"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 meansdon'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.
