Chapter Fifteen
NATALIA
I wake, my body feeling heavy, limbs weighted with the kind of exhaustion that comes from a day spent fighting gravity, skis, and something far more sinister… physical attraction to the client I flew all the way out here six days ago to save.
Then it comes back to me. I didn’t fall asleep in this bed. I fell asleep out on the couch in the small living room, a paperback book in my hand, before my eyelids got too heavy to keep open.
I turn my head against the pillow, and his side is cold, the covers rumpled in a way that tells me he slept there but left hours ago. He must have moved me last night after he came back from wherever he had spent his evening.
My gaze landed on the nightstand.
My book sits there, still open to the exact page I fell asleep on.
I push myself up on one elbow, blinking against the brightness streaming through the window.
There's a glass of water beside the book—fresh, no condensation rings on the wood beneath it, and two Tylenol, likely for sore muscles. He knew I’d be stiff and sore today.
The charger I’d left downstairs is powering my phone, its cord snaking across the nightstand like evidence in a crime scene.
A crime of consideration. He thought of everything.
I sit on the edge of the bed, feet on the cold floor, trying to reconcile these small acts of caretaking with the version of us that makes sense.
The version where we're client and agent, where yesterday's kiss was a momentary lapse in judgment. They just don’t fit with who he keeps trying to tell the world he is. I just don’t believe his hard exterior anymore.
I stand up and make up my mind. I'm going skiing alone today.
Not to prove anything to him—I'm past caring what Luka thinks of my athletic abilities or lack thereof.
But I need to prove it to myself. That I can navigate the slopes without someone hovering, ready to catch me.
That I can spend a day in this place without analyzing every gesture, every look, every saved page in a paperback romance novel.
I can create some distance before I get any more tangled up in whatever this is becoming.
Because I have to remember another fact.
He didn’t come back to the chalet until late last night.
He may have showed acts of kindness but that doesn’t mean he didn’t spend the night with someone last night, and that fact that I can’t let myself think on that for too long before green jealousy starts to rise up, tells me that I need to put Luka back in the client zone before I screw up my work life, and my love life.
My phone dings, and I see an email come through from an assistant for the Olympic Committee with information on who to send the request for mediation to.
Though I know this isn’t going to excite Luka like it does me, I have to tell him right now, and since he’s on the slopes, that’s exactly where I’ll have to go to find him.
The morning air is brighter with the storm having mostly passed, though I checked online and the airport just opened back up this morning, but all flights are currently filled with passengers stranded and needing rebooking, so getting a room could be possible soon.
They said they would bring my keys when they were available.
The mountain is already buzzing with movement.
I click into my skis, take a steadying breath, looking for Luka first, and then push off.
I’m cautious on my first run. I remember Luka’s instructions as I keep an eye out for him with my exciting news, and keep my weight forward, my turns wide. My confidence builds with each clean stop, each small victory.
See? I’ve got this. Though Luka is still nowhere in sight.
That’s when three teenage snowboarders came flying down the slope behind me, cutting too close, laughing like they owned the mountain. Another comes flying down and shouts something loudly at me, startling me, and I lose balance, my skis cross wrong, and then I go down hard.
There’s a sharp, blinding twist in my ankle that steals the air from my lungs. I lay there staring at the sky, teeth clenched, snow melting down the back of my jacket.
"Dammit," I whisper.
Ski patrol arrives quickly—one man, one woman, who work calmly and quickly. The woman kneels beside me, palpating my ankle with practiced hands.
"Can you wiggle your toes?" In a Swiss accent.
I wince at my attempt, but they move, which should be good news. "Yes," I tell her.
"Okay. Pain?"
"I can feel it all the way to my split ends," I admit.
She smiles faintly. "That's about right."
She breaks an ice pack and shakes it until it turns cold and then straps it to my ankle. "Keep this on for twenty minutes," she says.
I nod and then glance around for Luka one more time. I can already imagine him shaking his head at my injury.
They decided to sled me down as a precaution.
The sled is surprisingly rigid, more like a plastic kayak than anything meant for comfort.
They strap me in, securing my ankle in place with foam blocks that press against the swelling.
The first jolt as we start moving down the mountain sends a shock of pain through my leg that makes me suck in a breath.
"Sorry," the patrolman says from behind me. "We'll take it easy."
But easy is relative. Every bump, every shift in the terrain translates directly through the sled's hard shell into my body.
My ankle throbs with each jarring movement, a steady drumming of pain that makes me grit my teeth.
The cold is seeping through my jacket now that I'm stationary, and I can feel the damp from the snow beginning to soak into my base layer.
Worse than the physical discomfort is the parade of witnesses. Skiers slow as they pass us, gawking. A few called out concerned questions. Children point to their mothers. I close my eyes, but that somehow makes it worse. More obvious that I'm trying to hide.
This is becoming a pattern, I think miserably. First, the collision with Zack, now this. I came to this ski resort to handle a PR crisis, and instead I'm becoming one. How many times can a person need rescuing on a single ski trip before it becomes a personality trait?
Just wait until Luka hears about this one. He’ll never let me go outside again.
"Almost there," the patrolwoman says kindly, as if she can sense my spiraling thoughts.
I open my eyes as the lodge comes into view; the warm glow of its windows is a promise of some corner I can find to hide in and regain some sort of dignity. Or at least somewhere I can stop being a spectacle and drown my sorrows in hot cocoa with mini marshmallows.
Then I catch movement from the corner of my eye.
Zack.
He's sprinting toward us from the side door, his jacket half-unzipped and flapping behind him, goggles shoved up on his head, leaving his hair standing in wild tufts.
