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."
"I didn’t hire you to do anything. And yet, here you are. This could count as stalking," he says, a challenge in his eyes.
"Don’t flatter yourself. I’m not one of your crazy female fans going through your trash to get your location and whereabouts."
He glances up, hands pausing, an eyebrow cocked as if I’d just admitted I keep a shrine of his game-used tape in my closet.
Okay, going through his trash was oddly specific.
"You’re not exactly making a great case for yourself," he says.
I ignored his comment. I know that didn’t land well, but stalking?... Come on. That seems a little dramatic to accuse me of.
"What did she ask you?" I ask as he returns to wiping himself down.
His jaw flexes, but he doesn’t look back up as he continues to wipe off his sweater.
"What did she ask?" I press again.
Finally, he glances back up, holding my gaze.
