14. Griffin
GRIFFIN
M y entire world narrows to the vision stepping out of the sleek black limousine I sent to pick her up.
Anika emerges onto the helipad like something from a dream, and my brain short-circuits. Everything—the mission, Malcolm Chase, the FIS agents lurking somewhere nearby—evaporates like ice on a spring day.
Her hair tumbles in soft waves past her shoulders, catching the last rays of sunlight. She’s wearing a furry pink winter coat that reaches her knees, but the blue dress I sent her peeks out beneath it.
Words catch in my throat as she steps onto the helipad.
Words. I need words. Any words.
“You’re…” I swallow hard. “Wow.”
Smooth. Real smooth.
Her face falls. “I knew I shouldn’t have worn my mother’s furry coat. But all I have are puffy ski jackets.”
“No, no…it’s just…”
“I’m sorry. I’m going to embarrass you in front of your colleagues.”
“I can assure you, woman. The way you look…I don’t think I want to take you anywhere.”
She frowns, and I can see a slight panic in her eyes. I cup her chin in my hand. “But that’s only because every other man at the party tonight will want you.”
Her voice quivers. “We can’t have that, can we?”
I shake my head slowly, dropping my gaze to her lips. “No, we cannot. I need every other man to know you’re mine tonight.”
“Is…is this part of the lesson?”
“Oh, honey, I’m just getting started.”
The helicopter pilot clears his throat behind me, reminding us we have somewhere to be. Somewhere that involves me playing spy against my boss while pretending I’m just taking the most beautiful woman in Switzerland to a fancy party. No pressure.
“Your chariot awaits,” I say, offering my arm. When she takes it, I nearly forget about Malcolm Chase, the FIS, and whatever financial crimes might be happening at this gala.
“You never said we’d be taking a helicopter,” she says as she looks at the sleek machine. “I’ve never been in one before.”
“I probably should’ve mentioned this is a helicopter ride,” I say, helping Anika up the steps.
She clutches my arm with surprising strength, her eyes sparkling and excited. “Is this standard dating coach protocol?”
I laugh, settling in beside her. “The party’s at a private ski chalet tucked away in the mountains just on the other side of the valley. Since there are no cars allowed in Zermatt, it’s helicopter or skis.”
“Ah yes, because skiing in this gown would be completely practical.” She smooths the midnight blue fabric with a smirk. “Though I would’ve paid good money to see you try in that tuxedo.”
Her smile is pure mischief.
The pilot turns around, giving us a thumbs-up. Anika’s grip on my arm tightens.
“Don’t worry, they’ll wait until you’re settled before starting the rotors. Wouldn’t want to ruin that hair.” I wink, then immediately wonder if that was too flirty.
“My hero,” she deadpans, but her smile says she appreciates the gesture.
When the rotors start spinning and we lift off, Anika’s entire face transforms. She presses her face against the window. The setting sun catches her profile, turning her skin golden and her hair into living flame.
“Griffin! Look at how small everything is!” She points excitedly. “There’s S’Holzfass! And the trail where I caught you chopping wood half-naked!”
“I wasn’t half-naked,” I protest, but can’t help grinning at her enthusiasm.
“Tell that to my retinas. They’re still recovering.”
The helicopter banks, and the Matterhorn comes into spectacular view. Anika gasps, reaching for my hand without thinking. Her fingers intertwine with mine, warm and soft.
“It’s like a different world up here,” she shouts over the noise. “Is this how you always travel? Private helicopters and limousines?”
“Only on Fridays,” I deadpan. “Tuesdays are strictly hot air balloons.”
She laughs, and I instinctively squeeze her hand.
“And on Thursdays you walk down the mountain trail to S’Holzfass to get beaten.”
“I will try to keep far away from your fist.”
“I meant beaten at cards.”
The helicopter rises higher, and the Alps spread out beneath us in a breathtaking panorama of snowcapped peaks and valleys. Anika drinks in the view.
I can’t help thinking about what the FIS agents told me about Anika after they ran their background check. Clean as a whistle, they said. No criminal record, no suspicious connections. Just a hardworking bartender who inherited her father’s pub and makes a mean Old Fashioned.
I glance at her profile as she gazes out the window, and something twists in my chest. I want to tell her the truth about tonight—that I’m basically playing spy against Malcolm Chase, that there might be actual danger involved.
I should tell her about the Ponzi scheme, about the FIS agents who will be watching us tonight, about how this isn’t just a fancy date but potentially dangerous.
