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.
