Chapter 15 Sorrel #2
My hope deflates like a sad balloon.
But then he’s moving to the far side of the shed, checking something.
“The shed diesel is empty. Thomas drained it for winter storage. Too bad.” His hand runs over the Kubota’s fuel tank and I see his expression change.
“But this. Thomas would have topped this off right before he left. If we can repair the generator fuel line, we can siphon this diesel into it.”
I’m already checking the gauge. “Maybe fifteen, twenty gallons?”
His relief is visible. We do the math together. The generator burns about ten gallons per hour at full load. That gives us... an hour and a half? Maybe two? We’ll need to be strategic. Charge devices, attempt internet connection, shut down.
“Can you fix a fuel line?” I ask him.
He stares at me like I just asked him to perform open heart surgery. “I wouldn’t know where to start.”
Of course he wouldn’t. Why would Gregory “I Have People For That” Falk know how to fix anything?
But here’s the thing about field research. When your equipment breaks down in the middle of nowhere, you learn to fix it or you fail your dissertation. I’ve repaired pumps, generators, all-terrain vehicles that died in locations where AAA was just a cute fantasy.
“I can do it,” I tell him.
We head back to the generator shed, trudging through snow that seems determined to make this as difficult as possible.
Gregory’s carrying the toolbox from the equipment shed while I mentally catalog everything we’ll need for the repair.
The collapsed overhang looks even worse this time, a twisted mess of metal and ice that makes me grateful we weren’t standing under it when it gave way.
Inside the shed, the smell of diesel is still overwhelming. The ruptured fuel line hangs expectantly from the generator.
“I’ve done this before.” I crouch down, examining the damage with the same focus I’d give to a soil sample. “But I’ll need your help. Your hands are bigger and some of this will require serious muscle.”
The relief on his face is almost comical. “Tell me what to do.”
We spend the next four hours in the cramped, freezing generator shed and I discover two fascinating things about Gregory Falk.
Firstly, he’s a super fast learner.
That one makes sense, I suppose. Considering the whole billionaire persona thing.
But secondly, he’s really good at taking orders.
Like, really good.
“There. See that coupling? You need to wrench it counterclockwise.” I point at the connection that’s giving us trouble. “No, tighter grip. Use your whole body weight.”
He adjusts his stance, and applies the kind of controlled force that makes my mouth go dry for reasons that have nothing to do with diesel fuel.
His fifty-thousand-dollar watch gets smeared with grease. He doesn’t even notice.
“Hand me that duct tape.” I’m directing this operation like a surgical procedure. “Now hold this steady while I... yes, perfect, don’t move.”
I’m supposed to be focused on the repair. I’m supposed to be thinking about fuel lines and couplings and how to jury-rig a seal with the materials we have available.
Instead I’m thinking about how his jaw clenches when he’s concentrating. How he follows my instructions without question or ego, trusting me completely even though this is so far outside his usual world it might as well be another planet.
It’s unfairly attractive.
He starts getting warm. Peels off his jacket. Rolls up his sleeves.
Oh no.
Because now I can see the flex and release of muscle as he works. The way his shoulders move. The way his forearms cord when applying pressure to a stubborn connection.
“What?” he asks without looking up.
Busted.
“Nothing.” My face is definitely red and it has nothing to do with the cold. “Just... you’re good at following directions.”
His mouth quirks. “Don’t sound so surprised.”
But I am surprised. This is Gregory Falk, billionaire CEO, who dominated and utterly ravished me last night, now taking orders from me without complaint.
The work is frustrating.
Connections won’t budge.
Seals won’t hold.
I’m muttering curses under my breath while he patiently follows every instruction I give.
Every brush of contact reminds me of last night.
When his hands slip on a bolt, my smaller fingers guide his grip to the right angle.
When I can’t reach a connection deep in the mechanism, he holds me steady while I lean in, his hands on my waist sending heat through six layers of clothing.
When my hands steady his shaking fingers on a delicate seal, he catches my wrist and brings it to his mouth. Takes off my glove and kisses my palm right in the center.
“Thank you.” His voice is rough. “For knowing how to do this. For being brilliant.”
My entire body flushes with warmth.
This man is going to be the end of me.
By four thirty in the afternoon, we’ve repaired the fuel line and siphoned the diesel from the Kubota back at the equipment shed.
I have to teach him how because of course I do. He watches me with intense focus as I explain the process.
When we bring the fuel back and fill up the tank, the generator finally roars back to life.
It’s the most beautiful sound I’ve ever heard.
Well, other than his groans last night, of course.
But we did it.
Actually did it.
I’m laughing, he’s grinning, and then he’s picking me up and spinning me around like we just won the lottery.
“We’re geniuses,” I announce when he sets me down.
“You’re a genius.” He’s still holding me, his hands on my waist. “I’m just the guy who followed directions.”
“Best direction-follower I’ve ever met,” I announce.
And then he’s kissing me. Hard. Celebratory. His mouth tastes like diesel fuel and something that’s becoming dangerously familiar.
When we break apart, both breathing hard, I realize it’s not just physical attraction anymore. Nor just forced proximity or survival instinct.
It’s... partnership.
We make a good team.
My knowledge, his resources.
My field experience, his willingness to learn.
My optimism, his determination.
Oh shit.
I think I’m really really falling for him.
“Come on.” He grabs my hand, lacing our fingers together. “Let’s go charge those devices and call for rescue.”
Right. Rescue.
The thing we’ve been waiting for.
The thing that will end this.
Though it’s only four forty, it’s getting dark. The sun sets early this time of year, and it’s already behind the mountain.
We make it about ten steps before the cold reminds us we’re idiots. My fingers are already going numb, that pins-and-needles sensation that’s the precursor to actual frostbite.
“Gloves,” I say reluctantly.
“Right.” He releases my hand and we both fumble in our pockets, pulling on the thick insulated gloves that make holding hands impossible unless we want to look like we’re wearing oven mitts.
We trudge back through the snow, no longer touching.
It’s stupid how much I miss the hand-holding.
It’s been literally thirty seconds.
You’re not thirteen.
Pretty sure hand-holding shouldn’t be the thing that makes you feel feelings.
But it does anyway.
Because holding hands is about choice. About choosing to keep holding on even when you don’t have to.
That’s the terrifying part.
I follow him back toward the house, our gloved hands safely separate in the cold, and I try not to think about what happens when the real world comes crashing back in.