Chapter 18 Sorrel
Sorrel
Iwake up with the dawn light streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the great room.
Today’s the day.
The roof mission.
The end of our little survival bubble where I’ve somehow fallen completely and catastrophically in love with a billionaire mining magnate who represents everything I’m supposed to hate.
And yet...
I extract myself carefully from Gregory’s arms. He’s still asleep, looking unfairly gorgeous as usual, that messed up hair of his somehow perfect on him, and quietly pull on my underwear and thermals, and slip on his Columbia hoodie that I’ve basically claimed as my own at this point.
Then I slide on warm socks and distractedly note that the fire is burning low. I toss in another log without really thinking, then pad to the kitchen.
Oatmeal.
I’m making oatmeal.
Because honestly, if I don’t do something with my hands, I’m going to spiral into a full-blown panic attack about what happens between us after we get rescued.
So.
Oatmeal it is.
I’m stirring the pot on the gas range when I hear him moving in the great room behind me. My entire body does this involuntary thing where it just... lights up. Like every cell remembers exactly what his hands felt like on my skin last night.
Jesus, get it together.
“Morning,” he says, and I nearly drop the spoon because... that voice.
I turn around. He’s wearing jeans and nothing else, with all those ridiculous muscles on display, his hair sticking up in every direction, and looking at me like I’m breakfast.
My face immediately goes beet red.
“Hi,” I manage, eloquent as always. “I made oatmeal. The exciting kind with... oats. Revolutionary culinary achievement happening right here.”
He crosses the room and kisses me. Just walks right up and kisses me like it’s the most natural thing in the world, his hand cupping the back of my neck, and I melt against him.
For a moment I almost forget that today everything changes.
Or whenever the rescue team arrives. Assuming the Starlink dish actually works after we clear it.
Wouldn’t that be nice if it didn’t and we were trapped here forever?
When he pulls back, I can see it in his eyes, too.
The knowledge that our time is running out.
“We need to talk about today,” I say quietly.
“I know.” He doesn’t move away though, just stands there with his forehead resting against mine. “But... let me check my laptop first.”
Right. The laptop. The 300+ message subject lines that downloaded yesterday during our brief, frustrating internet connection before the signal died. The outside world that’s been waiting to crash back in and destroy what we’ve built here.
I serve the oatmeal while he boots up his laptop on the kitchen island. He doesn’t bother with the remote starter for the generator. No point in wasting precious fuel just. Instead he’s relying on whatever battery juice is left from that brief charging session yesterday.
I settle onto the stool next to him, our knees touching, curious about these emails of his. I watch his expression grow progressively grimmer as he scrolls through the subject lines of emails he can’t actually open and read.
“Board Meeting - Urgent: CEO Removal Vote Scheduled”
“RE: Brazil Lawsuit - Settlement Discussions”
“CONFIDENTIAL: Whistleblower Testimony Obtained”
“Media Response Strategy - Your Input Needed ASAP”
My stomach knots watching him read. This is his entire life imploding in real-time, and there’s nothing either of us can do about it from this snow-buried chalet.
“The board’s voting January sixth,” he says finally. “On whether to remove me as CEO.”
Seeing the defeat in his shoulders makes my heart ache.
“What are you going to do?” I ask.
He doesn’t say anything for a long moment, just stares at the laptop screen.
Then he turns it off and closes it with a decisive click.
“A week ago I knew exactly who I was,” he says. “CEO. Billionaire. Person who made hard decisions and didn’t apologize for them. Now?” He shakes his head. “Everything’s unclear.”
This is where I should probably say something comforting. Something supportive and girlfriend-y and appropriate.
Instead, what comes out is: “Maybe that’s not bad.”
He blinks at me.
“I mean,” I continue quickly, “maybe certainty was your problem. You were so sure you were right about everything that you couldn’t see what you were actually doing. To Brazil. To those villages. To...” I trail off, then push forward. “To... yourself.”
The silence stretches between us and--
Oh god, I’ve fucked this up, I’ve said too much, I’ve--
But he’s looking at me like I just handed him an oxygen mask in a room where everyone else is suffocating.
“That’s...” He stops. Starts again. “You might be the only person who’s ever told me that.”
“That you were wrong?” My voice comes out too high. “Pretty sure the Brazilian government has some strong opinions on that front.”
“No.” He reaches for my hand, lacing our fingers together. “That being uncertain might actually be better than being certain. That I don’t have to be the one who’s always fucking right about everything all the fucking time. That not knowing who I am anymore could be... a good thing.”
Oh no.
Those annoying emotions again.
I’m about to possibly start crying into my oatmeal, so I quickly look away. That’s when movement outside the kitchen’s floor-to-ceiling window catches my eye.
I freeze.
“Gregory,” I hiss.
He follows my gaze and I feel his entire body tense. His fingers tighten protectively around mine, squeezing almost too tightly.
The mountain lion.
It’s right there at the tree line, maybe fifty yards from the house. Massive and tawny and terrifyingly beautiful in the morning light. Just... standing there. Watching us through the window like we’re the most interesting thing it’s seen in days.
Which we probably are.
The two idiots who’ve been storing frozen meat under the northern eaves like a wildlife buffet.
And it can definitely see us. The sun’s still too low on the horizon. Wrong angle for the outer portion of the window to act like a mirror.
Which means from the cougar’s perspective, we’re just two tasty humans in a cozy kitchen, probably looking like the breakfast special.
“They don’t hunt in the day,” I whisper, more to myself than to Gregory. Some kind of desperate mantra. “Mountain lions are crepuscular. Dawn and dusk hunters. They don’t hunt in daylight. They don’t--”
“This one does,” Gregory says grimly.
As if to prove his point, the cougar takes three deliberate steps toward the house.
My heart rate spikes so fast I can hear it in my ears.
This is bad.
Really, really bad.
We have to go on that roof today.
We have to clear the satellite dish.
We have to call for rescue.
And there’s a two-hundred-pound cat circling our house like we’re on the menu.
Which we are, I suppose.
Then, just as suddenly as it appeared, the mountain lion turns and lopes back into the tree line, disappearing into the forest like it was never there.
Neither of us moves for a long time.
“Well,” I say finally, voice shaking just slightly, “that’s not ominous at all.”
Gregory pulls me against his chest, one hand sliding into my hair, the other wrapped tightly around my waist. His heart is hammering as hard as mine.
“Gregory, how...” I swallow loudly. “We have... we have to clear that dish. Get on the roof. But that thing...” I gesture vaguely toward where the cougar disappeared.
“It’s been circling for what could be days now.
.. the blizzard would have hidden the tracks.
And it probably really wants to eat our faces off.
You know, because we’re fresh, unfrozen meat? ”
“I know.” His arms tighten. “But we have to do this. There’s no rescue unless we do this.”
Would that be so bad?
But I just nod against his chest and let him hold me.
“Eat your oatmeal,” he murmurs against my ear. “We’ve got a satellite dish to dig out and a predator to avoid and a future to figure out.”
No pressure or anything.