Chapter Five #4
Luka doesn’t even flinch. He just walks, hands buried in his oversized puffy coat pockets. His long strides eating up the lighted path to his chalet. His broad shoulders make him seem like he was built for this weather, his head down like he and the blizzard have an agreement.
I drag my suitcase after him, the wheels catching in the snow every few feet like the universe is personally offended by my ambition.
"Do you seriously consider this a vacation?" I ask, raising my voice over the wind and trying to keep my jaw from chattering so hard it breaks off every last tooth.
He doesn’t turn.
"I would have if you hadn’t shown up," he calls back, casual as if he’s discussing the weather.
I grit my teeth and keep moving.
The lantern-lit path winds between dark trees and perfect white drifts. My boots slip once, the tread useless on the polished ice hidden beneath the snow. I catch myself on sheer spite and keep going.
Another step.
Another slip.
This time I feel it. My center of gravity giving up, my stomach dropping, my suitcase yanking sideways like it wants to abandon me. I let out a squeal as I feel myself about to face plant into the icy path, when a hand clamps around my elbow.
It happens so fast that I barely have time to clock it. He doesn’t stop walking when he catches me.
Just hauls me upright like I weigh nothing and keeps moving, as if falling is an inconvenience he refuses to acknowledge.
My pulse spikes anyway. Not from the almost-fall that could have easily sent me to the hospital, but from him.
From the way his grip stays tight for half a second longer than it needs to.
"Thank you," I say, my skin still buzzing from where he touched me. Not that I would ever admit it to him.
"Don’t mention it," he says. "You should’ve packed better."
I blink at the back of his head. "Excuse me?"
He glances over his shoulder, eyes cutting sharp through the storm. "You came to Switzerland in city boots."
"I didn’t come to Switzerland for a vacation," I snap. "I came because you ran."
His gaze drops briefly to my suitcase.
Then back to my face.
"You’re not built for this," he says, like it’s an observation, not an insult.
Something about the way he says it makes my spine go rigid.
"I’m built for results," I bite out. "Not snow."
His mouth twitches once, like he almost finds that funny.
The chalet appears through the whiteout like it’s been waiting for him.
The dark wood, warm windows, quiet and expensive in a way that makes me feel a little out of place.
I make pretty good money, but it’s nowhere near the multi-million dollar yearly contracts that Luka signs.
I certainly couldn’t pay for two weeks in a chalet during the peak ski season in Switzerland on my salary.
Luka punches in a code and shoulders the door open. The moment I walk in behind him, the heat hits me so hard I nearly stumble again. But I can imagine what he means that the draft for the cold would still be miserable without a blanket.
The smell of firewood, clean sheets, and luxury resort smell.
The moment I pull the door shut behind us, the storm outside becomes only the faint sound of the wind howling against the windows. Not gone, just… locked out.
Just inside the chalet is a small living room with a couch, matching chair and a console and TV. A small kitchenette and two person circle table is just to the left with a large window. And then there is a doorway through the living room that I assume leads to the bedroom and ensuite.
I swallow down the spike of panic and roll my suitcase farther in, trying to pretend my pulse isn’t doing something humiliating at the idea of one bed.
Luka kicks off his boots and shrugs out of his coat like he’s done this a thousand times.
Like I’m not standing in his space.
Like he didn’t just drag me through a blizzard and into a one-bedroom trap that we might end up buried alive in together until the snow melts.
"Bathroom’s there," he says, nodding down the hall. "Kitchen’s stocked."
He turns slightly, eyes narrowing.
"Got it," I say."
His gaze sweeps over me again—slow and assessing. Like he’s trying to decide if I’m going to break before morning.
"Ground rules," he says.
I cross my arms. "You have rules… I’m shocked."
"I always have rules. Keeps everything in its rightful place."
That’s the first honest thing he’s said all night.
"You stay out of my way during the day until we can get you a flight out," he continues. "No following me. No showing up where I’m skiing. No ambushes at the bar. And no taking up the bathroom in the morning until after I’ve taken my shower to get ready. I’ll be gone by 6:30 in the morning."
"I can’t use the bathroom until after you shower? Are you serious?"
He nods. "Lifts open at eight am. Lines start forming before that. I can’t have you holding me up so you can pluck your eyebrows. Do that after I leave–it’s a rule. One last rule… Don't wait up at night for me. Got it?"
