Chapter Twelve #3
"All the agents in my department are on the hook to do the same for a list of clients that my arch-nemesis handed out to all of us right before I flew out to Seattle to meet you. They gave us a short deadline to prove we can make the shareholders happy."
"That’s fucked," he says.
I just shrug and take a sip of my drink. "So now you know. That’s why I’m here."
"Fine..." he starts. "I won’t interfere with your PR efforts going forward. If you can find a solution, I’m willing to hear it out."
I nearly jump out of my barstool with shock. "Are you serious? You’d consider mediation?"
"See what you can come up with. I’m not guaranteeing anything."
"I can do that," I tell him, practically buzzing with excitement.
It’s not a full commitment to cooperating, but it’s closer.
He doesn’t nod, or smile, or give any other indication that he’s onboard, but I realize that this is the most agreeable that Luka has been since I met him, and I’m not going to push my luck.
He said he’s willing to help me, and I have to take him at his word.
He and I both got back to finishing our burgers. I can’t tell if Luka likes the food as much as I do, but he inhales the food faster than me, so I’m guessing it wasn’t terrible.
When we’re nearly done, I push. Just a little…
"So," I say, wiping my fingers on a napkin. "Can we talk about the plan? I need something from you if I’m going to—"
Luka’s eyes lift to mine, calm and lethal.
"We just talked for almost an hour," he says. "Trust me. You got more than most. Don’t push your luck. I agreed to hear out the options, but on my terms."
An admission that he’s given in a little to me. Like he knows he gave me something he doesn’t give anyone else. Maybe I’m finally growing on him and he’s letting down his walls, even if it’s just a fraction. I can use that.
I press my lips together and nod once. "Fine."
Then my phone buzzes.
I don’t even realize it’s ringing until the screen lights up on the bar.
A name flashes bright against the dim wood.
Carey calling…
Luka’s gaze drops to it.
"Who’s Carey?" he asks.
My brain stutters.
"Who—" I start, then it all rushes back like a wave crashing. "Oh. Shoot. I need to take this. It’s my boss… sort of."
I grab my phone too fast, nearly knocking over my drink, and slide off the stool.
"I’ll see you later," I say, voice too quick as I head for the exit. "Thanks for lunch."
I take the call outside, the cold night air biting through my sweater as if Switzerland itself disapproves of everything happening inside my chest.
"Natalia," Carey says, an edge to her voice that she always has, especially with me. "Where are we?"
Relief and irritation hit at the same time.
She asks if the trip is productive, if I think we can get ahead of the Olympic committee before the narrative hardens, if I’ve been handling the gossip columns to kill stories.
I answer all of her questions and she seemed to ease a bit. It has me wondering if the promotion she mentioned is now starting to become more important to her than getting me fired.
"Yes, he’s cooperating." I lied, though lunch felt like a small breakthrough.
"Yes, the resort's isolation is helping." I say without mentioning how much he’d like to get rid of me.
"No, I don’t anticipate complications." As long as I don’t end up headfirst into a tree at tomorrow’s lesson.
I do not mention the bunny hill. Or the fact that Luka keeps showing up to save me like I’m the most annoying damsel in distress. Or the way Luka looked at me when I asked him what he wanted, like no one ever bothers to ask him that.
Carey hums, satisfied. "Good. Keep him close, Natalia. Don’t let him spin out of control."
I swallow.
"I won’t," I say, though I’m the one who can’t seem to keep my feet on the ground.
If Luka isn’t going to help me, I’ll have to help myself. I head back to the chalet, grab my laptop, and then make a beeline for the café. I need to find a way out of this for Luka, even if he won’t help me.
Hours later, and a dozen or so emails back to news outlets killing their story by promising to offer something bigger, I head back to the chalet after dark.
The path is mostly quiet. Other people walking to and from their chalets to the village or back again. Soft chatter and laughter filled the night sky. The paths are lit by lanterns casting warm pools of light across the glittery snow, my boots crunching with each step. The night feels too still.
Inside the chalet, warmth greets me immediately in the subtle creaking of the heating vents and the faint scent of burnt wood from last night's fire. I pause just inside the door, scanning the space without being honest with myself about what I'm looking for and why.
No jacket slung over the chair.
No boots were kicked off near the entryway.
No sign of him.
I should have expected it, but tonight it feels a little lonelier than it ever has before.
Maybe I was hoping for another hour of conversation.
I didn’t get to ask about his family. About his sister, who’s a prima ballerina in Seattle and married to his teammate.
I didn’t get to ask if he learned how to ski as a child in Russia, or if he picked it up in the States.
I didn’t get to ask why he likes to ski alone.
Why he keeps trying to "lose" every woman who finds him on the slopes when he’s known for being a playboy.
Then I remind myself that distance is good. That professional distance is safer.
I kicked off my boots and set my bag down carefully. I could keep working, but I’m exhausted.
My calves ache from skiing. My shoulders are tight.
Jet lag, extreme stress, adrenaline, and a near-death experience. That’s just a few of the things I’ve experienced in the last few days here.
I shower, alone this time, scrubbing longer than necessary, letting the shower heat burn away the cold, the memory of the slope, the unwanted awareness of how close everything felt today.
I don’t think about the morning. I don’t think about steam or proximity or the way my body reacted without my permission.
I don’t think about Luka Popovich naked in a confined space.
