My Big, Fat, Snowed-In Billionaire Christmas (Big, Fat Bigwigs #6)

Chapter 1 Sorrel

Sorrel

The thing about hypothermia is that it sneaks up on you.

Imagine the politest serial killer in the world.

That’s hypothermia. Because one minute you’re fine, collecting soil samples like the badass independent researcher you are.

And the next? Your fingers don’t work and you’re pretty sure your brain is freezing solid because you just watched three months of dissertation data vanish.

My backup drive corrupts with a cheerful little error message that might as well read “Congratulations, you’re royally screwed baby girl!”

And guess what?

My GPS decides now is the perfect time to stop working.

I glance at the temperature gauge on my equipment.

Forty-two degrees below freezing.

And dropping fast.

“My first solo winter collection,” I mutter through chattering teeth, watching my breath mist. “And I’m going to return empty-handed. Like some first year student who can’t handle basic field conditions.”

The wind picks up, cutting through my supposedly weatherproof layers like they’re made of tissue paper. Which, given my budget, they might as well be.

Storm clouds are building way faster than the forecast predicted, because of course they are.

The universe has clearly decided that Sorrel Silva’s humiliation and untimely death is the entertainment of the day.

I should finish collecting samples.

I should stay out here and salvage something from this disaster.

I should prove that I can handle this.

But my core temperature is dropping. I can feel it in the way my thoughts are getting sluggish, the way my movements are becoming uncoordinated.

I’ve studied enough cold-weather physiology to know I’m entering dangerous territory.

When your brain freezes into a brainsicle, you know you’ve been outside for far too long...

I scan the trees, and spot it.

A massive structure about a mile away, all glass and timber. It shouts obscene wealth. My stomach churns with instant resentment even as I calculate whether I can make it that far.

Pride or survival?

I choose survival, because I’m not an idiot. Or maybe I am, and just don’t know it yet.

It’s slow going. The snow buries my legs to the knees with each step. My feet don’t want to cooperate, and with that biting wind, I’m starting to wonder if I can still feel my face. Well, on the bright side, at least it hasn’t started snowing.

Yet.

The trees close in around me, a dense wall of Engelmann spruce and subalpine fir that keeps blocking my view of that ridiculous house.

And I lose sight of it completely at least half a dozen times, which would be fine except my sense of direction is apparently the first casualty of mild hypothermia.

I overshoot the mark. Course correct. Overshoot again.

Excellent navigational skills, Sorrel. Really showcasing that PhD-level competence here.

By the time I actually reach the front door, I’m not just cold anymore. I’m exhausted, disoriented, and pretty sure I’ve added an extra half mile to what should have been a straightforward trek because I kept zigzagging through the forest like a drunk person playing hide-and-seek with a building.

I’m shaking so hard I can barely press the doorbell. My finger slips off twice before I manage it. Then I just stand there, my teeth chattering like crazy, miserable and already dreading whatever conversation is about to happen.

No answer.

I press the doorbell again, and I start to wonder if it’s even working.

I pound at the door with my fist.

“Hello!” I shout, my voice cracking embarrassingly. “Is anyone home?”

Silence. Just the wind and my own chattering teeth.

I have a sudden realization.

Oh crap.

What if nobody’s home?

This might just be some rich person’s vacant investment property that they visit twice a year...

“Hello!” I pound on the door again, harder this time. The sound echoes dully. “Please be home. Please please please.”

Still nothing.

My brain helpfully supplies a montage of headlines: “Graduate Student Found Frozen to Death on Chalet Doorstep” and “PhD Candidate’s Final Words: ‘But I Knocked Really Loud??!’”

Crappity crap crap.

“HELL--” I start yelling again, really putting some desperation into it now because breaking one of the windows is looking less like vandalism and more like a legitimate survival strategy.

The door swings open mid-shout.

Oh.

Oh no.

The man standing there is tall. Like, towering-over-me tall.

At least six-two, with broad shoulders under an expensive-looking cashmere sweater.

Salt-and-pepper hair that’s slightly disheveled, like he’s been running his hands through it.

Sharp blue eyes that are currently staring at me with obvious annoyance.

A jawline that could cut glass. Five o’clock shadow that somehow manages to look deliberate rather than sloppy.

My hypothermic brain helpfully supplies: Hot butler alert. Rich people really do hire the most attractive staff.

How unfair.

“I need help,” I manage through numb lips. “My equipment failed. I’m a researcher and I... please?” That last word comes out as a whimper.

