Chapter 11 Sorrel #2
We stand there for a moment that stretches too long. Outside, wind howls against the windows. Inside, the air feels charged with something I’m afraid to name.
“I should help,” I say. “It took us an hour to heat enough for my bath. You’ll be standing here until dinner if you do it alone.”
“You don’t have to--”
“I know.” I’m already reaching for some of the pots we used before. “But I’m not going to sit by the fire while you do all the work.”
We fall into an easy rhythm that shouldn’t feel as natural as it does. He fills pots with fresh snow while I arrange them on all six burners. The kitchen fills with steam again, fogging the windows.
Domestic. That’s the word for this. We’re being domestic together, and it does something strange to my stomach. Can you say, butterfly city?
“How’s the temperature?” he asks, testing one of the pots.
I lean in to check, our shoulders brushing. “Another few minutes. We want it hot but not scalding.”
We work in comfortable silence, switching out pots as water heats, pouring the hot water into the large containers we’ve designated for his bath. Steam rises between us, curling in the air, and I catch myself watching the way it dampens the hair at his temples.
Stop staring.
“Last one,” he says eventually, lifting the final pot off the burner.
“Here, I’ll help.” I reach for the other handle at the same moment he adjusts his grip.
And our hands collide.
We both freeze.
The pot is heavy, awkward, requiring both of us to hold it steady. But our hands are overlapped now. We should adjust our grips, should find a way to carry this that doesn’t involve touching.
We should move apart.
Neither of us does.
“Careful,” he says, his voice coming out a rasp. “It’s hot.”
“I know.” And I’m not talking about the pot.
We carry it together to the counter, our movements carefully synchronized, neither willing to break contact.
When we set it down, his hand lingers over mine on the handle. Just for a second. Just long enough for me to feel his pulse through his fingertips, or maybe that’s my own heartbeat.
His thumb moves fractionally against my knuckle, and the small motion sends electricity straight through me.
This is bad.
So bad.
I should step away.
Should remember who he is and what he represents and why I’m supposed to hate him.
Should recall every principle I’ve built my entire academic career on.
But I don’t move.
“Sorrel.” My name on his lips does something to my core. If I wasn’t wet before, I am now.
“Yeah?” I finally look up at him, and immediately regret it because his eyes are so blue and so intense and so focused entirely on me.
“I--” He stops. Swallows hard. His fingers tighten fractionally over mine.
The moment stretches. Steam from the cooling water rises between us.
“Your water’s ready,” I whisper, even though that’s possibly the least relevant thing in the universe right now.
He glances down at our joined hands on the pot handle. “Right.”
Finally, reluctantly, he lets go. And I pull my hand back.
The loss of contact feels wrong somehow. I step away from the counter, wrapping my arms around myself like I can contain whatever just happened.
“Your turn,” I manage. “For the bath. Plenty of hot water now.”
“Thanks.” He’s still looking at me like I’m more than some mere stranger he’s trapped and coexisting with in his chalet.
And that scares the scariest part.
Not the blizzard or the isolation or the limited resources. Not even the ideological chasm between us or the fact that his company poisons groundwater.
The scariest part is how much I want him to keep looking at me exactly like this.
How much I want to close the space between us and find out if his lips are as soft as they look. If his hands would be gentle or demanding. If he’d kiss me like I’m precious or like he’s starving.
“I should--” He gestures vaguely toward the bathroom. “Before the water gets cold.”
I nod, not trusting my voice.
“Help me carry these?” he asks, already lifting two of the heavy containers.
Of course. Because the universe has decided I haven’t suffered enough today.
We make our way down the hall in loaded silence. And I mean that literally, we’re loaded down with containers of hot water.
I’m super aware of how close we’re walking, how our arms keep almost brushing with each step. How if I turned my head even slightly, I could see the exact expression on his face.
I don’t turn my head.
In the guest bathroom he pours his containers into the tub while I set mine on the counter, and we’re doing this careful dance of not-quite-touching that’s somehow more intimate than any actual contact would be.
The second trip is worse because we actually lightly brush against each other a few times. The air smells like steam and his cologne and something else I can’t name but makes my underwear feel super wet.
Pour. Set down the empties. Be super careful not to brush against each other again.
Third trip, my hands are shaking slightly as I lift the final containers. This is ridiculous. We’re transporting heated water.
There’s nothing inherently romantic or sexual about basic hygiene preparation. People have been heating bathwater for literally thousands of years without developing inappropriate feelings for each other.
Then again, those people probably weren’t trapped in isolated mountain chalets with men who look like Gregory Falk does.
Final trip down the hall. My shoulder bumps his accidentally, or maybe not accidentally, and he makes this small sound low in his throat.
Oh god.
I’m not going to make it.
We reach the bathroom and pour the last of the water. He sets the empties on the counter while I test the temperature in the tub, trailing my fingers through to make sure it’s not too hot.
“Perfect,” I manage, pulling my hand back.
When I turn, he’s right there. Literally. Towering over me. Close enough I can see the way his pulse beats at his throat, and the exact shade of blue his eyes are in this light.
“Thank you,” he says quietly.
“Yeah. Of course. No problem.” I’m backing toward the door, needing distance before I do something catastrophically stupid. “I’ll just. Be out there. By the fire. In the great room. Not thinking about you naked in here.”
Oh my god, why do I keep saying things like that?
His mouth curves into something that’s definitely not quite a smile but does devastating things to my core. “Sorrel.”
“Yep, leaving now, goodbye!” I flee.
I slam the door shut behind me.
I make it back to the great room and collapse onto the sectional, pressing my hands to my flushed cheeks.
All I can think about is him stripping down in that bathroom.
Without me. Peeling off that cashmere sweater he’s been wearing for days, revealing those hard muscles I’ve been very determinedly not staring at.
The water sluicing over his skin. His hands.
.. those big, capable hands that just touched mine.
. washing away three days of woodsmoke and sweat.
Soaping his washboard abs. Soaping his cock.
In the tub I was just in.
Jesus Christ.
Get it together.
Three days. I’ve been here three days.
And I’m in serious, serious trouble.