Page 109 of Dating Goals
Rising from my chair, I feel the room spin slightly. Four hours of intense concentration plus whatever happened in that stairwell has my head pounding.
I glance toward the bar. Anika is gone. So is Durand. A cold feeling settles in my gut. I’m about to run outside when Elodie materializes at my elbow.
“Quite the comeback,” she says. “Your luck seems to have turned.”
“Luck had nothing to do with it,” I hiss. “And you know it.”
Elodie’s nails dig into my arm like a bird of prey.
“I need some air,” I announce, peeling her fingers off my arm one by one. “And possibly a tetanus shot.”
“Don’t wander too far,” she singsongs. “You have a game to win.”
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” I say with a grin guaranteed to annoy. “Beating Malcolm Chase is rapidly becoming my favorite hobby.”
I make my escape, weaving through the casino’s labyrinth of slot machines and blackjack tables, scanning faces in the crowd. No sign of Anika or her mysterious British companion. My earpiece crackles with static, someone speaking too far from their microphone, maybe. I yank it out and stuff it in my pants pocket. The casino’s oppressive luxury is beginning to suffocate me.
Outside on the terrace, the crisp air slaps my face. Stars pepper the night sky above St. Moritz, impossibly bright and breathtakingly beautiful. My breath clouds in front of me, reminding me I left my jacket inside.
A figure stands alone, silver dress shimmering in the moonlight. Anika. She’s hugging herself against the cold, her bare shoulders pebbled with goosebumps.
My heart does a stupid little flip. So much for my legendary calm under pressure.
“Fancy meeting you here,” I say, approaching slowly like she might bolt. “Come here often?”
She turns, moonlight catching the planes of her face. “Griffin.”
The way she says my name sends warmth coursing through me despite the cold.
“Where’s your British bodyguard?” I ask, scanning the terrace.
“He’s not my bodyguard.” She wraps her arms around herself, fighting off the chill.
Without thinking, I sweep a stray hair from her cheek. She doesn’t pull away.
“You’re bleeding again,” she murmurs, studying the cut above my eyebrow. Her fingers hover near the wound without touching. “I heard you got attacked last night. In the stairwell.”
My hand automatically rises to the cut above my eyebrow. “News travels fast.”
“Are you okay?”
“Never better. My face broke his fist, poor guy.”
She rolls her eyes but can’t quite suppress her smile.
“How did you know about the stairwell?”
“Wil…er, I mean the British man told me.” She turns toward the mountains, moonlight catching her profile.
“The British man? Durand? Did he orchestrate the attack?” The question slips out before I can stop it.
Anika stares at me, eyes narrowing. “Why would you think that?”
“Because this whole situation reeks worse than hockey gear after playoffs. Because Durand appears everywhere I go. Because you’re suddenly buddy-buddy with him at the same poker game I’m at when you wouldn’t give me the time of day for days.”
Her mouth tightens. “It wasn’t Durand.”
“How can you be so sure?”
