Chapter 9 Sorrel
Sorrel
Iwake up warm.
As in, like, properly warm.
You know, the kind of warm that makes you want to burrow deeper and never leave.
Which is weird because I went to sleep in front of the fireplace, wrapped in my sleeping bag like a sad burrito, maintaining a carefully calculated distance from Gregory “Villionaire” Falk. As in, approximately seventeen feet away from said Villionaire.
Except now I’m definitely not seventeen feet away from anything.
I’m pressed against something solid that smells like woodsmoke and expensive cologne and clean male sweat. Something with a heartbeat that’s currently thumping steadily against my cheek.
Oh no.
No no no.
My face is buried in Gregory’s neck. His arm is wrapped around my waist, heavy and possessive.
Our legs are tangled together like we’re contestants in some kind of competitive cuddling championship.
And I’m pretty sure that’s his thumb resting against the bare skin where my borrowed hoodie has ridden up.
All good.
You’re just accidentally spooning with the man who poisoned your grandmother’s village.
I should move. Should extract myself immediately and pretend this never happened. Should restore the careful distance we’ve been maintaining since I discovered who he is.
But I don’t.
And right then he wakes up. I know because I hear the change in his breathing. Not to mention the way his whole body suddenly tenses as he realizes our position.
Neither of us moves.
Neither of us speaks.
We just lie there in this bubble of accidental intimacy, both pretending to still be asleep. Meanwhile I’m hyper-aware of every single point of contact. His chest against my breasts. His thigh between mine. The way my hand is somehow resting on his ribs, feeling them expand with each breath.
Move!
Just move.
This is not helping the situation...
But I still don’t. Because underneath all my righteous anger and ideological opposition, there’s a part of my brain that’s cataloging all the details.
.. the way his body radiates heat like a personal furnace.
The strength in the huge arm around my waist. How good he smells up close.
How safe I feel wrapped up in him despite everything.
Slowly, cautiously, I tilt my head back to look at him.
Bad idea.
Terrible idea.
His face is right there. Inches away. Those blue eyes are watching me with an intensity that makes my stomach flip.
His hair is messy from sleep, sticking up in ways that make him look even hotter.
He doesn’t look like a man who signs off on environmental destruction, just a guy who happens to wake up unfairly attractive.
“Err,” I whisper, because apparently my vocabulary has been reduced to single syllables.
His thumb moves. Just barely. A slow stroke across my hip bone.
I shiver.
Not from cold.
Definitely not from cold.
The air feels charged. We’re talking right before a lightning strike type of charged.
His gaze drops to my mouth for a fraction of a second before returning to my eyes.
Kiss me.
Please!
The thoughts appear unbidden and I want to shove them back into whatever rebellious corner of my mind produced them.
You cannot kiss the man who poisons villages.
I finally pull away, untangling our limbs.
The separation feels like a loss somehow.
Which is ridiculous.
You can’t miss something that shouldn’t have happened in the first place.
He sits up quickly as well, running a hand through his hair and making it stick up even more. “I’ll build up the fire.”
I practically flee to the bathroom. The cold hits me the second I leave the fireplace’s radius. Like walking into a freezer.
The bathroom itself is absolutely arctic, my breath misting in the air, and I realize I’ve just traded one kind of discomfort for another.
I spot one of the water containers I filled with melted snow yesterday sitting on the counter.
Well, at least it’s not frozen solid.
Even so, the water is ice cold when I splash it on my face. It does nothing to calm my racing heart or cool the heat flooding through my body.
I stare at my reflection. My hair is a disaster. My cheeks are flushed. My lips are slightly swollen from being pressed against his neck for who knows how long.
Get it together.
You woke up cuddling.
People cuddle accidentally all the time in survival situations.
It’s heat sharing.
Basic biology.
Nothing more.
Except it felt like more.
And that’s the problem.
I give myself somewhere between five and ten minutes of silent freaking out in the cold bathroom air. Then I braid my hair, splash more water on my face, and return to face him and whatever awkwardness awaits.
The great room is empty.
As promised, the fire has been built up, crackling merrily like it’s not witnessing my complete emotional breakdown.
But what really catches my attention is the window. Which I hadn’t noticed earlier because, well... spooning. But now...
Holy shit.
The storm outside is absolutely raging. Like, apocalypse-level raging. Snow is coming down so thick I can barely see the trees. There’s a drift piling up against the bottom of the floor-to-ceiling glass that reaches higher than my waist. Maybe chest-high in some spots.
So much for “the storm will clear tomorrow.”
Future archaeologists will probably find us here, perfectly preserved in ice, still awkwardly avoiding eye contact after accidentally cuddling.
I force myself to look away from the weather situation and head toward the kitchen.
Where I find him.
And stop short.
He’s made French press coffee.
Correctly.
Without being asked.
The carafe sits on the counter, dark and rich, and I can smell it from here. He’s standing next to it with his hands in his pockets, looking weirdly nervous in a way that makes my chest tight.
“You made coffee.” My voice comes out softer than intended.
“I made coffee.” He pulls his hands out of his pockets, then puts them back. “I practiced your instructions. Four minutes. Not three. Not five.”
Something about that, about him practicing, about him wanting to get it right, makes my eyes sting.
Stop it.
This doesn’t change anything.
So he learned to make French press coffee.
That doesn’t erase Brazil and everything else.
Still, it was a nice gesture.
“Merry Christmas,” I offer tentatively, because apparently we’re doing this. Being civil. Pretending we didn’t just wake up wrapped around each other like we belong together.
