Just until my job is secure and I can go home and never think about snow or Switzerland or the name Popovich ever again.
I'm halfway across the plaza, bags cutting into my palms, with plans to get back to the chalet, grab my laptop, and head back out to the café, when I pass by the hotel, towards the ski lifts and I see him.
Luka.
He's standing near the base of the ski lift, skis propped beside him, and he's not alone.
There's a woman with him.
A different blonde than last night. Tall. Leggy in a way that makes ski pants look like high fashion instead of functionalouterwear. She's laughing at something he said, her head tipped back, one hand reaching out to touch his arm.
And she's wearing his beanie.
The dark knit one I saw him wearing this morning before he disappeared into the dark morning and freezing sideways snow. It sits on her head now, casual and intimate, as if it's the most natural thing in the world.
Luka smiles.
The kind of smile I’ve only seen directed at me once, when I stopped him in the Hawkeyes stadium after the post-game interviews, when he thought I was a journalist interested in more than a story.
They turn toward the lift line together. So much for coming here to ski alone. Not that I ever bought that.
Annoyance hints at the fact that he's out here being charming and human with some ski bunny while he treats me like a particularly persistent mosquito he can't quite swat.
I tell myself it has nothing to do with the way she's looking at him, or the way he's looking back. I tell myself it doesn't matter, because it doesn’t. He’s my client, and I’m only here for one reason.
They disappear into the lift line, swallowed by the crowd of brightly colored jackets and the mechanical hum of the cables overhead.
I stand there in the middle of the plaza, bags heavy in my hands, watching the empty space where they were.
A text comes through from Carey:
I heard the client ran. Can you do this or not?
I shot off a text:
I’ve got this under control.
Her next text comes in immediately:
His agent isn’t so sure. Lock this down. Randolph has a huge portfolio. This could be a bigger win than just Luka. You have four weeks, Natalia. Gabriella won’t be extending the time. Get it done or start brushing up your resume… you’ll need it.
My lips pursed at her text. I look up and see Luka and his new little friends dangling from the lift.
Fine, if Luka wants to keep running to the slopes, then I'll follow him there.
Because clearly, waiting around the chalet for him to be reasonable isn't working. Trying to have a civil conversation isn't working either. Appealing to his better judgment, assuming he has one, definitely isn't working.
He wants to hide on a mountain? Then I'll meet him on the mountain. Even if I have to learn to ski to do it.
My gaze shifts from the busy lift line to the building on the far side of the plaza. The ski rental shop. Bright red sign, racks of equipment visible through the windows.
I hate the snow. I hate the cold. I've been skiing exactly once in my life, on a seventh-grade field trip to a hill in Washington that barely qualified as a bump, and I spent most of the day face-down in slush.
But Luka Popovich has left me no other choice.
He thinks he can outlast me. Outrun me. Out-stubborn me. He's about to find out how wrong he is.
I adjust my grip on the shopping bags and start walking. Across the plaza, past the clusters of tourists taking photos, past the café where people sip hot chocolate like they don't have a care in the world, and straight toward the rental shop.
