Chapter Five #2
"You’re not dead."
"And do not, under any circumstances, let Miranda in finance take my ‘No Mondays’ mug. I want to be buried with it." I tell her, heading towards the sign that says "TAXI".
"You can’t be buried with a mug."
I shake off her comment. Her logical thinking won’t derail me.
"Are you writing this down?" I demand, adjusting my suitcase as another gust from the automatic double doors nearly takes me out at the knees. "I don’t hear you writing this down."
"I’m documenting everything for the authorities," she says dryly. "Cause of death? Dramatic overreaction to precipitation."
"This is not precipitation. This is an extinction event. It’s probably coming for you next."
"Call me when you’ve actually seen the hockey player," she says. "Preferably before you kill him for making you fly out there. We’ll need an airtight alibi. Get a burner phone before you call back."
The line clicked dead before I could respond.
I glare at my phone and then realize that she didn’t hang up… I lost service. This storm absolutely has a personal vendetta against me.
I spotted an airport shop and veered toward it, pride and dignity left sobbing somewhere near baggage claim.
I bought the thickest parka I could find.
It's neon orange and two sizes too big. It makes me look like a traffic cone, but at least I won’t be a freezer-burnt traffic cone, and that… I can live with.
I swipe my card without looking at the total because I'm a coward and because it doesn't matter what the price is; I have to have it, or I will surely die the moment I exit this airport.
The receipt prints, and my credit card sends up a cry for help from inside my wallet.
My savings account is now a savings concept. But if I can get Luka out of this mess, it will all be worth it.
It's temporary, I remind myself. I just need a couple of days to convince him. Come up with a plan and get him onboard, and then head back home, where the sun remembers I exist.
The cab ride feels like being trapped inside a shaken snow globe where the heater can't keep up and the defrost has given up all hope.
The driver squints through the windshield like he's trying to read fine print in the dark. The wipers are fighting a losing battle. Snow slants sideways, making it hard to see anything past the dashboard in front of us.
I check my phone again… no service still. Why me?
A little while later, the resort finally emerges from the whiteout like a mirage.
The resort isn’t just a hotel, it’s a whole village wrapped around the base of the mountain.
An entire alpine town built with shops, restaurants, and chalets clustered together, all connected by cobblestone paths to look like it was created centuries ago, but actually designed for the wealthy to get lost in a blizzard in comfort.
It’s stunning—exactly what I pictured a Swiss Alps luxury ski resort would look like. Warm lights glow against the storm, the building massive and self-assured, backdropped by the Alps. I know the mountains are there, even if I can barely make them out through the whiteout.
Inside, the lobby is absolutely gorgeous… and absolutely chaotic.
The reception area soars four stories tall, crowned by massive crystal chandeliers that fracture light across polished marble floors and wooden log beams. The glass atrium stretches overhead like something out of a fairy tale, all that gleaming architecture dwarfing the disaster unfolding below.
Wet designer coats are draped everywhere in an elegant disaster. Rolling Louis Vuitton luggage creates an obstacle course across the pristine floor. Frustrated voices rise in half a dozen languages, all saying the same thing: why did I come here?
The front desk staff smile too tightly, their faces frozen as they deliver bad news on loop. No, flights aren't resuming. No, we can't predict when the storm will clear. Yes, we understand your frustration.
I stand there in my neon orange traffic cone parka, dripping melted snow onto marble that probably costs more per square foot than the mortgage on my condo, and wonder—not for the first time today—what series of catastrophically poor decisions led me to this exact moment.
When it's my turn, I give the clerk my name and reservation number.
She types. Pauses. Her face does something sympathetic and devastating.
"I'm so sorry. Due to the storm, we're fully booked. Several guests are stranded until flights resume."
My stomach drops into my leaky boots. "But I have a reservation…"
"Yes, ma’am, I understand that, but the guest who booked that room before hasn’t vacated because they are stranded here." I can see the apology on her face, but there isn’t anything I can do.
"There has to be something. A break room, a broom closet. A corner with a cot. Anything."
She shakes her head gently, as if she's letting me down easy. "Not tonight."
"What about hotels nearby? There has to be somewhere I can go."
"There is a village thirty minutes down the mountain—" she starts.
