Chapter 2 Gregory #2
I do my best not to huff out of the room, and literally yank open the refrigerator, which is still running on generator power but for how long is anyone’s guess.
Vin stocked it before he left, and there’s enough food here to feed a small army.
Steaks, chicken, fresh vegetables, cheese, eggs. The works.
The freezer’s even more impressive. Vin always overpreps, convinced I’ll starve without him. The man treats me like I’m completely helpless in a kitchen.
He’s not entirely wrong.
I pull out ingredients for something simple. Pasta. Even I can’t fuck up pasta. Probably.
Behind me in the great room, I hear her try to stand up. There’s a soft sound, something between a gasp and a whimper. Then the thud of her sitting back down. Hard.
I turn around. Through the connecting door, I see her gripping the arm of the sectional like it’s the only thing keeping her upright. Her face has gone from flushed to pale in the span of seconds.
“I’m fine,” she says again, but her voice is weaker now.
“Stop saying you’re fine.” I abandon the pasta ingredients and cross back to her. Up close, I can see she’s not just pale. She’s sweating despite still shivering. Her pupils are dilated.
I press the back of my hand to her forehead. She’s burning up.
Shit.
“You have a fever.” It’s not a question.
“No, I’m just warm from the fire.” But she can’t quite meet my eyes when she says it.
“Don’t bullshit me.” I pull back, already running through worst-case scenarios. Hypothermia can cause all kinds of complications. Immune system crash. Pneumonia. A dozen other things I should probably know more about but don’t because I’ve never had to take care of anyone but myself.
And right now, my satellite internet is down, my phones don’t work, and I’m stuck with a sick woman who needs medical attention I can’t provide.
Perfect. This is absolutely fucking perfect.
“When did you start feeling off?” I ask, forcing my voice into something calmer, more clinical.
“I don’t know. An hour ago? I thought it was just the adrenaline wearing off.” She’s still trying to downplay it. Still trying to be fine.
“I can stand, really,” she says. “I here look--” She tries to prove it, starts pushing herself up from the sectional. She makes it about halfway before her legs buckle.
I catch her before she hits the floor. One arm around her waist, the other bracing her shoulder. She’s lighter than I expected. The top of her head barely reaches my shoulder.
She smells like soap and woodsmoke and something underneath... something that’s just her.
Something warm...
And alive...
And far too close...
Fuck! Don’t go there. She needs help.
“Okay,” she admits against my chest. “Maybe I can’t stand.”
“No shit.” I adjust my grip, trying to figure out the least awkward way to do this. There isn’t one. “I’m taking you upstairs.”
“I can walk.”
“You literally just proved you can’t.”
Before she can argue further, I scoop her up. One arm under her knees, the other behind her back. She weighs almost nothing to me. Not surprising, I suppose, given the time I spend in the gym.
She makes a surprised sound, her arms automatically going around my neck for stability. “This is really not necessary.”
“Noted.” I head toward the stairs.
“I’m perfectly capable of--”
“You’re perfectly capable of passing out and cracking your skull open on my expensive floors. I’d rather avoid the lawsuit.”
She falls quiet after that, which is probably smart. I can feel her heartbeat against my chest, too fast. Too irregular.
The fever must be worse than I thought.
I take her to the best guest suite. The one with the softest sheets and the best view. The one I put visiting board members in when I’m trying to impress them.
I set her down on the bed as gently as possible. She immediately tries to sit up.
“Stay.” I push her back down with one hand on her shoulder. “Rest. I’ll bring you food and water.”
“You don’t have to--”
“We’ve established that I don’t have to do anything already,” I interrupt. “But I’m doing it anyway. Deal with it.”
She stares up at me with those warm brown eyes, trying to figure me out.
Good luck.
I haven’t figured myself out in thirty-eight years.
“Thank you,” she says quietly. “For letting me in. And for... for not being the serial killer I thought you might be.”
“Night’s still young,” I reply, and her laugh is weak but real.
I leave before she can see how much that laugh affects me. Before she can see how much I don’t want to close this door and walk away.
She hasn’t even told me her name.
In the hallway, I check my watch. Five-thirty. The storm’s not letting up. If anything, it’s gotten worse. I can hear the wind howling, rattling the windows in their frames.
One night, I tell myself. She’ll be here one night, maybe two at most. Then the storm will clear, the roads will open, and she’ll leave. Back to her research and her roommates and her life spent cleaning up messes that people like me create.
And I’ll go back to my isolation. Back to refreshing news articles about my company’s environmental crimes. Back to pretending I don’t care that I’ve become exactly what my father always feared I’d become.
A man who extracts value from everything and leaves nothing but destruction behind.
I head downstairs to finish making that pasta. She needs to eat, even if she doesn’t feel like it. Fever or not, her body needs fuel.
The generator rumbles in the distant background, a constant reminder that nothing here is stable. That we’re one fuel tank away from losing heat, losing light, losing everything that separates this luxury chalet from the brutal mountain wilderness surrounding us.
But that’s tomorrow’s problem.
Tonight, I just need to keep this woman alive long enough to regret saving her.
This woman whose name I don’t even know.