His face is flushed— from exertion or panic, I can't tell, and he's breathing hard when he reaches us, skidding slightly in his ski boots.
For a second, he just stands there, chest heaving, his eyes scanning me from head to toe. I watch something shift in his expression when he confirms I'm conscious, talking, not bleeding. The tension in his shoulders dropping a fraction.
Then he crouches beside the sled, one gloved hand bracing against its edge, bringing his face level with mine. His eyes search mine with worry.
"Hey," he says, his voice rough. "You okay? I heard the call come through," he continues before I could answer. "Had to get my student down safely first, but I came straight here."
"I'm fine," I tell him quickly. "I swear."
"She twisted her ankle," the patrolwoman confirms, straightening up. "There will be some swelling, but ice it today and rest tomorrow. We got a report from the skier who saw it. Some kids are being stupid. We’ll keep an eye out for them."
Zack nods and stares down at the ice pack on my ankle, and then exhales like he's been holding his breath since the radio call. He pushes to his feet, raking a hand through his disheveled hair.
Before anyone can say anything else, a sharp burst of static erupts from the patrol team's radios. A dispatcher's voice crackles through: "Code Two, upper Bowl, possible shoulder separation—"
The patrolman and woman exchange a quick glance, the kind of wordless communication that comes from working together for years.
Zack straightens immediately. "Leave her with me. I can get her the rest of the way. You should go."
The patrolwoman hesitates, looking between us. "You sure?"
Zack nods, repeating back. "Elevated, ice twenty on every hour, ACE wrap if available. I know the drill. I've got it from here," Zack says firmly.
Zack crouches again, this time to help me out of the sled. "Okay. Let's get you up carefully. On three?"
"I can—"
"On three," he repeats, firmer. "One... two..."
On three, his arm slides around my waist, solid and sure, and his other hand catches mine. I push up with my good leg, and the moment I try to put even the slightest pressure on my left foot, pain flares white-hot through my ankle.
I gasp, and Zack's arm tightens immediately, taking more of my weight.
"I've got you. I've got you."
Then the patrol team takes the sled, and they are gone in seconds, skis already on, pushing off toward the lift with the smooth urgency of people who do this every day.
I'm pressed against his side now, my arm draped over his shoulders, his hand splayed warm and steady against my ribs.
I can smell the cold air clinging to his jacket, something piney and clean, and beneath that the faint scent of his detergent.
He's warm despite the temperature, and I'm suddenly hyperaware of every point of contact between us.
"Okay," I say, breathless. "I can walk."
"You're not walking anywhere." His voice is gentle but unyielding. He starts steering me carefully toward the lodge entrance. "You're sitting down. Right now."
He navigates us through the door and directly to the large leather couch in the lobby. The warmth of the lodge hits me immediately, almost overwhelming after the cold.
He set me down on a large couch in the lobby.
I sink into the cushions, and he's already lifting my injured leg with the ice pack attached, propping it carefully on the coffee table with a pillow he's grabbed from an adjacent chair. His movements are methodical, competent, checking the angle, making sure my foot is higher than my heart.
When he's satisfied, he straightens, and I catch him checking his watch. His jaw tightens.
"You have a lesson you’re missing, don’t you?" I ask.
"It’s fine. It’s not a problem. They’re trying to find someone else to fill it for me," he says, but I know he takes his job seriously, and no matter what Luka says, I still think that Zack is great as an instructor.
"Zack… when is the lesson?"
"In fifteen minutes," he says, and the reluctance in his voice is obvious. His eyes flick to me, then away, then back.
"I’ll be fine. I swear. I can work on my phone while I ice it."
I can see the concern in his eyes. I can tell that he’s the kind of guy who doesn’t want to let anyone down.
"Just go. I'm not going anywhere," I say, gesturing helplessly at my ankle.
He doesn't smile. "You’re sure?"
I nod, "Yes."
"I'll be back as soon as the lesson is over, and I’ll send the medic to look at you when she gets a minute, okay?"
"That sounds great, now go."
"I have at least ten minutes. Ice pack. Drink. Don’t move."
Before I can object to him doing anything extra for me, he’s gone.
When he returns, he’s carrying half the lodge.
Three ice packs, a thick wool blanket, and a tray loaded with a turkey sandwich, grape juice, chocolate pudding—and a mug of hot cocoa.
"Spiked," he adds with a wink. "Kahlúa."
I laugh despite myself. "That was above the call of duty."
"The bartender hooked it up."
He tucks the surrounding blanket and props my ankle carefully. "I have to go. But I’ll check on you in an hour."
"I’ll still be working through this feast."
Zack looks over me one last time as if to make sure that he didn’t miss anything, and then he turns and runs out the door.
The medic stops by shortly after—a silver-haired woman with kind eyes.
"Zack called me three times," she says as she examines my ankle. "That’s a lot, even for him."
"He’s… attentive."
She smiles. "That’s one word for it."
The verdict is the same. It's a sprain. Which means ice and rest is the best course of action. But she felt confident that I’d be walking in a couple of days once the swelling goes down. No skiing until it’s fully healed.
"What a bummer," I say, but I don’t think she catches the sarcasm.
Hours pass, with Zack checking in on me between each lesson. I’m alone on the couch—warm, well fed, ankle elevated, and a little buzzy from the hot cocoa.
I should feel embarrassed about getting so startled by some young punk kids that I tripped on my own skis, but it can’t be helped.
Instead, I feel oddly levelheaded about the whole thing.
Though I hate that the only thing missing is the man I shouldn’t wish was here.