"Perfect," I cut her off. "I’ll go there," I say, grabbing my bag to flag down a taxi to take me down the mountain.
"But…" she says before I turn and walk away. "It’s peak ski season. The hotels there are also booked, and with flights grounded, their guests are stranded as well. Besides, with the road conditions getting worse, none of the taxi drivers will take you there tonight."
"What about the staff? You must have a way out of here?" I ask, desperate at this point.
"We all live onsite in an apartment building during the heavy snow season… for this reason."
I lean in a little with a friendly smile. "Any chance there is a vacancy there?"
She shakes her head. "Unfortunately, each room is at capacity."
At least I tried.
"What about tomorrow?" My voice cracks as if I'm asking for a miracle.
"Tomorrow we'll reassess," she says in a tone that means don't hold your breath. "But for now—"
"For now, I’m homeless in Switzerland, with no cell reception, wearing a neon-orange disaster parka."
Which is ironic, because I briefly considered walking into traffic just to put myself out of my misery. Except no one would hit me because, unfortunately, I’m dressed as a road flare.
She winces. "The resort opened the ballroom for stranded guests, and the yoga studio offered its mats, but it’s first come, first served."
Which means the yoga mats are probably long gone by now. And sleeping in a big room with a bunch of strangers is not high on my list of options.
"The bar is open," she adds finally.
It would have to be to keep people from staging a coup. Keep the guests too drunk to tell their hands from their feet, then they won’t care where they pass out for the night. Smart move.
I wheel my suitcase away, pulse thudding all the way down to my practically frostbitten toes.
If I can’t sleep, I can at least work.
And if I can’t work… I can wait somewhere out of the storm with booze.
The bar is warm and dim, all dark wood and emerald green walls with low lighting. Voices from other stranded guests flood the space. I take one step inside and stop. Because there he is.
Luka Popovich. Exactly the man I've dragged my sorry butt all the way out here to hunt down.
He’s relaxed, unbothered by the storm raging outside, as if it’s only a rumor. Like he didn’t vanish from Seattle in the middle of a crisis and leave his agent spiraling into a full-body panic attack.
A woman sits close, her hand resting on his arm as if she’s already decided what happens next.
He says something in French, low and smooth, and she laughs like it’s the funniest thing she’s ever heard.
Unsurprisingly, he speaks French, because apparently being infuriating in English and Russian isn’t enough for him.
I wheel my suitcase toward the bar, every step deliberate, and stop beside his stool.
"You’re going to make me chase you halfway across the world?" I ask, my arms crossing over my chest, hip jutted, my luggage at my side.
The woman freezes mid-sip. Her brows are pinching together. She points at me and fires something rapid at Luka in French, her tone rising.
Luka mutters something back to her, a question in his voice, before he turns.
His eyes met mine. Glacial and instantly familiar.
The same eyes from the Hawkeyes headshot I’ve studied too many times in his file.
The one I analyzed like game footage, looking for tells.
The same ones in that centerfold that I can't unsee. His cold stare holds secrets. I’m sure of that.
But I don’t need his secrets. I need compliance.
Is he going to let me fix this… or am I going to have to drag him all the way back to Seattle?
For a beat, he looks genuinely surprised. Then his expression cooled into something harder.
He’s not amused or impressed that I tracked him down. He’s annoyed. That makes two of us.
He turns back to the woman, but before he can say another word, she grabs her drink and throws it straight into his face.
Amber liquid splashes down across his face and down the front of him. She spat something vicious in French towards him and stormed off. A small circle of people near us goes silent while the rest of the bar is completely unaware.
"Oh my God," I breathed, grabbing napkins and stepping toward him. "I didn’t mean to cause— I didn’t think she would—"
"Stop."
His voice is flat.
I freeze mid-reach.
"Don’t," he says, brushing my hands away before I can press the napkins to his chest. "You’ve done enough."
"I had no idea she would throw a drink on you."
"That’s the second woman you’ve scared off in less than a week." He wipes his face with a napkin, then glances up at me. "If I could train you to scare off journalists and pesky PR agents who can’t take a hint, my life would improve dramatically."
My jaw tightens.
"I didn’t scare her off. And it’s not that I can’t take a hint. I was hired to do a job, and you’re making it nearly impossible."