"Oh." The word is polite. The tone is not entirely neutral.
The other receptionist leans in a fraction, pretending not to, but her curiosity is evident.
Of course. Apparently, this entire resort operates on a Luka sighting alert system.
"You stayed overnight?" she asks delicately.
I offer a tight smile. "I didn’t have much of a choice. It was that or sleeping next to the complimentary coffee kiosk." I nod toward the corner of the lobby. "Unfortunately, I’m more of a tea girl myself."
"Of course," the first one says quickly. "Weather complications."
The second receptionist lowers her voice just enough. "We’ve heard he doesn’t usually… stay."
"With women," the other one clarifies.
I blink. "That’s not relevant to my lack of a room, is it?" Though the question needs no answer.
They exchanged a look. Obvious disappointment in their eyes when they realize that I won’t be spilling any tea on my one night with the Hawkeyes winger.
I could divulge about his obnoxious rules or how he sleeps in the nude for some unknown reason, or how the man has reflexes like a cat, snatching me out of the air before I fell on my face in the ice. However, none of that is pertinent information that will get me a room any sooner. It will only further build up his elusive persona.
I didn’t fly for over twelve hours, wedged into the middle seat next to the lavatory, to become Luka’s personal wingman.
"Right. Of course. We’ll note that you’ll remain in the chalet until your room opens."
Her professionalism returns… Thank God, but the curiosity lingers in the air between the three of us, now standing awkwardly.
Apparently, I didn’t just follow a hockey player to Switzerland. I followed a legend.
If only they knew what a real pain in the ass he is and how if I can’t get him to agree to let me help him, I’ll be out of a job in three and a half weeks.
I think about the stack of résumés I'd have to send out, the interviews I'd have to charm my way through, the explanations I'd have to craft for why my last big case ended with the client kicking me out of the country.
My hands curl into fists against the counter.
No…. Absolutely not. Luka Popovich might be stubborn, hostile, and determined to self-destruct his career, but I came too far just to give up now.
If he thinks one cold dismissal is enough to make me quit, he's about to learn exactly how wrong he is.
And if I’m going to stay in the Swiss Alps in the middle of January—against that legend’s will—I need to stop dressing like I’m headed to brunch in Seattle.
I glance down at myself.
Jeans and a knit sweater that works perfectly for misty drizzle and forty-eight degrees. A "winter" jacket that has already proven itself deeply uncommitted to actual winter.
My Seattle-cold wardrobe will not survive this. Not even close.
I look back at the receptionist.
"Where can I find warmer clothes?" I ask. "Actual winter gear. And somewhere with reliable Wi-Fi."
She brightens slightly and pulls out a folded village brochure from beneath the counter, spreading it open between us, smoothing it flat with her palm.
"There’s a boutique on site," she says, circling a building with a neat blue pen. "Just a few buildings down from here in the resort’s village."
She draws another circle.
"This café has free Wi-Fi, a light lunch menu, and live music in the evenings. The sushi restaurant also offers Wi-Fi if you prefer something quieter."
