.
"Why did you tell him that you're here with someone?"
I blink up at him. "Really? You had a woman practically climbing into your lap, and that's what you left to ask me?"
His eyes narrow like he thinks I'm being difficult for no reason. "No, I followed you to find out what you came to the bar to discuss, but you left after he sat down next to you. I want to know if he was inappropriate and if I need to go back and handle it."
"I handled my own situation, thank you very much," I snap. "That's why I told him that I'm here with someone. It usually gives the guy a hint, and it worked. I didn’t come here to get involved with anyone. I’m here to work… that is if you would let me do my job."
"If you weren’t working, would you have been interested?"
My temper flares instantly. "You do not get to interrogate me about some random guy at the bar when you made it abundantly clear that I’m your PR agent nightmare.
I’m not chasing you through the snow to discuss the woman practically volunteering to warm your sheets.
And who knows, you might be the perfect match. "
Snow catches in his hair, and I hate how it makes him seem lighter, like his Russian scowl can’t scare away snow. He looks infuriatingly calm, and it’s annoyingly effective. He just stands there as if waiting for me to take a breath—so I do, and then my shoulders drop a little.
"This isn’t a vacation for me. It’s my career, and it’s on the line right now."
"What do you mean it’s on the line?"
Damn it… I didn’t mean to say that. I don’t want him to pity me or to rub it in my face. I wanted to show up here, seemingly the competent PR agent ready to dissolve his problem.
Snow swirls around us angrily as if we’re in its way.
Maybe it’s my pride, maybe a touch of embarrassment, or maybe I’m just not ready to call it out into the open. My career has been my identity for so long. What does it make me if it’s hanging by a thread now?
"I don’t want to talk about it," I spit out.
"Okay then. But you came to talk about something," he says, softer now.
"I did and that was clearly a mistake."
I dart around him, but he follows.
We reach the chalet and I punch in the code, stepping inside without answering. The warmth from inside the cozy space hits my face the moment I walk in and then I shrug off my jacket.
"You really left because of her?" he presses. "I didn’t think you were someone who let things get in your way."
"Don’t."
"Don’t what?"
"Don’t make this about me being jealous."
"I didn’t say jealous… you did," he says. "Were you?"
I spin back toward him.
"You don’t get to parade a woman around to prove a point.
If you think I didn’t notice that you brought her closer so that I would overhear your conversation, then you don’t know me well enough.
I know your strategy. What I don’t know is how this is helping you at all.
How does asking me if I’m jealous help me do my job? You’re my client."
"I already told you, Natalia, I’m not your client."
I roll my eyes. "You absolutely are."
"I’m not."
I shut my eyes for a beat, forcing my hands to unclench at my sides, trying to hang onto professionalism when this feels like anything but. "I’m not playing games with you tonight. Just go back to your friend."
As I turn to leave, his fingers wrap around my wrist, gentle but firm enough that I stop.
I look down at his hand. Then up at him.
"What are you doing? Go back to the bar."
"I will, after you tell me what you came to talk to me about."
"Let go, Luka." I warn.
"I will if you want me to, but I have a feeling that you don’t."
There's a difference in the way that he's staring back at me—a shift happening between us that I can't quite grasp. I could pull away, but I don’t and he recognizes that too.
My heart is beating too fast for someone who insists she’s not jealous, and yet, jealously doesn't truly name the feeling. It's confusion, and want, and annoyance that we can't even seem to be on the same page, and a mix of so many other emotions tied in that I keep them all straight.
"I was going to ask you something," I admit.
"What was it?"
My throat tightens. I hate that I’m about to say this. That I’m going to admit something that might have all been a figment of my imagination. Something that can’t happen between us, anyway.
"I was going to ask if you were going to kiss me yesterday… on the ski slope when you caught me from falling."
His expression shifts. It’s subtle, but it’s also real.
"What if I were?" he asks quietly.
I swallow, my gaze betraying me as it dips to his mouth. I hate that I’m picturing what it would feel like to be pulled against him, what his lips would taste like if I stopped thinking and just leaned in. The slow drag of his teeth over my lower lip. Because I already know Luka wouldn’t be gentle.
