Chapter 4 Gregory
Gregory
Iwake up with my neck screaming and my back doing its best impression of a rusted hinge.
Sleeping in an wingback chair.
Brilliant fucking decision.
The room is dim. Early morning light filters through the curtains. I straighten slowly, every vertebra protesting, and look at the bed.
She’s sleeping. Breathing steady. No more of that worrisome shallow panting from last night.
I stand and cross to her. Press the back of my hand against her forehead before I can stop myself.
It’s cool.
Her fever broke.
Relief hits me and my chest instantly loosens.
Christ.
I don’t want to consider too closely why I give a damn. She’s a stranger. A complication. Someone who wandered into my chalet during a storm and immediately became my problem.
Except she’s not just a problem anymore.
I watched her cry in her sleep about lost data and disappointed advisors. Held her hand when she was delirious. Washed her hair with coconut-scented shampoo when she was too weak to stand.
Fuck.
I need coffee.
And distance.
Mostly distance.
It’s feeling rather cool in the room, so I grab another two blankets and place them gently on top of her, and then I leave the room and head downstairs.
The chalet feels different in daylight. Less like a fortress and more like what it actually is: an obscenely expensive cage I built to hide from the world.
Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, I can see that the snow is still falling heavily. Going to be a frigid one.
Like her room, the kitchen is uncharacteristically cold. I check the thermostat. Sixty-two degrees.
Well, I shut down the generator last night to conserve what little fuel remains, keeping it only for essentials, so I suppose that is to be expected.
Speaking of conserving energy...
I pull out my phone first. Still no signal. The battery is at thirty percent. I power it off to save what’s left.
The satellite phone is next. Same result. Nothing.
The storm must be creating some kind of electromagnetic interference. The thick cloud cover, the heavy snow...
I grab my laptop from the counter and boot it up. Battery at thirty-five percent. The Starlink interface loads.
Searching for connection...
...
Connection failed.
“Shit.” I close the laptop harder than necessary.
Fine.
The storm will clear eventually. And then everything will reconnect and I’ll get her out of here.
One more day. Two at most.
I can handle that.
Just as long as I don’t get too close to those dangerous curves again...
Coffee, I remind myself.
But when I spot my reflection in the shiny surface of the espresso machine, I realize that first, I need a shave.
I head to the frigid guest bathroom and, using the mirror, make a quick pass over my face with the electric shaver. Satisfied, I return to the kitchen.
The espresso machine beckons on the counter.
Main power is still out. I could turn on the generator. But that would mean suiting up and heading outside. Not to mention wasting precious diesel fuel.
Just so I can make a fucking coffee.
The espresso machine stays off.
I eye the French press sitting next to it. Vin left it as backup. Simple device. Glass cylinder. Metal plunger.
How hard can it be?
First I need boiling water.
I fill the kettle and set it on the gas range. Press the ignition button.
Nothing.
Right. No power means no electronic ignition.
The range runs on propane from the buried tanks next to the detached garage. At least those are still full. Thomas checked them before he left, said they’d last months. One thing that’s working in my favor.
I set the kettle aside, then I search the drawers until I find matches. Strike one. Hold the flame near the burner while turning the gas knob.
The gas ignites with a violent WHOMP.
Flames shoot up a foot high.
Heat blasts my face and I lurch backward, nearly dropping the lit match.
Fuck.
My heart hammers against my ribs. I can feel the phantom heat on my eyebrows.
I quickly blow out the match and turn my attention to the foot high flame. I hastily twist the gas knob down and the flame lowers to something more reasonable.
Christ.
I’m a billionaire who can’t light his own stove without nearly incinerating himself.
I put the kettle back onto the range. It heats, and eventually boils.
So, time to make coffee with the French press.
I got this.
Attempt one: I dump grounds into the press, add boiling water, and plunge immediately. The result tastes like battery acid mixed with burned rubber.
Attempt two: I let it sit for thirty seconds before plunging. Still tastes like shit, just slightly less aggressive shit.
Attempt three: I add more grounds, thinking more coffee equals better coffee. Wrong. Now it’s thick sludge that coats my tongue like motor oil.
“The fuck is wrong with this piece of shit?” I glare at the French press as if it personally offended me.
Which it has.
“You’re supposed to let it steep,” someone says behind me.
I spin around.
She’s standing in the doorway. Still wearing my Columbia hoodie. Her hair is messy, sticking up in places. I remember washing it yesterday. Vividly.
She’s pale but steady. The fever flush is gone.
Thank God.
“Well?” she says.
I blink. She’s watching me with poorly concealed amusement.
What did she say?
