Chapter 15 Sorrel
Sorrel
Iwake up wrapped in six-foot-two of solid muscle and expensive cashmere blankets. Apparently overnight Gregory decided that I’m his new favorite teddy bear, because his arm is draped across my waist, and his hand is splayed possessively over my bare stomach under the blankets.
His chest is pressed against my back.
And his breath is doing interesting things to the nape of my neck that feel very good despite the fact that we are naked together on the floor under those blankets.
And I desperately need to pee.
Wait.
Naked?
Oh god.
We had sex.
On the floor.
By the fireplace.
My eyes drift to the romance novel I tried to hide from him on Day One, sitting openly on the coffee table, and I want to die all over again, because last night we did things that would make that book’s love scenes look tame.
But do I really want to die?
Hmm.
Maybe not.
As I continue to lay there quietly, in his arms, I find myself... actually snuggling closer to him.
I should feel weird about what happened. Shouldn’t I? Conflicted at a minimum. This is Gregory Falk, after all. Mining billionaire extraordinaire and environmental villain.
But right now, with his thumb unconsciously stroking my hip bone and the fire crackling behind us, I mostly just feel safe.
Which is its own kind of terrifying.
Suddenly he stirs behind me. His arm tightens fractionally and I feel him wake fully, the change in his breathing giving him away.
Neither of us moves.
It’s like we’re both holding our breath, waiting to see who’ll acknowledge this first. The morning after feels somehow more intimate than the night before. Last night was heat and desperation and breaking tension. This morning is gentle and vulnerable and real.
“Good morning,” he finally murmurs against my hair.
“Hi.” My voice comes out embarrassingly breathy.
His hand slides from my stomach to my hip and back again, a slow exploration that makes my breath catch. We should probably talk about this. About what it means. About what happens when rescue finally comes.
But talking requires acknowledging reality and right now I’m perfectly content to stay in this little bubble where--
Silence.
I bolt upright so fast Gregory actually grunts in surprise, and I’m suddenly very aware that I’m completely naked in broad daylight with blankets pooling around my waist.
Just flash him your boobs.
Great plan.
I snatch the top blanket and yank it up to cover my chest, probably giving myself friction burn in the process. With my free hand, I point at the nearest floor-to-ceiling window where sunlight is streaming in like someone just turned on stadium lights.
“The storm stopped!” My voice comes out higher than intended, possibly because I’m clutching a blanket to my naked body while trying to point out the window. “Look!”
He sits up beside me... considerably less flustered about his own nakedness, I might add. His eyes follow my pointing finger.
The view is almost offensive in its beauty. Brilliant sunshine. Impossibly blue sky. Snow sparkling like someone dumped an entire craft store’s worth of glitter across the mountain.
“Holy shit.” He runs a hand through his hair. “You’re right.”
We scramble for clothes. Well, I scramble. He moves with that controlled efficiency that somehow makes pulling on jeans look like a GQ photoshoot.
Meanwhile I’m hopping on one foot trying to get my thermal leggings on while not falling face-first into the fireplace.
Graceful as always, Sorrel.
He checks his watch. “We slept in late. It’s almost 11:30 a.m.”
“Jesus,” I tell him.
Last night was just that good.
I finish dressing, sliding on his hoodie last.
He flicks a light switch. Nothing. “Main power is still offline.” He tosses me my jacket. “Your phone. Check if it has signal.”
I dig out my ancient smartphone. It powers on, battery at fifteen percent, and I watch the signal bars with the kind of desperate hope usually reserved for dissertation defense results.
Nothing.
“Damn it.” I look up to find him frowning at his own phone. “You?”
“Some battery left but no signal.” He tries his satellite phone next. Presses the power button. Nothing. Tries again. “Shit. Dead battery.”
I stare at him. “Dead battery? Seriously?” I gesture at him with my phone-holding hand. “You’re a billionaire. Aren’t your batteries supposed to be like, I don’t know, diamond-encrusted and perpetually charged by tiny hamsters running on solid gold wheels or something?”
He gives me a look that’s somewhere between amused and exasperated. “We buy lithium batteries like everyone else, Sorrel. There’s no secret billionaire electronics store where everything runs forever.”
“Well there should be.” I’m doubling down on this absolutely ridiculous argument because apparently morning-after-sex brain has destroyed my filter. “You have a helicopter pad. You have wine that costs more than my tuition. But your satellite phone dies like some crappy smartphone from 2015?”
“Yes. Shocking as it may seem, the laws of thermodynamics apply to rich people, too.”