Heat curls low in my stomach at the thought. An inconvenient at this moment, since the space between us is shrinking by the second. I can’t tell if he’s leaning in or if I am. Maybe it’s both of us surrendering an inch at a time.
"Then," I say, forcing my eyes back to him and, summoning every ounce of professionalism I’ve built my career on, "I would’ve reminded you that you’re my client and that it’s wildly inappropriate and that I have career standards."
One corner of his mouth lifts, just slightly.
"Career standards," he repeats, as if he’s testing the weight of the phrase.
"Yes. The kind that doesn't involve kissing internationally controversial hockey players on ski slopes."
His thumb shifts slightly against my wrist, not moving away, nor tightening either. It’s just steady and present.
"And if I don’t see you as my PR rep right now?" he asks.
"That doesn’t change the fact that I am."
"That you're what, exactly?" His voice drops a fraction.
"That I'm someone who knows better than to blur lines," I reply, even as my pulse proves I’m dangerously close to doing exactly that. Throwing my professional integrity out the window for just a kiss. A kiss that's off limits.
His eyes don’t leave mine.
"And if I told you," he murmurs, stepping closer until there’s barely air between us, "that I was going to kiss you, anyway?"
My breath hitches for a brief second.
"Then," I whisper, trying to keep my composure intact, "you’d be confirming that you have impulse control issues."
"And you’d still stop me, right?" he asks.
I hold his gaze. Those glacial grey eyes staring back at me.
"I should…"
The silence stretches, charged and completely fragile.
"But?" he pushes.
"But," I say back, barely audible now, "I might need a reminder why it’s such a bad idea."
"What if I told you this isn’t a bad idea? Would you let me kiss you then?"
He bends down. His lips barely a whisper away from mine. His hand releasing my wrist, sliding to my hips as he takes a step closer, my hands sliding against his hard chest under my fingertips.
His eyes dip to my lips, and I know this is the moment Luka Popovich kisses me. Neither of us backing away. And then—
My phone starts to ring. We both freeze. For half a second, neither of us moves.
The phone keeps ringing and I pull my phone from my back pocket. He pulls back just enough to glance toward the sound.
"It’s Randolph," I say quietly. "I should take it."
"Right," he replies, voice cool now. His hands still on my hips, one of my hands still against his chest. "Your actual client is calling."
"Luka—"
"It’s fine." He steps back, creating space where there wasn’t any seconds ago. The loss of heat is almost physical. "You should take it. I have a game of pool to finish, anyway."
And then he turns and leaves, closing the front door to the chalet behind him.
I wonder whether I made the right decision, staring at the closed door for one long second, and then I swipe to answer.
"Natalia," Randolph says immediately. No greeting, just straight to business. "Tell me you’re with him."
I lean back against the wall, steadying myself. "I’m with him."
"Good. Because I’ve got three different outlets emailing about whether he’s going to issue a statement."
When journalists smell blood, they circle. Sponsors are ‘monitoring the situation.’ That’s corporate speak for ‘we’re nervous.’
I close my eyes briefly.
"He doesn’t want to issue a rushed apology," I say carefully. "If we move too quickly, it looks reactive."
"And if we don’t move at all, it looks arrogant," Randolph counters. "You know how this works."
Yes. I do.
"I need to know where his head is at," Randolph continues. "Is he willing to negotiate with the Olympic Committee? Is he willing to consider a controlled media appearance? Because if we don’t get ahead of this, it’ll get ahead of us."
My gaze drifts back to the door.
"He’s… resistant," I admit. "But he’s not impossible."
"That’s not reassuring," Randolph mutters.
"I’m working on it," I say firmly. "Give me a little time."
"Time is something we don’t have a lot of if he wants to avoid legal action and having his medals taken away."
"I know."
I told him to send Molly anything that our legal team can help with and to forward me all correspondence or news he gets.
Two hours pass and Luka doesn’t return. I head to bed, the snow falling, and I can’t help but wonder whether I’m here to save his reputation…
Or to ruin my own.