He tucks the surrounding blanket and props my ankle carefully. "I have to go. But I’ll check on you in an hour."
"I’ll still be working through this feast."
Zack looks over me one last time as if to make sure that he didn’t miss anything, and then he turns and runs out the door.
The medic stops by shortly after—a silver-haired woman with kind eyes.
"Zack called me three times," she says as she examines my ankle. "That’s a lot, even for him."
"He’s… attentive."
She smiles. "That’s one word for it."
The verdict is the same. It's a sprain. Which means ice and rest is the best course of action. But she felt confident that I’d be walking in a couple of days once the swelling goes down. No skiing until it’s fully healed.
"What a bummer," I say, but I don’t think she catches the sarcasm.
Hours pass, with Zack checking in on me between each lesson. I’m alone on the couch—warm, well fed, ankle elevated, and a little buzzy from the hot cocoa.
I should feel embarrassed about getting so startled by some young punk kids that I tripped on my own skis, but it can’t be helped.
Instead, I feel oddly levelheaded about the whole thing.
Though I hate that the only thing missing is the man I shouldn’t wish was here.
Chapter Sixteen
LUKA
I hear it before I see her.
Two men near the lodge, voices carrying too easily in the cold. Ski patrol. American woman. Twisted ankle.
My body is already moving.
I don’t think. I don’t weigh options. I don’t tell myself this isn’t my responsibility. I cut across the packed snow, breath burning, boots slipping once because I’m going too fast.
I find her on a couch near check-in. Wrapped in a thick wool blanket, leg elevated, ice packs stacked beside her as if she’ll need to ice it for a month. There’s a tray of empty plates and an empty discarded pudding cup.
Relief hits me so hard it makes me lightheaded for a second.
"Natalia."
She looks up, and for half a second, her face gives her away. The same relief I can feel in my bones, it’s written on her face too when she sees me, as if she’s been secretly wishing I’d find her. Then she schools it back into place.
I walk up to her on the couch.
"Before you start," she says immediately, glancing over at me, holding up her hand like a stop sign. "I’m fine. I came looking for you to tell you I have information about the Olympic Committee."
I take a knee down in front of her, not interested in hearing about the Olympics when she looks like this.
Her ankle is swollen, but not badly.
"What happened?" I ask.
She sighs. "Teenage snowboarders. They tried to scare me. I panicked."
My jaw tightens.