Which we don’t, of course.
What a ridiculous notion.
“Merry Christmas.” He pours two mugs and hands me one.
Our fingers brush on the exchange.
We both freeze.
Then I pull back too quickly and nearly spill hot coffee on myself.
Nice, Sorrel.
I quickly take a sip to cover up my flustered state.
It’s perfect.
We’re talking, abso-frickin’-lutely perfect.
The exact right strength.
The exact right temperature.
“This is... this is really good,” I admit.
One corner of his mouth twitches. The start of a smile. “I had a good teacher.”
Those words make me tingle in places where I definitely shouldn’t be tingling...
We settle at the kitchen island with our coffee and some pantry items we scavenge for breakfast. He finds protein bars. I locate some dried fruit. It’s not exactly a Christmas feast but it’ll do.
For a few minutes we eat in silence. Not exactly comfortable, but not hostile either. Just this weird in-between space we seem to occupy now. Probably because we’re both still processing waking up tangled together and neither of us knows how to address it.
So we don’t.
We just drink perfect French press coffee and pretend everything is hunky-dory.
“Tell me more about your research,” he says suddenly, breaking the silence. “The mycorrhizal networks. I want to understand.”
I blink at him. “Why?”
He doesn’t back down. “Because you clearly love it. And I’m curious.”
The genuine interest in his voice catches me off guard. Most people’s eyes glaze over when I talk about soil fungi. Even my ex used to zone out within thirty seconds.
But instead I say: “And not because you’re bored and want to pass the time? Stuck here as you are with someone who hates your guts?”
He seems taken aback when I say that, almost like I slapped him in the face.
Whoops.
Why did I say that last part?
Because it’s true.
Isn’t it?
“Do you?” he finally asks. “Hate my guts?”
I should say yes. Should maintain that moral clarity. Should remember who he is and what he’s done.
But I just woke up cuddling him. And he made me perfect coffee. And he’s looking at me like my answer actually matters.
“I’m... I’m working on it,” I mutter into my mug.
He huffs out something that might be a relieved laugh.
“So?” he presses after a moment. “Your research...”
I sigh, but Gregory is watching me with complete focus.
“Okay.” I set down my mug and launch in.
“So mycorrhizal fungi form these massive underground networks connecting trees. They’re like the Internet of the forest. Or some scientists believe they’re a type of neural network, even.
A non-human intelligence. And did you know trees actually communicate through them?
Share nutrients. Support each other. If one tree is sick or damaged, the healthy trees can send resources through the fungal network to help it recover. ”
“Trees help each other.” He sounds fascinated. “Even different species?”
“Especially different species. That’s the beautiful part.
A dying birch can be supported by a healthy fir.
They don’t compete. They cooperate.” I’m gesturing now, can’t help it when I talk about this stuff.
“We’ve also seen evidence that independent networks can communicate with other networks, in what could be some form of telepathy.
It’s... truly incredible. How little we understand about these fungi.
They could be just as intelligent as us!
More, even. But... mining... mining destroys these networks.
Rips them apart. Leaves the whole ecosystem vulnerable because suddenly the trees are isolated.
They can’t communicate. Can’t help each other survive.
On our ultrasonic sensors, we’ve detected something like grief coming from the adjacent networks that are still intact.
.. this increased acoustic activity from the water transport systems of the trees they support.
Like they’ve lost their brothers and sisters. ”
His expression shifts and something painful flickers across his face.
“But they can be rebuilt,” I continue quickly. “That’s what my research is about. How to reintroduce the fungi. How to help ecosystems heal themselves after extraction. It takes months, sometimes years or even decades. But it’s possible. The connections can be restored.”
I trail off, suddenly aware I’ve been talking for who knows how long and he hasn’t interrupted once. Just listened. Like what I’m saying matters to him.
“That’s what you were doing out there,” he says quietly. “When your equipment failed.”
“Yeah.” I swallow hard. “Three months of data. Gone. All those samples showing how the networks were starting to recover at a post-mining site. Just gone.”
“You’ll redo it.” It’s not a question. “You’re too stubborn to give up.”
And then I see him, as if for the first time. Not the CEO. Not the environmental criminal.
Just...
Gregory.
Who washed my hair when I was sick.
Who learned to make coffee the way I like it.
Who’s looking at me like I matter.
Like my work matters.
Which of course it doesn’t.
Not to him.
It’s an act.
All of it.
Meant to placate me during the time we’re stuck together.
Or is it?
“The metaphor’s not lost on me,” he says after a moment. “Damaged ecosystems that can heal if they’re given support. If the connections are rebuilt.”
Metaphor? What metaphor...
Oh.
He means me. After the fever.
Or... no.
Is he talking about... himself?
Can’t be.
The silence that follows feels heavy with meaning.
Outside, the storm continues. Inside, something fundamental is shifting between us.
And I’m not quite sure what.
I’m supposed to hate him. I know that much. Supposed to maintain my moral high ground. Supposed to remember that he signed off on poisoning villages for profit.
But right now, watching him across the kitchen island on Christmas morning, I’m having trouble reconciling the man in front of me with the monster I built in my head.
“Thank you,” I say finally. “For... the coffee. And for listening. For not being a complete asshole even though I keep calling you one.”
His mouth twitches again. “Give me time...”
I laugh despite myself.
And that’s when I realize I’m in serious trouble.
Because somewhere along the way, between the hypothermia and the fever and waking up in his arms, Gregory became human.
And that terrifies me more than any blizzard ever could.