I pull on an oversized T-shirt and crawl into bed with my tablet, determined to read something dry and boring until my eyes give out. Olympic regulations. Case studies on past athletes in Luka’s same position. Anything that doesn’t involve feelings.
Trying in vain to stop my thoughts from drifting towards sharing a shower with an aroused Luka, having him save me from crashing into a tree, buying me lunch, and remembering my order. Damn him…
But I’m not attracted to Luka Popovich. Not even close… not even a little. I coach myself.
I’m just here to do a job. That’s all.
I turn off the light.
Eventually, exhaustion wins, and somewhere between one breath and the next, control slips.
Soon, my eyes are too heavy, jet lag still bearing down on me, and before I knew it, I’m drifting off, alone in the chalet.
My sleep takes me into a deep dream.
The billows of steam from the shower are almost so real I can reach out and touch it, feeling the moisture all around me.
I know where I am instantly, before my body catches on.
The bathroom shower.
I look down and realize I’m naked. But I’m not shocked or started, just… aware.
Luka is there.
His back is to me, broad shoulders slick with water, hands braced against tile as the shower runs over the back of his neck and down his back. He doesn’t turn in my dream. He just exists in the space like he owns it.
As much as I want to fight that fact, it’s true.
"Don’t move," he says, his voice is calm—completely controlled. "I’m not looking."
"I didn’t say anything," I tell him, but my voice sounds thin, like it’s coming from too far away.
"You’re in my chalet," he continues, like I haven’t spoken at all, "you follow the rules."
Heat blooms low in my belly.
"I warned you," he says. "You didn’t listen."
I want to argue. Want to tell him this is a misunderstanding, that I thought I had time, that it wasn’t intentional. My body doesn’t care about intentions. It wants something completely out of my control.
I reach out, my hand touching the middle of his back.
I feel everything—the water sliding down his spine, the cool shower tiles beneath my feet, the unbearable awareness of him only a few feet away.
He shifts, turning towards me and I can see everything.
His eyes are open as he takes steps towards me as I take steps back.
Not because I’m scared of him but because Luka’s dark stare has a way of telling the world to get out of his way and I react like everyone else, trying to give him more room, until my back hits the cold tile.
"Luka, I’m sorry," I say, hating the way his name feels in my mouth.
He exhales slowly.
"Are you?" he asks, his hand reaching out to curve around my hip. "Let me ask that question again from the bar. What do you wish I’d do, Natalia? We both know that’s more than to get on a plane and go back to Seattle with you. There’s something else you want. Tell me."
My body responds in a way I absolutely do not consent to, in a way I can’t reason my way out of in a dream, can’t shut down with logic or professionalism or sheer force of will.
The moment crests too fast, too sharp.
I glance down, his erection hard between us."Luka, you’re…"
"It’s morning… Of course I am. I woke up thinking about you."
"You’re my client. We can’t do this."
"Good thing I never hired you then."
He dips down, his lips crash down on mine, wet and soft and hot. I moan into his kiss, my hand sliding around his neck to pull him down closer.
His arms surround me, lifting me up until he has my legs wrapping around his waist, pinning me against the shower wall.
"Tell me I can keep going." He asks against our kiss.
I nod and then I can feel it. His thick head at my entrance, heat boiling low in my belly, the desperate need to feel him stretch me to accommodate him.
"You’re too big, what if you don't fit?"
I feel his grin against our kiss.
"Don't worry, I'll make it fit because we aren't leaving this shower until I make you come."
He pushes inside, his head fully inside and I let out a whimper, my head falling back against the tile.
He moves inside me. Over and over. Relentless pounding.
My arousal coating him with every thrust, slick and hot.
His groans of need combining with mine fill the shower with the erotic sounds of hate sex.
There's no denying what this is. Two people who can't stand each other, finally giving in.
The tension coils low in my belly. I can feel myself begin to twitch and pulsate around him, chasing my orgasm. Luka grunts, trying to keep his at bay until I come first.
Then it happens. An orgasm rips through me, so savage that it steals my breath from my lungs…
…and then I wake with a gasp, jolted into sitting straight up.
Heart hammering against my ribs. Skin slick with sweat. For a disorienting second, I don't know where I am—the shower, the bed, Luka's hands on me still feel so real.
Then it crashes in—morning light. My bedroom. Sheets tangled around my legs like evidence of a crime. A pillow wedged between my thighs as if I'd used it as a "Luka" fill-in.
Oh God.
I shoot a panicked look over at Luka's side of the bed, absolutely mortified at the idea that he heard me. His rumpled sheet proves he came back at some point in the night. Now he's gone.
Thank God. I could never have lived that down.
I drag both hands over my face, willing the images away, the sensations, the sound of his voice in my head. But they cling like humidity, refusing to dissipate.
The realization comes in a hot wave of absolute humiliation. I just had a sex dream about Luka Popovich. I can imagine the smug look on his face if he knew. That infuriating smirk. He'd never let me forget it, which means he can never know about this.
"This means nothing," I whisper to the quiet room. "It's just… physical."
But even as I say it, something deeper twists in my chest. I'm a professional. I've built my entire career on control, on reading people, on staying three steps ahead. I don't lose my head over clients—especially not the difficult, arrogant ones who treat every interaction like a power play.
This dream isn't just embarrassing. It's a warning sign.
If I can't even control my subconscious around Luka Popovich, how am I supposed to manage him in real life? How can I trust my judgment when my body is apparently staging a coup against my better sense?