“That’s so disappointing,” I mutter. “What’s even the point of having obscene wealth if you can’t defy basic physics? Wait, what about your laptop?”
He’s already pulling it out, hitting the power button with increasing aggression. “Also dead.” He looks at me. “Yours?”
I actually laugh. “My laptop battery has been functionally dead since 2019. I have to keep it plugged in constantly or it dies within ten minutes.” I wave at the very not-plug-in-able house around us. “So yeah. Not happening.”
He considers for a moment. “The generator. If there was ever a time to use it--”
“It’s now. Yeah.” He grabs a remote starter, presumably for the generator, from the mantle on the fireplace and presses a button. He tilts his head, listening.
“I don’t hear anything,” I say.
“Neither do I,” he agrees. He flicks one of the light switches. Nothing. “Shit. We’re going to have to go out there.”
“Potty break and snack first,” I announce.
I head to the guest bathroom, and then meet him in the kitchen for a quick breakfast of cashews and macadamia nuts and French press coffee. By the time we bundle up, it’s a little after noon.
We head outside into the most beautiful apocalypse I’ve ever seen.
The sun is shining. The sky is blue. The mountains glitter.
And while it looks like a winter wonderland, looks can certainly be deceiving, because with every step we sink thigh-deep into the snow, and we have to fight our way forward like we’re wading through the world’s most beautiful quicksand.
Also the silence is almost creepy. No wind. No storm sounds. Not even birds. Just this oppressive quiet broken only by our labored breathing and the squeak of snow compressing under our weight.
Nature’s way of saying “Hey, remember that five-day blizzard that tried to murder you? Here’s the evidence.”
“Christ,” Gregory mutters beside me, nearly losing his footing. “How deep is this?”
“Four feet minimum.” I’m doing that awkward high-step march thing, lifting my knees like I’m in the world’s slowest, coldest marching band. “Maybe more in the drifts. The snow-to-liquid equivalent ratio in this storm was probably insane.”
He gives me a look.
“Sorry,” I tell him. “Nerd brain. It means we got a lot of snow.”
We continue trudging through the snow to the generator shed and I know something’s wrong before we even get close. The roof overhang has partially collapsed, the ice and snow buildup from the five days of storm apparently created a structural failure that would make any engineer weep.
“No no no.” Gregory rushes forward, yanking open the shed door.
The smell hits us immediately. Diesel fuel. Overwhelming and acrid.
He’s staring at empty tanks and fuel-soaked snow with the expression of a man watching his empire crumble. Which, given his recent scandal, might be a familiar feeling.
“Five days,” I whisper, looking at the destroyed shed and leaked fuel. “The storm lasted five days and this is what’s left.”
“I should have checked sooner.” His voice is tight. Angry. Mostly at himself. “I should have--”
“Hey.” I step in front of him because apparently proximity to Gregory Falk has destroyed my sense of appropriate personal space. My gloved hand finds his chest, feeling his heart hammering under all those expensive layers. “We’ll figure this out. Together.”
When did I become the optimistic one in this relationship?
Wait.
Oh god, is this a relationship?
He looks down at me and something in his expression softens.
“I don’t suppose you have a generator adapter for one of your cars?” I ask.
We check. Spend twenty minutes digging through his garage, which contains a Range Rover and a Porsche that are both completely useless to us right now. No adapter. Can’t siphon the fuel either since they’re not diesel.
Then I remember the other shed. The big one I spotted when we were moving food outside.
“The other shed,” I tell him. “The big one. What’s in it?”
“Just the equipment shed,” he replies.
“Let’s take a quick peak in there?” I urge.
He leads me across the property, both of us sinking into the deep snow with every step. When he opens the door, I immediately start cataloging. It’s like a treasure hunt except instead of gold we’re hoping for something that burns diesel.
Extension ladder. Riding lawn mower. Chain saw. Random tools.
And then.
“Gregory.” I’m staring at the massive machine in the corner like it’s a unicorn. “There’s a snow plow in here. Like a legit Kubota whatever-it’s-called snow removal beast. Could we use it to clear the driveway and get out?”
He joins me, examining the machine with the kind of skepticism usually reserved for door-to-door salespeople.
“Eight-tenths of a mile through four-foot drifts with steep sections and equipment I’ve never operated?
” He shakes his head. “We’d get stuck or injured within fifty feet.
And even if we somehow made it to the gate, the main roads are closed.
We’d just be stranded in a different location. ”