Chapter 13 Sorrel
Sorrel
Ispend way too much time looking at the bandage on my palm.
Like, an embarrassing amount of time. The kind of time that would make my roommates exchange knowing looks and start the group text without me.
It’s just a band-aid. Wrapped around a scrape that honestly didn’t even need this much attention. But he kissed my knuckles after he bandaged it, kneeling in front of me like he was getting ready to propose, and now I can’t stop replaying that moment in my head.
Get it together!
It was just a polite gesture.
Probably European or something.
Plus rich people do weird stuff like that all the time!
Gregory disappeared into the blizzard right before lunch without warning. I was in the frigid guest bathroom when I heard the mudroom door slam, and by the time I got to the window, he was already trudging through the snow toward the north side storage area.
I debated whether or not to join him, but decided against it.
He came back ten minutes later with two frozen chickens, his hair dusted white with snow, his cheeks red from the cold. Somehow still looking drop-dead gorgeous despite it all.
“One for lunch, one for dinner,” he announced, dropping them on the kitchen counter like he’d just conquered Everest.
I left the second chicken thawing in the sink and cooked lunch.
We ate in silence.
The kind of silence that felt loaded, like we were both thinking about things we shouldn’t be thinking about. Like waking up tangled together on Christmas morning. Like the way his thumb stroked my hip bone before we pulled apart. Like him kissing my bandaged hand in the gym.
He ate most of the chicken, of course. And I mean, significantly most of it. Must need all that protein to maintain those ridiculous muscles he’s been working in the gym all day.
Not that I’m thinking about his muscles.
Or how they flexed when he was spotting me on the bench press.
Or how his t-shirt stretched across his broad shoulders.
Nope.
After lunch, he started heading toward the stairs. Back down to his basement cave.
“Are you going to work out all day?” I called after him, unable to help myself.
He paused on the stairs. “That’s the plan, yes.”
And then he disappeared down the stairs.
I cleaned up, returned to the great room, and tried to read my ecology textbook.
And so here I am.
Distracted by a bandage.
And a kissed hand.
You’re pathetic.
You know that, right?
Three days.
It’s been three days and you’re already developing Stockholm Syndrome for a mining CEO.
Well, it’s technically not really Stockholm Syndrome.
But still.
By the time evening rolls around and I’m cooking the second chicken, the smell must finally lure him out of his cave. He appears in the kitchen doorway and I do a double take.
He’s changed clothes. Clean cashmere sweater, dark jeans that fit him way too well.
His hair is neat, like he actually combed it for once instead of just running his fingers through it.
And he must have used some of our precious melted snow water to wash his face because he looks refreshed despite spending hours in the freezing gym.
The cologne hits me from across the room. That expensive woodsy scent that I’ve been trying very hard not to associate with safety and warmth and waking up in his arms.
I focus very intently on the chicken.
“Smells good,” he says.
“It’s chicken,” I reply. “I’m not exactly performing culinary miracles here.”
“Still. Thank you for cooking.”
The politeness throws me off. We’ve been doing this weird dance all day, circling each other, and I don’t know what any of it means.
Dinner is ready twenty minutes later. I plate everything, and we settle at the kitchen island because the dining room is too formal and cold, and eating by the fire feels too intimate after this morning.
He pours wine without asking if I want any. Expensive red from his ridiculous wine cellar. At least it’s not frozen solid. Though I suppose the alcohol content combined with the natural insulation of the underground cellar helped.
“To surviving,” he says, raising his glass.
I clink mine against his. “To not dying in a blizzard.”
“Yet,” he adds with dark humor.
We eat. The wine helps. Or maybe makes things worse. I’m not sure which.
“Why did you fire your staff?” The question comes out before I can stop it.
He tilts his head. “Mmm?”
“When I woke up after the fever, you told me you fired the team responsible for the helicopter?” I remind him.
“Ah.” He sets down his fork and takes a long drink of wine. For a moment I think he’s not going to answer. Then he does. “My security team. I fired my security team.”
“Why?”
“I blamed them for a document leak,” I reply. “It was more of an emotional firing. Because it wasn’t really their fault. You see, my protégé leaked the documents.”
