Chapter 3 Sorrel
Sorrel
The guest suite is so quiet I can hear my own breathing. Which is unfortunate, because it’s basically a sickly wheezing sound at this point.
I’m sprawled across a huge bed, staring at my dead equipment spread across the Egyptian cotton duvet. It’s the world’s saddest tech graveyard. My laptop. The external hard drive. The temperature gauge that was supposed to be waterproof and freeze-proof.
I plug the backup drive into my laptop one more time. Just to be sure.
Please work. Please please please.
The screen flickers and the loading icon spins. The cheerful little error message I got earlier appears again.
DRIVE CORRUPTED. DATA UNRECOVERABLE.
Three months of soil samples. Temperature readings. pH levels. Mycorrhizal network mapping. The foundation of my entire dissertation. Just gone.
I give myself exactly three minutes to cry. I learned this technique during sophomore year after my first failed experiment. Set a timer, let yourself fall apart, then when the timer expires, pull it together and move forward.
So I cry.
Unfortunately, this time the tears don’t stop when the timer goes off.
Because it’s not just the data. It’s Dr. Chang trusting me with independent winter fieldwork. It’s my parents working double shifts so I could go to college. It’s Jake’s voice in my head saying You’ll always choose the research over everything else, won’t you?
Ah Jake.
My ex left for Seattle without me two years ago. Said he got a great job offer, wanted me to come. I had two years left on my PhD and samples in the field that couldn’t wait.
He’d said I’d never have room in my life for anything but my research.
Said I’d die alone in a lab somewhere, clutching a soil sample.
Maybe he was right.
Enough of that.
Pull yourself together.
I wipe my face on the super soft pillowcase and sit up.
Bad idea.
The room tilts sideways like someone’s installed a fun house floor while I wasn’t paying attention. My skin feels too tight and too hot and my head is doing this thing where it feels simultaneously stuffed with cotton and also floating three feet above my body. Yeah, that good.
I immediately lay back down and touch my forehead with the back of my hand. Still burning.
“Great,” I mutter to the empty room. “Definitely getting worse. Just what I need. Perfect timing for the serial killer scenario.”
I curl up under the covers, pulling them up to my chin. The sheets smell like expensive laundry detergent and maybe cedar. Nothing like my own bedding from Target that smells faintly moldy no matter how many times I wash it.
Just rest.
You’ll feel better in the morning.
A soft knock at the door makes me crack one eye open.
“Whaaaaat...” I moan.
“Hey.” He’s standing in the doorway with a plate of pasta. Actual homemade pasta. The steam rising from it should smell good but instead my stomach lurches. “Thought you might be hungry.”
Even through my fever haze, I register how domestic this is.
How his hair is slightly mussed, like he ran his hands through it while cooking.
How the sleeves of that cashmere sweater are pushed up to his elbows, revealing strong forearms. How he’s standing there with pasta he made himself because apparently some rich guys can cook when their staff isn’t around.
Well, not that it takes a lot of skill to cook pasta, but still. ..
“That’s really nice of you,” I manage. My voice sounds weak even to my own ears. “But I... just the thought of food is making me nauseous.”
He frowns, that sharp jawline tightening with concern. “You need to eat something.”
My eyes are already drifting closed again. “Maybe later?”
There’s a pause. Then I hear him set the plate down on the nightstand with a clatter of china. “Later then.”
His footsteps retreat and the door clicks softly shut.
I let the fever pull me into sweet oblivion.
I wake up because I’m dying of thirst.
At least I think that’s why I wake up. It’s hard to tell because my brain feels like it’s been replaced with soup. Hot soup. Well actually, burning soup. That’s somehow also shivering.
Water.
Need water.
Bathroom has water.
Getting out of bed requires a level of coordination I apparently no longer possess. The room is doing that tilting thing again but more aggressively. Like someone’s playing pinball and I’m the ball.
I stumble toward what I think is the bathroom door. My legs don’t want to work properly. They feel like they belong to someone else. Someone who’s never walked before and is really bad at it.
The bathroom is enormous and when I flick the light it’s bright and spinning. There’s a sink. I lurch toward it, manage to turn on the tap, try to cup water in my hands.
My hands aren’t working either.
Come on, hands. One job. Literally your one job right now is to hold water!
I lean forward instead, trying to drink directly from the tap like some kind of desperate animal. Which is when my legs decide they’re done participating in this whole standing-up situation.
