Just a fan.
chapter
seventeen
My eyes burned from staring at the ceiling all night. I might have slept ten minutes, all of it in jagged scraps. Every sound from neighboring rooms made me flinch, dreading it might be another message from my mystery texter. Nothing came, but that hardly mattered. My stomach churned, acid rising into my throat whenever I thought about those words on my screen.
I was dying for a go.
My stomach lurched again.
This morning, I’d somehow managed to drag myself into the shower, where I’d stood under scalding water until my skin turned angry red, as if I could wash away the violation. My hands trembled so badly I stabbed myself twice with my mascara wand, leaving black smudges I couldn’t fully remove.
Work would be salvation. I could drown myself in metrics and client calls and slide decks until my brain stopped replaying those texts on an endless loop.
And then there was Luka.
God, I craved him—his scent, his touch, the safety of those arms that could pin me down and make me forget everything. But the thought of telling him, of seeing his expression change… Would he think I’d invited this somehow? Or worse, would he hunt the bastard down?
The lift chimed, and I stepped out into the hotel lobby, clutching my satchel like armor. My pulse skittered under my skin, frayed from the sleepless night. The cool air in the atrium bit at my damp hairline, but it was nothing compared to the ice still lodged beneath my ribs.
Then I saw him.
Luka stood near a marble pillar, coffee in hand, one foot crossed over the other. Fresh buzz cut, a fitted black sweater under his charcoal wool coat. His gaze snapped up the instant the doors opened, as if he’d been counting every second.
My chest squeezed. The sight of him nearly undid me.
I bit the inside of my cheek and forced my face into some semblance of neutral. When his eyes swept over me, his expression softened into that subtle half-smile—somewhere between possessive and amused.
“Good morning,” he said, pushing off the pillar.
My throat tightened. “Hey.” It came out too thin.
He stopped a pace in front of me, eyes narrowing just enough to signal he’d noticed. Really noticed. “Didn’t sleep?”
“No.” Too quick. I cleared my throat. “I mean—jet lag, stress, insomnia.”
His gaze coasted over my face, down to my grip on the satchel strap, then back up again. A crease formed between his brows.
“Alex,” he said, lower now. “What’s going on?”
The lobby suddenly felt too exposed. Too open. A family in matching windbreakers passed behind him, chattering in German. A businessman’s rolling suitcase barked across the tile. I swallowed hard, pulse knocking against my throat.
“Nothing. I’m fine.” A lie so flimsy it floated.
His jaw flexed. He stepped closer—not touching, but near enough that I felt the heat of him, the steadiness, the pull. “You look like you’re about to jump out of your skin.”
“I’m just tired,” I said, but it wobbled. “Really.”
His expression shifted—not frustration, not worry, but calculation. He scanned the lobby the same way he’d done that first night at the bar—quick, efficient, marking exits and sightlines.
Then, without a word, he slid two fingers lightly around my elbow and steered me toward a recessed alcove near the window, half-hidden behind a column and a cluster of ferns. Private enough for a confession. Or a fallout.
My breath hitched. He turned to face me fully, angling his body to block the view of the lobby.
“Try again,” he said quietly. But the softness didn’t hide the steel.
I pressed the satchel to my chest, fingers digging into the leather strap.