Chapter Seventeen
NATALIA
It’s been two days since I twisted my ankle.
It’s healed enough that I can walk on it without wincing, and I don’t need a couch barricade of pillows and ice packs anymore.
I spent most of the last two days in the chalet, working on strategies for Luka, icing my ankle, and keeping Carey and Randolph off my ass as I tried to figure out a solution for Luka’s dilemma that both he and the Olympic Committee will agree to.
By six-thirty in the evening, I’m restless, and I remember that I agreed to meet Zack at the café for live music before my accident on the slopes.
The café is only a few minutes away. I move slowly so that I don’t slip on any leftover ice.
It’s worth the risk because not only do I need to get out of this chalet before I go insane, but also because I’ve been looking forward to this.
Zack’s invitation to listen to some live music at the café.
Something normal. Something that doesn’t involve injury reports or Olympic committees or a man who keeps barging into my life and then disappears just as quickly.
I assume Luka will be out tonight.
That’s what he does. That’s what I told myself he was doing every night—bar hopping, shooting pool, and whatever else he does after the bar closes is none of my concern.
I pull on a sweater, and then my phone buzzes just as I’m pulling on my boots.
Carey calling…
I stare at it a beat too long, then answer. "Carey."
"You need to listen," she says immediately. No greeting. No pleasantries. "Gabriella knows."
My stomach drops. "Gabriella knows what?"
"That you took the Popovich account and that you’re out in Switzerland. She’s not happy that she’s had zero direct visibility besides whatever you’ve filtered through Molly."
"Wait, a second… ‘that I took the Popovich account’? You gave it to me."
"You’re getting stuck in the weeds. The point is, she knows, and now she’s expecting you to deliver. Both of our asses are on the line now, do you understand what I am saying?"
I grip my phone tighter. "Yes, I do."
"Where are you with this? What’s the plan? What’s the timeline? And why is my consultant report still showing ‘pending’ on the high-profile case in the building?" she asks.
My cheeks heat up, but I swallow it down. I will not let her hear me crack.
"I’m close," I say. "I have traction."
Carey makes a soft sound that is not a laugh, but also not far from one. "Define traction."
I glance out the window, as if the falling snow can offer me an answer. "We had lunch, and he agreed to cooperate."
"Cooperate how?" she pushes. "Has he agreed to a statement? An apology? A sit-down? A press blackout? A sponsor call?"
"He hasn’t agreed to an apology," I say, because I’m not going to pretend. "But he’s agreed not to get in my way while I deal with the media mob. He’s—he’s letting me create space."
"Space," Carey repeats, unimpressed. "Natalia, we don’t sell space. We sell results."
"I know," I snap, and then lower my voice again because the barista two tables over is definitely listening. "I am working on the results. I’m trying to reach out to the Olympic Committee to see if they are open to mediation."
"Just remember that you are an extension of Legacy PR. This isn’t just your ass on the line. Gabriella is worried that if you screw up this account, it looks bad on the brand too, not just you. You’re operating like this is your personal redemption arc instead of a contract."
My jaw clenches. "That’s not what this is."
"Then act like it," she says. "Because Gabriella is already asking me if we made a mistake giving you a second chance."
The words hit exactly where she wants them to.
I sit up straighter, even though she can’t see me. "I can do this."
"Is there any other reason you’re not locking this down?" Carey asks. "Are you sleeping with him? Because I know he has a reputation, but need I remind you he’s a client—"
"God, no," I cut in, too fast. "I’m not sleeping with him, Carey. Jesus. I know he’s a client. I know the rules."
"You’d better," she says, and her voice goes cold. "Because this isn’t just your career on the line."
The call ends.
The room feels too quiet afterward, like even the snow outside paused to listen.
I sit there for a second, staring at nothing, my pulse still buzzing in my throat.
He’s just a client. That’s all he can ever be.
I repeat it in my head like a policy manual. Like the right words will make it true, will turn the last few days into something simple and professional, and easy to file away.