I grab the edge of the sink but my grip isn’t strong enough. I’m sliding down, the cold tile rushing up to meet me, and this is it, this is how I die, collapsed on a billionaire’s bathroom floor because I couldn’t manage basic hydration.
“Hey?”
His voice comes from somewhere above me. I’m on the floor now, that much I know. The tile is cold against my cheek and honestly it feels kind of nice because I’m so hot.
“Found the floor,” I mumble. “It’s very nice. Expensive floor. Good floor.”
Just having a normal conversation about expensive bathroom flooring.
Definitely delirious.
Then he’s there, crouching beside me. Those broad shoulders fill my vision, that solid muscle packed into the cashmere sweater I keep wanting to touch.
His hand finds my forehead and even through my fever I register how cool his skin feels.
How good it feels.
“Christ. It’s worse.” His voice has gone from grumpy to something else. Something that sounds almost like worry.
“Just need water,” I try to explain, but my words are slurring together. “Thirsty. Thirrrssss...”
What am I even saying right now?
He doesn’t answer. Instead, he scoops me up in one smooth motion. My head lolls against his chest because holding it up requires more structural integrity than I currently possess.
Mmmm he smells sooo good.
Even through the fever, I notice.
And not just the cologne... something underneath that’s just... him. Warm and clean and masculine and I’m definitely too sick to be thinking about this.
And what about his arms? Feeling like steel wrapped in expensive fabric. And how easily he’s carrying me.
Focus.
You’re supposed to be dying, not cataloging how attractive your accidental host is.
My face ends up snuggled against his chest and I can feel his heart beating. So steady. So strong. It’s the kind of heartbeat that makes you feel safe even when you’re dying of fever in a house in the mountains.
“Put me down,” I protest weakly, because I should probably protest. “Can walk. Totally fine.”
“You were on the floor of my bathroom at two in the morning.” His voice rumbles through his chest where my cheek is pressed.
God, even his voice is hot.
“You’re the opposite of fine,” he finishes.
He carries me back to the bed, which feels even softer the second time. Or maybe I’m just more aware of it now that I’m actively dying.
“Stay,” he orders, as if I could actually get up at this point. “Don’t move.”
“Yes bossstth,” I manage, giving a weak salute.
He disappears.
My teeth are chattering despite the fact I’m pretty sure I’m literally on fire. My skin hurts. Everything hurts.
This is worse than the hypothermia.
At least hypothermia had the decency to make me numb.
He returns with supplies, and even through my fever haze I notice the way he moves like a man who’s used to making decisions and having people listen. Those blue eyes are focused entirely on me and through the haze it’s both terrifying and weirdly thrilling.
I glance vaguely at the tray he’s carrying... see a glass of water... pills... and a bowl of water with a cloth in it.
“Sit up,” he says. It’s not a request.
I try. I really do. But my body has staged a complete rebellion against basic motor functions.
He slides an arm behind my shoulders, and the solid warmth of him against my back makes me want to just melt into him and stay there.
He lifts me with one hand while holding the water glass with the other. “Drink.”
I manage a few sips before my head falls back against his arm. Against all that hard muscle I can feel even through the thick cashmere.
“More,” he insists.
“Bossy,” I mumble.
“Effective,” he corrects. “Drink.”
I drink more because arguing takes energy I don’t have. The water tastes like heaven. Exactly what my body needs.
He makes me take the pills next.
“Are these to drugth me so I don’t feelth any painth when you kill me?” I ask after I swallow them.
He ignores the comment and lowers me back to the pillows. His hands are so gentle and careful, like he’s worried about breaking me.
The cool cloth lands on my forehead then and I actually whimper with relief.
“That’s better?” he asks.
I nod because words are hard and everything is swimming.
“I’ll be right back.” His footsteps retreat.
Don’t go, I want to say. I’m scared and sick and I’ve completely humiliated myself in front of you like seventeen times today but somehow you being here makes it less terrible.
He returns ten minutes later with a bowl. The smell hits me first. Not pasta this time. Chicken broth.
“Eat.” He sits on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. I get a closer view of that sharp jawline with its five o’clock shadow, and those eyes watching me with an intensity that makes my stomach do the bunny hop.
“Not hungry,” I tell him, which is the truth.
“Don’t care. Eat.” He fills a spoon, holds it out. His hands are so big the spoon looks almost delicate in them.