I blink. “What?”
“Derek. He worked for me for five years. I mentored him, trusted him, treated him like a son.” His voice is flat but I can hear the pain underneath. “He’s the one who gave those internal reports to the press. About Brazil. About the environmental damage we caused.”
Oh.
Oh.
That’s not what I expected.
“Why?” I ask quietly.
“He’s not a white knight, if that’s what you’re thinking.
.. an environmental crusader disguised as a white-collar executive.
No. For Derek, it was all about money. A competitor paid him to sabotage me.
It wasn’t about principles or doing the right thing.
Just... greed.” He laughs bitterly. “The irony isn’t lost on me. ”
I take another sip of wine. “That’s rough.”
“Is it?” He looks at me then, and his eyes are sharp.
“He exposed information that needed exposing. Your grandmother’s village and others like it?
All the people who got sick around the world?
That’s on me. I signed off on those extraction methods.
I knew we were cutting corners. I told myself it was necessary for the greater good. ”
“The greater good,” I repeat.
He nods. “We talked about this before. Every green technology needs rare earth minerals, remember?” He drains his wine glass. “I wonder... does that make me the villain in this story? Or perhaps the necessary evil that makes everyone’s environmental dreams possible?”
He’s not entirely wrong.
I hate that he’s not entirely wrong.
“You could extract those minerals without poisoning groundwater,” I say finally. “It would cost more, cut into your profits, but it’s possible. You chose not to.”
“I did,” he admits. “Yes, you’re right about that. And people suffered for it.”
We sit in silence, listening to the wind howling against the windows.
I refill both our wine glasses. My head is already buzzing but I need something to do with my hands.
“Damaged systems can heal,” I hear myself say. “You have to stop the harm first.”
He’s watching me intently. “Even me?”
I’m taken aback. “What?”
“Can I be healed? After everything I’ve done?”
The vulnerability in his voice... the look on his face... the words... it all catches me off guard. This isn’t the same billionaire who opened the door three days ago.
“I don’t know,” I answer honestly. “But I think... I think I want to find out.”
The admission hangs between us. I see something in his expression. Hope. Yes, I think it’s hope. And... something else.
Something I’m afraid to name.
“Thank you,” he says quietly. “For not lying to me. For not offering false hope.”
“I’m not in the business of making people feel better about their bad choices.”
“No. You’re in the business of fixing what people like me break.”
I shrug. “Someone has to be.”
He almost smiles at that. Then he stands abruptly and the moment shatters.
“I should get some sleep,” he says, not meeting my eyes. “Long day tomorrow. We need to check on the generator, see if we can get communications working. Maybe the storm will finally break.”
“Right.” I force a smile. “Yeah. Of course.”
He leaves me sitting there with my wine glass and half-eaten chicken.
I hear him moving around in the great room. The rustle of his sleeping bag. The creak of the sectional as he settles in.
Well, that was abrupt.
I finish my wine. Clean up the dishes using our precious melted snow water. Take my time because I’m not ready to face him yet. Or maybe I’m hoping he’ll already be asleep when I get there.
When I finally enter the great room, he’s lying in his sleeping bag with his back to me. His breathing is even and slow.
Asleep. Or pretending to be.
Coward.
Both of us are cowards.
I crawl into my own sleeping bag on the opposite side of the fireplace. The same careful distance we’ve been pretending matters when we both know we woke up tangled together just yesterday morning.
I stare at the fire. He’s added more wood, I note, and built up the flames for the night. I watch them dance and flicker. Think about damaged systems that can heal if you’re willing to do the work.
Think about a man who looked at me with blue eyes full of wounds and asked if even he could be fixed.
I don’t know, but I think I want to find out.
Why did I say that?
What the hell am I doing?
He represents everything I’ve built my career opposing.
And yet...
Across the room, Gregory shifts in his sleeping bag. For a moment, I think he’s going to get up and come to me. But, he doesn’t move. Or even wake. At least, I don’t think he does.
And for some reason, I’m disappointed.
I close my eyes and try to sleep myself.
But all I can see is the look on his face when he asked if he could be healed.