Chapter 7 Sorrel
Sorrel
The refrigerator has officially given up on life.
I discover this delightful fact when I open it looking for something to make for dinner and get hit with a wave of not-quite-cold air. The temperature gauge inside reads forty-eight degrees, which is not all that far from the current kitchen room temperature.
Fantasticalicious.
For reference, the food safety danger zone starts at forty degrees. Which means we’re about six hours away from everything in there becoming a science experiment. And not the good kind that advances human knowledge. More like the kind that gives you salmonella.
I catalog the contents. Gregory’s personal chef really went all out before leaving. There’s got to be two hundred dollars worth of organic produce alone. Grass-fed steaks. Free-range chicken. Wild-caught salmon. Artisanal cheeses that would make my monthly grocery budget cringe.
And all of it about to go bad.
“Problem?” Gregory’s voice comes from behind me.
I don’t turn around. Still too angry about this morning’s revelation to look at him without wanting to throw something.
“Refrigerator’s gone,” I say. “Without power, we’ve got maybe six hours before everything inside spoils.”
“Can’t we just keep the door closed?” he asks. “Trap the cold?”
Oh sweet summer child.
I finally turn to look at him. Big mistake. He’s leaning against the kitchen island with his arms crossed, making his biceps bulge beneath that cashmere sweater of his. The late afternoon light coming through the windows catches his face and makes his blue eyes look almost silver.
Stop it.
He poisoned your grandmother’s village.
His arms are not allowed to be attractive.
“Thermodynamics doesn’t work like that,” I tell him, forcing my brain back to science instead of the way his arms look.
“Heat transfer is constant. The fridge is just a well-insulated box, but without active cooling, it’ll equalize with the ambient environment.
Which in this case is about fifty-four degrees and dropping. ”
He frowns. “So what do we do?”
I look out the window at the blizzard. Then at the thermometer mounted just outside it.
Negative twelve degrees.
“We move it outside,” I say.
He frowns. “Outside.”
“Outside. Natural freezer. The temperature out there will keep everything frozen solid.”
He’s quiet for a moment, processing this. I can practically see him trying to find a flaw in the logic.
Go ahead, billionaire boy. Tell me how your currently useless money could solve this better.
But he just nods slowly. “All right. What do we need?”
Oh.
He’s actually listening to me.
That throws me off balance more than I want to admit.
“Do you have eaves anywhere?” I say, refocusing. “Where the snow can’t get?”
He nods. “The north side. Next to the wood. It’s away from the wind. For now, anyway.”
“Good. We’ll put the food there. We also need containers. Waterproof, animal-proof if possible. We need to protect it from snow and anything out there that might be drawn to the smell.”
“There are storage bins in the pantry.” He’s already moving. “Vin keeps them for bulk supplies.”
I follow him to the walk-in pantry, which is roughly the size of my bedroom back in Boulder. He reaches up to a high shelf and pulls down a stack of clear plastic bins with locking lids.
The casual way he does it makes me notice his height all over again. How he barely has to stretch while I’d need a stepstool. How his shoulders flex under that stupid perfect sweater.
Environmental criminal.
Remember the environmental criminal part.
“These should work,” I say quickly, taking one from him. The plastic is thick, BPA-free according to the label, with rubber gasket seals. “These are actually really nice.”
“Vin doesn’t do anything halfway.” There’s something in his voice when he mentions his chef. Not quite fondness, but close. “He left me more organized than I’ve ever kept this place myself.”
Is that loneliness I’m hearing?
No.
Don’t you dare humanize him.
But I can’t help noticing that he said “left me” not “left to go on Christmas vacation.” Like Vin’s absence is personal. Like Gregory is actually lonely wandering around this massive chalet by himself.
Stop it, Sorrel.
We carry the bins to the kitchen and start loading them. I organize with scientific efficiency, grouping items by type and temperature sensitivity. Meats in one container. Dairy in another. Vegetables that can handle slight freezing in a third.
Gregory watches me work for about thirty seconds before asking, “What can I do?”
The question surprises me. I expected him to just stand there being useless and attractive.
“Um.” I gesture at the freezer. “That stuff needs to come out, too. More bins?”
He disappears and returns with another stack.
We work in tense silence, me directing placement while he follows instructions without complaint.
It’s weird. Every other rich person I’ve encountered has been helpless without staff.
