Chapter 11 Sorrel
Sorrel
Iwake to pale light filtering through the great room windows and the immediate awareness that I’m alone on the sectional.
Thank god.
Unlike yesterday morning, there’s no tangled limbs, no shared body heat, no waking up practically wrapped around Gregory Falk like he’s my personal space heater.
He’s already up, adding logs to the fire with his back to me, and I’m sprawled across the leather cushions with the cashmere throw tucked around me like a cocoon.
No awkward untangling. No lingering touches. No confusing feelings about how comfortable it felt to sleep pressed against him.
Just... normal.
Exactly how it should be.
So why does some stupid part of me feel disappointed?
I sit up, shoving that thought down where it belongs... buried deep with all my other inconvenient reactions to this man.
My hair feels like it’s a disaster, my mouth tastes like I’ve been licking the fireplace stones, and I’m pretty sure I dreamed about mycorrhizal networks, which is either very on-brand or a sign I need therapy.
Outside, the blizzard rages on. This is what, the third day, now? You’d think it would have blown itself out by now. Three days.
That makes this the day after Christmas.
Boxing Day.
Back home, I’d be elbow-deep in post-Christmas sales right now, fighting suburban moms for discounted TVs and bulk noodles at Target.
December 26th is the one day a year when I can actually afford to stock up on things that are never on sale otherwise.
My roommates and I have a whole strategy.
Divide and conquer, hit three stores before noon, reconvene for victory tacos.
Instead I’m trapped in a billionaire’s mountain fortress, sleeping on furniture that costs more than my annual stipend, watching a man who could buy Target casually tend a fire in yesterday’s cashmere.
And somehow... it’s cozy? Like, genuinely comfortable in a way that makes no sense given the circumstances?
No.
Stop that.
You’re not getting comfortable here.
This is temporary.
Survival.
Not... whatever my brain is trying to make it into.
I push the throw aside and stand, immediately regretting the movement as colder air hits me. The fire has burned low, and the great room is a bit chilly. Which would explain why Gregory is adding logs to the fire.
Wait, what’s that smell?
Like old soup cooking on a stove somewhere.
And then it hits me.
That’s not old soup.
It’s me.
Oh no.
Can’t be.
But... three days.
Three days without proper running water means...
I double-check that he’s not looking, then risk an armpit sniff.
Yep.
Bacterial colonies are having a rave party in my armpits.
Sexy.
“We need to talk about hygiene,” I announce to Gregory.
He turns from the fireplace and cocks an eyebrow.
Cocks. Poor choice of words.
“Okay?” he says.
“I’m talking actual washing. Like, with soap and everything.” My face is already heating up because apparently I’m twelve years old. “The containers I’ve melted snow into aren’t enough for proper bathing. Not for two people. We need to heat a whole lot more water, so we can wash up properly.”
There’s a pause where we both seem to realize we’re about to have an incredibly awkward conversation about our bodies and washing them.
“Right.” He straightens, brushing bark dust off his hands. “How much water are we talking?”
Or maybe not so awkward.
Okay.
Right.
I do the mental math, trying not to think too hard about the fact I’m calculating water volume for washing Gregory’s very large, very muscular body. “Probably twenty gallons each? Heated in batches on the stove. It’ll take a couple hours minimum.”
“That’s a lot of propane,” he states.
“That’s also a lot of days without proper hygiene.” I cross my arms. “Look, I don’t know about you, but I’m starting to smell like a... um, well, let me just say, fun fact, human bodies begin accumulating bacteria at accelerating rates once the skin’s natural microbiome gets disrupted and--”
“I get it.” He’s almost smiling. “You’re right. We should... bathe.”
Why does he make that word sound obscene?
And why the hell does it turn me on?
Get it together.
You’re discussing basic human hygiene here, not foreplay!
It’s not like we’re going to bathe together or anything.
Right?
Right.
“Okay, so.” I move to the kitchen, pulling out every large pot I can find.
“We take baths in shifts. I’ll go first since I organized this whole thing.
We’ll heat the water together, fill up the tub, and while I’m taking my bath, meanwhile you can heat your water.
You’ll be too busy to think about me naked in the bathroom. ”
The words are out before I can stop them.
Gregory goes very still.
“Not that you would think about that,” I add quickly, face flaming. “Obviously. Because that would be weird. And inappropriate. I just meant. You’ll be in the kitchen. Heating water. While I’m in there. Clothed. I mean, not clothed. But you won’t see. Oh my god, I’m going to stop talking now.”