But Carey’s assumption sticks under my skin anyway, because it isn’t completely wrong. Not in the way she means. In the way that I’m already walking around with Luka Popovich in my head like he’s taken up residence there.
With Carey watching, with Gabriella’s evaluation clock ticking, I have to be careful.
I grab my coat and head out before I can sit here long enough to admit what careful would actually mean.
On the way, I fired off a text to Luka. Not because he keeps me in the loop—he doesn’t—but because it feels like common courtesy to tell him I won’t be back until later.
I’ll be out late. The café has an open mic night.
I don’t wait to see if the bubbles appear. I just shove my phone into my pocket and keep moving.
The café is warm and crowded in a way that feels intentional—fairy lights strung along the windows, a chalkboard sign advertising open mic night, someone tuning a guitar near the back.
Zack waves the moment he sees me.
"You made it," he says, standing quickly. "How’s the ankle?"
"Still attached," I say. "Which feels like a win."
He grins. "I’m glad. I was worried about you."
I believe him.
We ordered drinks—tea for me, something darker for him—and settled into the last two-person table furthest back from the stage, against the window that looks out at the cobblestone village.
We people-watch and chat while waiting for the show to start.
Zack talks about the mountain, the tourists, the weird things people do when they’re cold and overconfident. I laugh more than I have in days.
It feels… uncomplicated.
Halfway through his story, something tugs at my awareness.
I glance towards the window.
His jacket is zipped up, and his hands are in his pockets. Head down as if the cold doesn’t touch him. He should be at the bar. Or back at the chalet. Or anywhere but here.
His eyes lifted at the exact same moment mine did.
Everything around me seems to dim, like the café lights have lowered and the music has dropped out, even though I know neither has actually changed. For a suspended second, it’s just us through the glass—him outside in the cold, me inside wrapped in warmth and fairy lights.
I can’t fully read his expression from this distance, but I see the hesitation. He slows. He almost stepped toward the door.
Then his gaze shifts past me… To Zack.
Something tightens in his jaw. It’s subtle, but I see it. His shoulders square, his posture sharpening as if he’s bracing for impact.
He looks away first. And then he keeps walking.
Zack follows my line of sight. "Are you okay?"
I blink and force myself to look back at him. "Yeah," I say, too quickly to be convincing. "I just thought I saw someone I knew."
He nods easily, accepting it without pushing. "Small village."
"Apparently."
I lift my tea and take a sip, but it doesn’t taste the way it did a minute ago. It tastes bitter somehow. Wrong.
The music starts, a soft acoustic set that fills the room with something warm and nostalgic, and Zack leans closer to say something under his breath about how brave open mic performers must be.
I laugh because it’s funny, because he’s easy to laugh with, because this is what uncomplicated is supposed to feel like.
But my mind drifts anyway.
It drifts back to the mountain. To the way Luka’s hands felt at my waist when he caught me. To the way his goggles came up, and I saw his eyes clearly for the first time in that moment. To the way he looked at me like he was about to do something that would change everything.
And then—
If I’d known you were going to kiss me, I would’ve kissed you better.
The memory sends a slow, traitorous warmth through me.
He hadn’t laughed it off. He hadn’t treated it like an accident. He admitted he wanted it too. That’s the part that unsettles me.
I sit back in my chair and force myself to focus on Zack’s story about a tourist who tried to ski a black diamond in rented skis. I nod in the right places. I smile when I’m supposed to.
It doesn’t matter what Luka almost did.
He’s a client.
A complicated, infuriating client who leaves before I wake up and doesn’t come back until I’m asleep. A man who runs the second anything gets emotionally inconvenient.
Even if he wanted to kiss me again, what would that change? I am not in the habit of chasing men who disappear when things get complicated.
I’ve done that before. Chasing after a father who couldn’t be bothered to send at least one Christmas card, or a phone call when I graduated high school.
I’m not doing it again.
Even if, sitting here in a warm café with someone kind and uncomplicated across from me, I can’t quite stop wishing that Luka had walked through that door instead of past it.