Chapter 1 Sorrel #2
This is it. This is how I die. Suffocated by my own thermal underwear in a stranger’s foyer while he watches.
“Um.” My voice is muffled by wet polyester. “I’m stuck.”
Silence. Probably he’s reconsidering his good Samaritan impulses right about now.
“I can’t get it off,” I add, because apparently I need to narrate my own humiliation. “Could you just--oh my God--”
I wonder then what will kill me first.
The suffocation, or the mortification?
I suddenly feel his hands on the twisted fabric. He untangles the mess I’ve made with what feels like ease, like he rescues incompetent researchers from their own clothing on a regular basis.
The thermal layer comes free and I immediately cross my arms over my sports bra, face absolutely flaming.
At least I’m warming up. Pretty sure my face is generating enough heat to power a small city right now.
“Thanks,” I mumble to the floor, because I literally cannot make eye contact.
He moves toward my pants and I jerk backward instinctively. Which is a mistake, because coordination is apparently another casualty of hypothermia. My feet tangle and I lose my balance completely.
He catches me with one hand on my upper arm. His grip is firm, steadying, and oh God, so warm. So strong. His fingers easily wrap around my entire bicep and my stomach is starting to do this weird flip and--
Absolutely not. We are NOT doing this. You are hypothermic and helpless and wearing a sports bra in a stranger’s house.
This is not sexy.
This is a SURVIVAL SITUATION.
But my body apparently didn’t get the memo because I can feel heat flooding through me that has nothing to do with getting out of wet clothes and everything to do with the fact that I’m suddenly, horrifyingly aware of how close he is.
And how good he smells. And how his thumb is resting against my bare skin just above where my thermal layer ended.
Panic does what panic does best: makes me lash out.
“Let go of me!” It comes out as a hiss, sharp and defensive and completely disproportionate to the situation.
He drops my arm immediately, stepping back with his hands raised slightly. Not quite surrender, but definitely retreat.
The absence of his touch feels like a loss, which makes me even more furious with myself.
Great job, Sorrel!
He literally just saved you from face-planting and you snapped at him like a feral cat.
Really cementing that ‘competent professional researcher’ image.
The lights flicker, then die completely.
I’m not sure whether to feel relief or panic.
But then a moment later, a deep rumble starts up somewhere in the house. Generator kicking in, my brain supplies helpfully, because at least my scientific knowledge is still functioning even if nothing else is.
The lights finally flicker on.
So that I’m standing there exposed in front of him once again, my arms still crossed protectively over my sports bra.
“I’ll turn around,” he says. “Get changed.”
He actually turns his back and gives me privacy, which is possibly the kindest thing anyone has done for me all day. Besides letting me in so I don’t freeze to death.
I peel off the rest of my wet clothing as fast as my numb fingers will allow, including the sports bra that’s basically a second skin at this point.
Everything is soaked. Everything. I’m standing there in a stranger’s foyer in just my underwear, shivering violently, and all I can think is that this is definitely not how I imagined my doctoral research going.
That and, how I’m thankful I didn’t decide to go commando under the sports bra today.
I pull on the sweatpants he brought earlier, which are about six inches too long and require rolling at the waist and legs. Then the hoodie, which smells like expensive cologne and woodsmoke and manliness...
Don’t go there!
Still, the fabric is soft and warm and I want to live in it forever.
“You can look now,” I say quietly.
He turns back around, his eyes doing a quick assessment. I must look ridiculous, drowning in his clothes, my hair wet and tangled, my face probably blotchy and red.
But I’m warm. That’s what matters.
Except my filter has apparently frozen along with the rest of my brain functions, because what comes out of my mouth is: “You smell really good for a butler. Has anyone ever told you you look like a Calvin Klein model? Do rich people hire hot staff on purpose or is that just serendipity?”
The silence that follows is absolutely deafening.
Did I just...
Did I really just...
Oh God I did.
I really said that.
Out loud.
Just delete me.
