He ignores me and turns towards the bartender on the other side of the bar, handing two glasses of wine to a couple. Luka lifts his arm, and the bartender sees him, nodding as if to tell him that he’ll head our way next.
"Are you hungry?" he asks.
"Starving." I set the menu down. "Almost duking it out to the death with a tree makes a girl realize how much she wants to live just one more day for a burger, garlic fries with ketchup, and a Shirley Temple with extra cherries."
Luka’s gaze shifts away, scanning for the bartender. "That’s very specific."
"I’m a very specific kind of girl," I say. "I know what I want."
Then I stop pretending this is casual. I have a job to do and I need to do it. I turn toward him fully, meeting his eyes.
"But the real question is… what do you want, Luka?"
For a second, the world goes quiet. The space between us is shrinking. His gaze holds mine as if he’s measuring whether I deserve an answer at all. For the first time since I met him, I catch it—the war behind his eyes, the constant tension there, like he’s always fighting something.
Internal battles. External battles. I’m not sure which, or maybe it’s both. My stomach twists in a way I don’t like.
I want to ask him something I shouldn’t.Who hurt you?
But I don’t. He’s a client and I’m not his therapist. I’m his PR agent. "What do I want?" he repeats.
I nod as he goes quiet for a second. He’s thinking about my question. I’m not sure if he’s debating whether to respond or if he’s considering his answer,
Then he cleared his throat. "I want to play hockey every day until the day I die," he says. "I want my father sent to Siberia so he can never be a threat to my sister—or anyone else—everagain. I want to win a Stanley Cup for myself and every player on my team."
Then he pauses.
"I want to sleep butt naked in a bed I rented a year in advance." Another pause, his eyes sharpening. "And I want to be left alone."
My throat tightens. Not because I feel sorry for him, but because I can hear the steel in it. The way he’s built his world like a fortress and expects everyone to bounce off.
"I’ll leave," I say quietly. "Just give me what I need to make the Olympic Committee and your agent happy. Then I’m gone. You’ll never hear from me again after this is over."
We stare at each other like that means something. As if it’s a promise either of us believes. We’re in a stalemate, and we both know it. Neither of us is willing to budge.
"So what can I get for you two?" the bartender asks, breaking the moment.
I blink, mind scrambling back to the menu.
Before I can answer, Luka speaks.
"She’ll have a pub burger, garlic fries with ketchup, and a Shirley Temple with extra cherries."
I stare back at him. He remembered my order… all of it and it surprises me.
The bartender nods. "And for you?" he asks Luka.
Luka and I both glance at the empty plate in front of him. The aftermath of whatever lunch he had already eaten. He looks back at the bartender.
"Make that two. Put it on my tab."
The bartender is gone before I can protest.
"You don’t have to buy my lunch," I say automatically. "I can pay for it."
"Blame years at prep school," Luka says, eyes forward. "A woman doesn’t pay when she’s with me."
"With you?" I scoff. "You left me a sticky note telling me to call the airport every hour until it opens back up and berate me every time I set foot outside of the chalet. I don’t see how I’m ‘with you’ at all."
