"Then," I say, forcing my eyes back to him and, summoning every ounce of professionalism I’ve built my career on, "I would’ve reminded you that you’re my client and that it’s wildly inappropriate and that I have career standards."
One corner of his mouth lifts, just slightly.
"Career standards," he repeats, as if he’s testing the weight of the phrase.
"Yes. The kind that doesn't involve kissing internationally controversial hockey players on ski slopes."
His thumb shifts slightly against my wrist, not moving away, nor tightening either. It’s just steady and present.
"And if I don’t see you as my PR rep right now?" he asks.
"That doesn’t change the fact that I am."
"That you're what, exactly?" His voice drops a fraction.
"That I'm someone who knows better than to blur lines," I reply, even as my pulse proves I’m dangerously close to doing exactly that. Throwing my professional integrity out the window for just a kiss. A kiss that's off limits.
His eyes don’t leave mine.
"And if I told you," he murmurs, stepping closer until there’s barely air between us, "that I was going to kiss you, anyway?"
My breath hitches for a brief second.
"Then," I whisper, trying to keep my composure intact, "you’d be confirming that you have impulse control issues."
"And you’d still stop me, right?" he asks.
I hold his gaze. Those glacial grey eyes staring back at me.
"I should…"
The silence stretches, charged and completely fragile.
"But?" he pushes.
"But," I say back, barely audible now, "I might need a reminder why it’s such a bad idea."
"What if I told you this isn’t a bad idea? Would you let me kiss you then?"
He bends down. His lips barely a whisper away from mine. His hand releasing my wrist, sliding to my hips as he takes a step closer, my hands sliding against his hard chest under my fingertips.
His eyes dip to my lips, and I know this is the moment Luka Popovich kisses me. Neither of us backing away. And then—
My phone starts to ring. We both freeze. For half a second, neither of us moves.
The phone keeps ringing and I pull my phone from my back pocket. He pulls back just enough to glance toward the sound.
"It’s Randolph," I say quietly. "I should take it."
"Right," he replies, voice cool now. His hands still on my hips, one of my hands still against his chest. "Your actual client is calling."
"Luka—"
"It’s fine." He steps back, creating space where there wasn’t any seconds ago. The loss of heat is almost physical. "You should take it. I have a game of pool to finish, anyway."
And then he turns and leaves, closing the front door to the chalet behind him.
I wonder whether I made the right decision, staring at the closed door for one long second, and then I swipe to answer.
