"What kind of sins have you committed that require karma to wipe them clean?" he asks, a ghost of a smirk.
"None that concern you."
"That’s disappointing. For once our conversation might have gotten interesting."
His gaze flicked over my coat. My damp hair. The faint exhaustion and jet lag I’m trying not to show.
"You don’t have a room," he says.
It isn’t a question. He’s annoyingly observant, and I’m currently standing in the bar of a hotel with all of my luggage instead of checking into my room.
I glance toward the lobby, where the front desk is still drowning in stranded guests. I have no idea where I am going to end up tonight. Hopefully, a room opens up tomorrow.
"No," I admit. "Unless the resort offers a deluxe chair-and-blanket package."
Luka huffs a casual laugh. It’s short, but it’s the first time I’ve seen his I-don’t-give-a-fuck mask slip.
"This place is booked solid," he says. "I know. I rent my chalet a year in advance."
I don’t need him to tell me what the woman at the front desk already made clear. I’m not getting a room.
"Chalet?" I repeat.
"Yes."
"And you’re here alone," I say, because I need to know what I’m walking into before I ask.
His eyes cut back to mine.
"Do you want to ask me if I’m alone," he says, "or do you want to ask me for what you actually want?"
Heat crawls up my throat and though inconvenient, Carey’s words come flying back at me, "Try not to sleep your way into this…" Not that I ever have or ever would. If I were ever going to start, it wouldn’t be with Luka Popovich, who probably has to see his doctor for an STD checkup so often that they’ve issued him a stamp card. The tenth visit is free.
"Do you have an extra room?" I ask, glancing around the bar, the idea that if he doesn’t, I’ll be sleeping on the floor with the rest of these patrons. "A couch, maybe? If I’m honest, I’d take the floor at this point."
He studied me for a long moment.
Long enough that I start to wonder if he’s just waiting me out to make me suffer.
Then he says, "That’s a bad idea and we both know it." And walks around me toward the exit of the bar.
My heart drops.
For half a second, I consider letting him go. Let him walk away and leave me standing here. Let him drown in his own arrogance… and his Olympic disaster, for that matter.
But I didn’t fly halfway across the world to lose a staring contest in a ski bar.
I swallow what’s left of my pride, grab the handle of my luggage, and go after him.
"What do you mean by, ‘that’s a bad idea’?" I ask, hurrying to keep up with his long strides.
"I don’t put myself in those positions," he says without slowing. "You’re a stranger. For all I know, you could be an axe murderer."
I blink. "An axe murderer? Luka, you’re twice my size. I doubt I could overpower you even if I tried. And I’m a reputable PR agent. I don’t think Legacy PR would keep me on if I had a habit of murdering clients."
"I’m not your client," he says as I continue to keep up with him through the lobby with even more stranded guests than before.
"Actually, that is the exact definition of our working relationship. You are my client. Otherwise, I would not have chased you all the way out to my own personal hell," I say.