"Got it," I say, trying my best not to roll my eyes at his obsession with skiing and the absurdity of his rules. "You don’t have to worry about me following you. I’m not skiing and I have no interest in watching your odd mating rituals or staying up to see your walk of shame," I say immediately.
His mouth tilts. "We’ll see."
I glare at him. "I’m here to work."
"You’re here because you couldn’t take no for an answer," he corrects.
My jaw clenches.
"And at night?" I ask.
"At night," he says, voice low, "you keep your side of the bed. We don’t touch. We don’t pretend this is anything it’s not."
"And what do you think this is?" I demand.
"A mistake," he says without hesitation.
It lands like a slap.
I take a step forward before I can stop myself. "You deciding to run away before we could get your mess settled was the mistake, Luka. Not me showing up here to save your career. You’re welcome by the way. I don’t usually make house calls."
His eyes flicker, not with anger but with something else. Surprise. Like he wasn’t expecting me to talk back. I have a feeling that many people must be scared of him, but I'm not, Russian mob rumors be damned. Then he turns away like he’s already bored.
"I’m showering," he says, and then turns, walking through the bedroom door and then I hear the bathroom door shut.
I stand there in the silence, staring at the bedroom door. I should be relieved that I won’t be sleeping on the marble floors of the resort, with my luggage bag as a pillow and my parka as the only option for a blanket.
I exhale slowly, forcing my pulse down.
This is temporary and by tomorrow, I’m sure the hotel will have a room for me. I can handle one night as long as Luka keeps to his own rules—we stay on opposite sides. No funny business.
I drop my suitcase by the side of the bed, which doesn’t look like Luka has claimed it, or anyone else, for that matter. I quickly changed into the only short sleeve and shorts set of pajamas that I brought, since I have never needed anything warmer in Arizona.
They’re not sexy pajamas by any means, and that’s just as well. The last thing I need is Luka thinking I have any interest in him other than as a client.
I sit up in the king size bed and open up my laptop while I hear the shower running, and the way the sound changes as it hits Luka’s tall, broad body…
I shake the thought of him naked in the shower out of my mind.
That’s the least helpful thing I could be thinking about right now as we’re about to share a bed.
I check the internet and there's service, thank God. Not great service but I’ll take what I can get while I have it. I open up my browser and type in Luka Popovich Olympics.
It works slowly but finally an article pops up from a gossip magazine:
ICE KING EXPOSED: Luka Popovich’s Nude Olympic Stunt Sparks Committee Fury
The Hawkeyes winger may have skated too far this time.
Sources close to the Olympic Committee say officials were "blindsided" by Popovich’s decision to pose nude wearing his medals in a VELVT Magazine centerfold. Insiders claim sanctions could be imminent, and sponsors are already "having conversations."
I take the screen shots and email them to Molly.
Subject line: Formal Notice–Send cease and desist orders.
Message: This correspondence serves as formal notice that your recent publication titled "ICE KING EXPOSED: Luka Popovich’s Nude Olympic Stunt Sparks Committee Fury" contains materially misleading statements and unverified claims presented as fact.
I hit send knowing that Molly is still in the office for a few more hours. Then I hear a large gust of wind hit the side of the chalet and my internet goes dead. Damn it.
I’ll have to find wherever the resort hides the signal boosters.
There has to be some corner meant for executives who still insist on taking Zoom calls while on vacation.
I can’t afford spotty internet if I want any chance of untangling Luka’s mess before Gabriella’s three-and-a-half-week clock runs out.
When the bathroom door finally opens a few minutes later, steam rolls out first, then Luka Popovich walks into the bedroom completely naked.
My brain blanks and my fingers freeze on my keyboard.
Not because I've never seen a naked man but because this is him. All sharp lines and hard muscles. Broad shoulders, strong thighs, scars that tell stories he'd never volunteer.
He has a towel draped over his shoulders, one hand dragging it lazily back through his damp hair, moving directly toward the thermostat on the far wall like a man who has absolutely no awareness that this might be a problem. Like nudity is as natural to him as breathing.
"Luka. What are you doing?" I ask, my brain finally coming back online. "You’re naked."
He glances over at me mid-reach, hand still on the thermostat dial, expression flat. Like I've just pointed out that the sky is blue. He holds my gaze for exactly one beat. The kind that says and?
"What’s the problem now? This is how I sleep."