Please.
He’s staring at me with this completely unreadable expression. Not quite confused, not quite amused. Maybe slightly concerned about my mental state.
“You’re delirious,” he says finally. “Let’s get you warm.”
“Right. Yes. Delirious. That’s what that was.” I’m nodding like a bobblehead. “Definitely hypothermia talking. Not me. I would never. That was the cold talking.”
Please let me die.
Quickly.
Desperate to recover some shred of dignity, I dig into my wet pant pocket and pull out my wallet. Or what’s left of it. I extract a crumpled, soggy twenty-dollar bill. Literally all the cash I have on me. I hold it out to him with shaking hands.
“Here. For your trouble. For the floor and the mess and all the stupid things I said.”
He stares at the twenty for a long moment. Then looks at my face. Then back at the money. The silence stretches out, excruciating.
“Keep it,” he says finally, not touching the bill.
I want to sink through those expensive hardwood floors and disappear forever.
He turns and starts walking toward what must be the interior of the house. I follow, still clutching my soggy twenty, my face hot enough to probably dry out the soaked bill through sheer embarrassment.
“I really appreciate this,” I babble, following him through rooms that get progressively more obscene in terms of luxury.
“I know this is an inconvenience. I’m sure the owner won’t be thrilled about some random researcher showing up and dripping everywhere.
I mean, God, can you imagine? Being stuck with some billionaire asshole who thinks his money makes him better than everyone?
That would be the worst. Like, thank God you’re here and not some entitled rich guy who’d probably make me wait outside or something. ”
The words just keep coming, nervous energy and residual cold and absolute mortification combining into verbal diarrhea.
We finally enter an enormous great room. It has cathedral ceilings. Floor-to-ceiling windows. Furniture that looks like it belongs in an architectural magazine. A massive stone fireplace that could fit four people inside it, currently blazing.
Is that where he puts the bodies?
I notice something else. So far, I haven’t seen any holiday decorations at all. No Christmas tree. No holiday stockings. No mistletoe. Either he’s the Grinch, or...
“Where is everyone?” I ask suddenly, looking around. “Don’t places like this usually have a whole staff?”
“I’m here alone,” he replies.
Something about the way he says it makes me really look at him. At the expensive watch on his wrist. The way he moves through this space with complete familiarity, not deference. The casual authority in every gesture.
The realization hits me like an avalanche.
Oh no.
Oh no no no.
“You’re the owner.” It comes out as barely a whisper.
He nods once.
Every single thing I’ve done in the last twenty minutes plays back through my mind in excruciating detail.
I helped myself to his hospitality. Dumped my pockets all over his floor, including a tampon and a romance novel with a half-naked man on the cover.
Required his assistance removing my clothes.
Called him hot to his face. Tried to tip him.
With twenty soggy dollars. Insulted rich guys in general and him specifically while standing in his house wearing his clothes.
My face goes from warm to absolutely scorching. I can feel the heat radiating off my cheeks. I want to melt into the floor. I want to rewind time and make literally any different choice. I want to have stayed in the cold and died of hypothermia because that would be less painful than this moment.
“I...” My voice cracks. “I didn’t... I thought you were...”
I can’t even finish the sentence. What am I supposed to say?
I thought you were the help?
That makes it worse somehow.
He’s watching me have this complete meltdown with that same unreadable expression. Not angry, not amused. Just... waiting.
“Well if you’re a serial killer,” I manage finally. “Can you just go ahead and kill me now? Please?” The last word is more of a squeak than actual spoken English.
Unexpectedly, one corner of his mouth twitches. It’s not quite a smile, but it’s something.
“You’re still shaking,” he says. “Sit by the fire. I’ll make coffee.”
And just like that, he walks away, leaving me standing there in his oversized clothes, clutching my soggy twenty-dollar bill, wondering how it’s possible to die of embarrassment and simultaneously worry about surviving hypothermia with a man I’ve just catastrophically insulted.