He stares at me for exactly two seconds. Then he reaches out, grabs my arm, and pulls me inside.

The door shuts behind me with a solid thunk. Then I hear it. The unmistakable sound of a deadbolt sliding home.

Okay.

So.

Locked in a remote mansion with a stranger.

A gorgeous stranger who might be a serial killer.

This is how every true crime YouTube channel starts, isn’t it?

But then the warmth hits me. Like, super cozy, wrap-around-and-hug-you-all-over warm. I immediately start dripping melted snow and mud all over the pristine hardwood floors. Floors that definitely cost more per square foot than I make in a year. Then I’ve ever made, if I’m being honest with myself.

So honestly, while freezing to death versus potential serial killer feels like a coin toss, at least there’s central heating. Probably. Assuming the hot maybe-butler maybe-murderer doesn’t keep his victims in a walk-in freezer, which would just be ironic given my current situation.

“Get those wet clothes off before you freeze to death.” His voice is gruff, commanding. Not unkind, but definitely not warm either.

Then he just walks away, leaving me standing there in a puddle of my own making.

Okay. Okay. This is happening. You’re in some rich person’s house, dripping everywhere, and the hot butler just told you to strip. Happens every day.

Despite the heat, I just stand there, still shivering uncontrollably.

He returns with towels and what looks like men’s clothing. A Columbia hoodie and sweatpants. “Change. Now.”

That voice... he’s not the kind of man who takes no for an answer.

“Right. Yeah. I can do that.” I decide to listen to him so he doesn’t kill me right away. Gotta buy myself some time to figure out what to do...

My fingers fumble with the zipper on my field jacket. “Sorry about the floor, by the way. And for bothering you. I know you’re probably busy and this is super inconvenient. And--”

I’m babbling. I’m aware I’m babbling. But I can’t seem to stop.

I manage to get my jacket unzipped, but then everything goes wrong. My pockets turn inside out and their entire contents explode across his floor like the world’s most humiliating pinata.

Two expired protein bars. Three soil sample bags. A tampon that rolls halfway across the entryway. Chapstick. Several random rocks I collected last week. A crumpled photo of me and my roommates making drunk faces at somebody’s birthday party.

And, oh God, my romance novel.

The one with the sexy hot shirtless guy on the cover. The custom edition I special-ordered directly from the author’s website, because the one in the bookstores only had the discreet PG cover.

I drop to my knees, scrambling to scoop everything back into my pockets, my face burning despite the hypothermia. But my fingers won’t cooperate. They’re clumsy and numb and useless.

He bends down and picks up the book.

I watch in absolute horror as his eyes flick to the cover. That perfect, infuriating face shows absolutely no expression.

Kill me.

Just kill me now.

He just hands it back to me without comment.

“I can explain,” I start.

He shrugs. “You don’t need to.”

Somehow that’s worse.

Wait. There’s nothing wrong with reading romance novels with hot guys on the cover. What’s the problem? Why do I care what this random stranger thinks?

Because he’s hotter than the dude on the cover!!

I stuff everything back into my jacket pockets with shaking hands.

Next up: removing the wet outer layers. My chest is soaked with frigid sweat from the panic-hike, my pants are drenched from trudging through knee-deep snow. Basically I’m a walking popsicle wrapped in expensive outdoor gear that has catastrophically failed at its one job.

I focus on my field pants first because they’re the worst offenders, but my fingers are basically nonfunctional at this point. The zipper won’t budge. My hands won’t grip properly.

Come on, come on. You can unzip pants. You’ve been doing this since you were three. This is literally the easiest thing.

Except it feels like I’m wearing thick mitts even though my gloves are off.

He watches this pathetic display for about thirty seconds. I can feel his eyes on me, cataloging exactly how incompetent I am at basic human functions. Then he steps closer.

“Let me help.”

“I’ve got it.” My pride makes one last desperate stand.

He waits a moment, then says: “You clearly don’t.”

He reaches for my jacket and I manage that part myself, shrugging it off with whatever dignity I have left. But then I try to pull off my wet thermal layer and everything goes spectacularly wrong.

The fabric is clingy from sweat. It sticks to my skin, twists as I try to pull it up. I get it halfway over my head and then it just stops. Stuck. My arms are trapped above me, the fabric bunched around my shoulders and face. I can’t see. I can’t even breathe properly.

I definitely can’t get free.