His mouth twitches. “Probably wise.”
We eat a quick breakfast, then work in silence for the next hour, filling pots with melted snow and heating them on all six burners.
The kitchen fills with steam that fogs the windows.
He rolls up his sleeves, and I keep sneaking glances at him as he carries heavy pots from range to counter, his forearms flexed under the weight.
There’s something weirdly intimate about this whole operation. Like we’re preparing for some kind of primitive ritual.
Which I guess bathing kind of is? Humans have been cleaning themselves since forever. Ancient Romans had whole social bathhouses. Medieval peasants had communal wash days. And here I am, heating water in a billionaire’s chalet like we’ve time-traveled to the 1800s.
“That should be enough,” Gregory says eventually, surveying the lineup of steaming pots. “Guest bathroom on this floor?”
“Unless you want me using your fancy master suite tub?” I ask.
He purses his lips. “Guest bathroom is fine.”
We carry the pots down the hall in awkward silence. I’m super aware of how close we’re walking, how our arms almost brush with each step. We dump the contents into the tub, and then return to the kitchen to grab the next batch. It takes three runs until we get all the water dumped out.
After that last run, he sets the empty pots on the counter while I test the temperature in the tub.
“Perfect. Okay, so.” I turn to face him and immediately regret it because we’re standing very close in a very small bathroom and this is extremely weird. “I’ll, um. Wash. You can go back to the kitchen and melt yours now. I’ll let you know when I’m done.”
His eyes hold mine for a beat too long. “Take your time.”
Then he leaves, closing the door behind him.
I lean against the sink and let out a shaky breath.
What is wrong with you?
He’s the literal human embodiment of environmental destruction.
Hello, Brazil?
But my stupid mind keeps replaying the way he looked at me just now. Like I’m not some annoying inconvenience he’s stuck with. Like I’m... something else.
Stop it.
I strip off my borrowed clothes. His Columbia hoodie that I’ve basically lived in for three days, and the thermal layers beneath. Everything smells bad. Like, really bad.
How delightful.
Using a washcloth and the precious heated water, I scrub three days of grime and sweat and general grossness from my skin.
It feels ridiculously good.
Better than good.
I might actually be moaning a little as I work his coconut shampoo through my disgusting hair.
The scent fills the small bathroom, sweet and familiar and comforting.
I can’t help but recall the day I arrived. When he washed my hair while I was feverish and held my hand through the night and--
Shut up, brain.
When he shouts through the door, I start.
“I left you some clean thermal layers here,” he tells me.
Was he just spying on me through the keyhole??
I turn toward the door. No keyhole. And no other obvious cracks.
That’s right, Sorrel, just being paranoid you again.
When I get over the shock, I finally call back: “Thanks.”
I finish up, then dry off with one of his obscenely soft towels. I wrap it around myself, open the door, and find the promised set of thermal layers waiting. The thoughtfulness of it makes my throat tight.
I grab them and shut the door. I slide on my old bra and panties... they’re stinky, but I refuse to go commando, especially while I’m trapped here alone with him.
I pull on the fresh clothes, then reach for the Columbia hoodie again. My own jacket is dry now, hanging in the mudroom, but somehow I can’t bring myself to switch back.
This hoodie is warm and soft and smells like him underneath the woodsmoke, and I’m apparently regressing to some kind of primitive scent-marking behavior that would fascinate my ecology professors.
Great.
You’ve become one of those pathetic girls who steals her crush’s hoodies.
Except he’s not my crush.
Definitely not.
It’s forced proximity creating artificial attachment.
Classic survival psychology.
Keep telling yourself that.
Besides, my own jacket is too hot to wear next to the fireplace.
Keep telling yourself that, too.
I sigh, then braid my damp hair, avoiding my reflection because I don’t want to see whatever my face might reveal right now.
Then I gather my dirty clothes and head back to the great room. I drop off my clothes on my side of the room, then head to the kitchen.
Gregory is exactly where I left him, melting snow for his own bath. When I enter, he turns.
And the look on his face makes me forget how to breathe.
His eyes track over me slowly. Taking in the damp hair, the clean clothes, the hoodie. He breathes in through his nose, and I know he’s catching the coconut scent that’s clinging to me.
“Better?” I ask, trying for casual and landing somewhere way off.
“Much.” His voice seems rougher than usual.