But the agents warned me in no uncertain terms to keep Anika blissfully unaware.
And to be honest, seeing her like this, radiant with excitement, I don’t think I could bring myself to shatter that.
Instead, I just squeeze her hand and enjoy this moment of pure joy on her face, storing it away in my memory like the precious thing it is.
“It’s incredible,” she shouts, pointing to where the last rays of sun are hitting the Matterhorn.
“Yeah,” I say, not looking at the mountain at all. I’m watching the way her eyes light up, how her lips part slightly in wonder, the delicate curve of her neck where the necklace I sent rests against her skin. “Absolutely magical.”
The helicopter touches down on a private landing pad, and we’re immediately greeted by staff in crisp black uniforms who escort us toward a massive stone structure nestled against the mountainside.
“You said we were going to a chalet,” Anika says, craning her neck to take in the soaring stone facade with floor-to-ceiling windows reflecting the snowcapped peaks.
“Yes. A Swiss Chalet,” I say with a big grin.
“Griffin, this isn’t a chalet,” she says with a laugh. “This is a chateau. You live in a chalet.”
“What’s the difference?” I ask, enjoying the way she rolls her eyes at me.
“About fifty million francs and fourteen bathrooms.”
“Well I don’t know about that, but in Canada, we have a chicken restaurant called Swiss Chalet,” I admit. “They make this amazing Rotisserie Chicken Poutine. The best you’ve ever tasted.”
Anika’s face scrunches up like I’ve just suggested putting ketchup on fondue. “That is not Swiss food. That is a crime against Switzerland.”
“It’s delicious is what it is,” I counter, guiding her to where an attendant is checking coats. “French fries covered in gravy and cheese curds, topped with rotisserie chick…en.”
Words stick in the back of my throat as Anika slips off her coat to reveal the midnight blue gown.
It cascades around her like liquid starlight, hugging curves I didn’t even know existed beneath her usual jeans and flannel.
The fabric makes her eyes impossibly blue.
Not the pale blue of a spring sky but the deep, mysterious blue of a mountain lake. More beautiful than Banff.
“Holy…”
“Is this okay?” she asks, gesturing at herself with a nervous laugh that punches me right in the chest.
She does a little twirl, and the dress flares slightly, revealing a slit that makes her legs look endless.
“More than okay,” I manage to say.
“Thanks,” she says sheepishly, smoothing her hands over the silky material. “How did you know my size?”
I tap the side of my head. “Goalie instincts. We have to size up shots in milliseconds.”
“You sized me up, did you?” Her eyebrow arches with that snarky challenge I’ve come to crave.
“Every chance I get,” I admit, more honestly than I intended.
The coat check clerk smirks as she scans a claim code onto my phone, but I barely register her at all. I can’t take my eyes off Anika.
We’re then guided through massive wooden doors and enter a grand foyer with a chandelier that looks like it’s made of actual ice crystals, casting rainbow prisms across the polished stone floor. The ceiling soars three stories up, with balconies overlooking the space from each level.
Everywhere I look, elegant people mingle.
The sparkle of diamonds and black tuxedos, the tinkling of crystal glasses meeting in toasts.
The space buzzes with conversation and laughter, punctuated by the gentle notes of a string quartet playing in the corner.
Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, I can see snow beginning to fall, each flake illuminated by the outdoor lighting like tiny stars drifting down from the heavens.
“Wow,” Anika whispers, her fingers tightening on my arm.
A waiter glides past with a silver tray of tiny, artfully arranged bites.
“What is this?” I ask, picking up something that resembles a miniature work of art more than food.
“Seared foie gras with black truffle and gold leaf, sir,” the waiter replies.
Anika snorts softly beside me. I snag two, thanking the waiter before he moves on.
Anika examines hers critically. “This is also not Swiss food,” she declares taking a tentative bite, then her eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “It’s…actually good.
I escort Anika deeper into the gala, trying to look like I belong among these ultra-wealthy investors. The thing is, I do belong here. At least on paper. I invested in Titans stock just like everyone else in this room. The difference is, I’m supposed to be spying on the guy who signs my paychecks.
No pressure.
Anika’s practically vibrating with excitement, her eyes darting everywhere, like she’s trying to memorize every detail.
“So many beautiful people,” she murmurs. “I feel like I’m in a movie.”
“You’d be the star,” I say before I can stop myself.
She blushes, the pink in her cheeks making her eyes even bluer.
“This dating coach thing is working too well. I might actually believe you.”
“Good. That’s the point.”