You’re supposed to let it steep...
“Steep?” I repeat.
She nods. “Four minutes. Hot water, grounds, stir gently, wait four minutes, then press slowly.” She moves into the kitchen. Slowly, carefully, like she’s still unsure of her own stability.
“I know how a French press works,” I retort.
“Sure you do.” Her eyes flick to the three failed mugs sitting on the counter. “I’m Sorrel, by the way.”
So I finally know your name.
“Gregory,” I tell her.
“Pleased to meet you, Gregory.” She starts to hold out a hand, but then seems to think better of it.
“Pleasure’s mine,” I reply politely. “How are you feeling?”
“Better. Thanks to you.” She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “I wanted to say thank you. For last night. For taking care of me.”
“It’s what anyone would do.”
“Is it?” She tilts her head slightly. “You washed my hair. Fed me soup. Stayed with me all night.” Her voice is soft but pointed. “You’d do that for just anyone?”
The question hangs there between us.
“You were sick,” I say instead. “You needed help.”
“Hmm.” She doesn’t look convinced. Just shrugs and lets it drop.
Smart woman.
She moves toward the French press.
“What are you doing?” I block her path without thinking.
She frowns. “Helping. You clearly need it.”
I don’t move from her path. “I don’t need help.” The words come out sharper than intended. “I’m perfectly capable of making my own coffee.”
“Are you?” She gestures at the evidence to the contrary. “Because from where I’m standing, you’re about to waste more grounds.”
“Sit down.” It’s not a request.
“Excuse me?”
“You just broke a fever. You’re still weak. Sit down before you fall down.” I remember finding her lying on the bathroom floor. She doesn’t know how badly that scared me.
Her eyes narrow. “I’m not an invalid.”
“You were delirious last night,” I insist.
She steps toward me defiantly. “And now I’m not.”
We’re standing too close. Close enough that I can smell the coconut shampoo in her hair. Close enough to see the gold flecks in her brown eyes. Close enough that my body is doing things my brain explicitly told it not to do.
My cock stirs.
Fucking stirs.
Fuck.
“Fine.” I step back. “Tell me what to do.”
Victory flashes across her face. “Make sure you use water that’s not quite at a boil. Or it burns the grounds.”
I grab the kettle. “It’s been sitting here for a bit. Should be the right temperature.” I pour.
She nods. “Now grounds. Two tablespoons per cup.”
I measure. Add them to the press.
“Stir gently,” she continues. “Make sure the grounds are all soaked.”
I stir with a spoon.
“Now wait four minutes,” she says. “Set a timer.”
“I don’t need a timer.”
“You absolutely need a timer.” She’s moved to the kitchen island, and is leaning against it for support even though she won’t admit she needs it. “Four minutes. Not three. Not five.”
I sigh, then set the timer on my watch. “Happy?”
“Thrilled.” Her sarcasm matches mine. It’s oddly satisfying. “Nice watch, by the way.”
I shrug. Something about her tone tells me she didn’t mean it as a complement.
We stand there in silence. Waiting. The timer ticks down. The storm howls outside the massive windows. Snow is still coming down so thick I can barely see the trees.
“How bad is it?” she asks quietly.
“Mmm?” I ask.
“The storm,” she clarifies.
“Ah. Bad.” No point sugarcoating it. “Roads are definitely impassable. Even with the plow, which I don’t know how to operate.”
“You have a plow?”
“In the equipment shed. Thomas, the caretaker, usually handles it. He’s in Vermont with family.”
She smiles sadly. “Yes. It’s Christmas Eve, isn’t it.” She’s looking out at the storm now with an unreadable expression. “My advisor is probably panicking. My roommates definitely think I’m dead.”
“They know you were doing fieldwork?”
“Yeah. But I was supposed to check in yesterday.” She swallows. “They’re going to call search and rescue.”
I almost laugh at that. “Even if they do, search and rescue will never get here. No one can. Not in this.”
The timer goes off.
“Okay, now plunge,” she says. “Slowly!”
I press the plunger slowly and carefully and watch the grounds compress at the bottom. The coffee above turns from murky to clear.
It looks dark and rich.
I pour two cups. Hand her the second one.
She wraps both hands around it and takes a careful sip.
Her eyes close and a soft sound escapes her throat.
Christ.
Don’t make that sound.
“Better?” My voice comes out rougher than intended.
“So much better.” She opens her eyes. Smiles at me. It transforms her entire face. “See? You can do it when you follow instructions.”
“I’m not good at following instructions,” I declare.
“I noticed.” She takes another sip. “Last night you ordered me around like a drill sergeant.”