Perfect.
Abso-fucking-lutely perfect.
5
Sorrel
After breakfast, Gregory settles into the great room with his laptop.
Meanwhile I’m curled on the sectional near the fire, still wearing his Columbia hoodie because my field gear is draped over the chairs in the guest room somewhere upstairs.
He opens the laptop and his jaw tightens as he stares at the screen.
“Still nothing?” I ask, even though I already know the answer from the way his shoulders have gone rigid.
“Still nothing,” he agrees.
“Doesn’t the Starlink antenna need power or something, though?” I ask.
“It’s got a battery pack,” he explains. Then he shrugs and closes the laptop. “The storm’s still interfering.”
Right.
Because that’s totally normal.
Satellite internet that just stops working.
He’s totally not a serial killer.
Except, actually, it kind of is normal in extreme weather. Heavy precipitation can cause signal attenuation, especially with the thick cloud cover and electromagnetic interference from a blizzard this severe.
Doesn’t make it any less frustrating though.
And maybe I’m being a bit too hard on him about the whole serial killer thing. If he wanted me dead, it’s doubtful he would’ve nursed me back to health and washed my hair. Then again, maybe that’s what gorgeous serial killers do? Like, it’s part of the prep process before the kill or something?
No no no, stop it.
I pull out my own phone from my pocket. The battery is at fifteen percent. The signal bars, meanwhile, are at zero. Zilch. Nada.
Not even a flicker of service.
I turn it off to save power.
“We reallyarecut off,” I say quietly.
“Temporarily.” His voice has a controlled edge that implies he’s used to problems like this, and equally used to finding solutions. “Once the storm clears, everything will reconnect.”
Looking at the whiteout conditions beyond those massive windows, I can’t help but think “once the storm clears” might be the kind of optimistic timeline you tell yourself to avoid panic.
Like when you promise yourself you’ll definitely finish your dissertation on time even though your data just got corrupted and you’re trapped in the mountains with a hot rich guy with no way to contact your advisor.
Gregory stands and moves to the windows. His hands are in his pockets, and he’s staring at the storm with a certain brooding intensity. The charcoal gray cashmere sweater he’s wearing fits him perfectly, as usual emphasizing those broad shoulders and that tapered waist.
Stop noticing his build.
But my brain keeps replaying last night. His hands in my hair. The patient way he fed me soup. How he stayed in that chair all night watching over me. How--
Ugh.