But Gregory just does what needs doing. Well, as long as you tell him what to do and how to do it, of course.
I’m halfway through the freezer when I realize we have a problem.
“We’re running out of bins,” I say, surveying the situation. There’s still at least forty pounds of frozen meat. We’re talking steaks, that expensive salmon... plus all the prepared meals Chef Vin left. “How many more does he have?”
Gregory checks the pantry. “That’s it. Five total.”
“Shit.” I count what we’ve already packed.
Three bins completely full. Two more that are maybe three-quarters full.
“We’ve got too much food. I didn’t realize your fridge was so frickin’ big.
” I chew my lip, thinking. “We could put the overflow in trash bags, but those won’t be animal-proof. Or airtight.”
“Will that matter?”
I look at him. “Depends on whether you want to attract wildlife. Blood smell from raw meat carries for miles. Bears are hibernating this time of year, but cougars, wolves, coyotes... they’re all active in winter. And hungry. Really really hungry.”
He’s quiet for a time. “What are the odds something actually shows up?”
“In a blizzard? Low. But once the storm clears?” I shrug. “Honestly, probably decent. We’re in their territory, and we’re basically setting up a buffet.”
Gregory runs a hand through his hair, making it stick up in a way that’s annoyingly attractive. “So what do you recommend?”
“We prioritize. Pack the most expensive stuff in the sealed bins. The steaks, the salmon, the stuff that would be the biggest loss. The rest goes in heavy-duty trash bags, doubled up for scent control. We’ll stack those at the very back under the eaves you mentioned.”
“That doesn’t sound ideal.”
“It’s not. But neither is letting several hundred dollars of food spoil.” I meet his eyes. “Your call. You’re the one who owns this place. Your money...”
He’s quiet, weighing options he’s probably never had to consider before. Then he nods. “Do it. We’ll deal with wildlife if it becomes a problem.”
“We should elevate them,” I say, looking at our growing pile of containers. “Keep them off the ground so they don’t freeze to the concrete. And we need something to stack them on.”
“There might be pallets in the equipment shed.” He’s already pulling on his coat. “Thomas keeps them for organizing tools.”
“Thomas is the caretaker, and Vin the chef,” I recite, trying to keep all these names straight.
“That’s right,” he replies, heading for the great room.
I follow him. “I’ll come with you.”
He shakes his head. “You don’t have to. It’s freezing out there.”
“I’m the one who knows how to organize a field cache properly.
Besides, I need to see the space. Wait here.
” I run upstairs into the cold guest room and grab my field jacket, which is finally dry.
Then I hurry back down. I almost expect to find him gone, but he’s waiting with an impatient expression.
We head to the main entrance and its mudroom. He opens the main door.
The cold hits like a physical wall. The wind is absolutely screaming, driving snow horizontally across the property. I can barely see a shed out there even though it’s only about thirty yards away.
“Is that the equipment shed?” I ask.
Gregory glances at me. “Yep. Stay close. Visibility’s shit.”
Then he steps out into the storm.
I follow because pride won’t let me do anything else, even though the wind immediately steals my breath.
I won’t get a fever again.
I won’t get a fever again.
That’s my new mantra for the trek.
Hope it works.
He sets a quick pace, breaking trail through snow that’s knee-deep and higher in places. I’m reminded of my hike up to the chalet.
I won’t get a fever again.
I stay in his footprints, which is easier said than done given our height difference. His stride is about fifty percent longer than mine.
Stupid long-legged billionaire.
When we reach the shed, he yanks the door open against the wind and we stumble inside, bringing an avalanche of snow in with us. It’s a relief to not be standing knee-deep in the stuff, though.
The interior is organized like a hardware store. Tools hung on pegboards. Supplies stacked on industrial shelving. And yes, a pile of wooden pallets in the corner.
“Perfect.” I brush snow off my face. “We’ll need four. Stack them two high for better insulation from the ground.”
He hefts one easily. Like it weighs nothing. Which it definitely doesn’t because when I try to pick one up, the thing barely moves.
Of course.
He’s stupidly strong.
I watch him carry two at once, muscles flexing under his coat, and I’m absolutely not thinking about those shoulders or how easily he lifted me yesterday when I collapsed or how his hands felt in my hair.
Absolutely not.
Brazil, I remind myself.
Toxic waste.
Forty-two sick people.
This latest mantra helps.
Barely.