“Good. We’ll put the food there. We also need containers. Waterproof, animal-proof if possible. We need to protect it from snow and anything out there that might be drawn to the smell.”
“There are storage bins in the pantry.” He’s already moving. “Vin keeps them for bulk supplies.”
I follow him to the walk-in pantry, which is roughly the size of my bedroom back in Boulder. He reaches up to a high shelf and pulls down a stack of clear plastic bins with locking lids.
The casual way he does it makes me notice his height all over again. How he barely has to stretch while I’d need a stepstool. How his shoulders flex under that stupid perfect sweater.
Environmental criminal.
Remember the environmental criminal part.
“These should work,” I say quickly, taking one from him. The plastic is thick, BPA-free according to the label, with rubber gasket seals. “These are actually really nice.”
“Vin doesn’t do anything halfway.” There’s something in his voice when he mentions his chef. Not quite fondness, but close. “He left me more organized than I’ve ever kept this place myself.”
Is that loneliness I’m hearing?
No.
Don’t you dare humanize him.
But I can’t help noticing that he said “left me” not “left to go on Christmas vacation.” Like Vin’s absence is personal. LikeGregory is actually lonely wandering around this massive chalet by himself.
Stop it, Sorrel.
We carry the bins to the kitchen and start loading them. I organize with scientific efficiency, grouping items by type and temperature sensitivity. Meats in one container. Dairy in another. Vegetables that can handle slight freezing in a third.
Gregory watches me work for about thirty seconds before asking, “What can I do?”
The question surprises me. I expected him to just stand there being useless and attractive.
“Um.” I gesture at the freezer. “That stuff needs to come out, too. More bins?”
He disappears and returns with another stack. We work in tense silence, me directing placement while he follows instructions without complaint. It’s weird. Every other rich person I’ve encountered has been helpless without staff. But Gregory just does what needs doing. Well, as long as you tell him what to do and how to do it, of course.
I’m halfway through the freezer when I realize we have a problem.
“We’re running out of bins,” I say, surveying the situation. There’s still at least forty pounds of frozen meat. We’re talking steaks, that expensive salmon... plus all the prepared meals Chef Vin left. “How many more does he have?”
Gregory checks the pantry. “That’s it. Five total.”
“Shit.” I count what we’ve already packed. Three bins completely full. Two more that are maybe three-quarters full. “We’ve got too much food. I didn’t realize your fridge was so frickin’ big.” I chew my lip, thinking. “We could put the overflow in trash bags, but those won’t be animal-proof. Or airtight.”
“Will that matter?”
I look at him. “Depends on whether you want to attract wildlife. Blood smell from raw meat carries for miles. Bears are hibernating this time of year, but cougars, wolves, coyotes... they’re all active in winter. And hungry. Really really hungry.”
He’s quiet for a time. “What are the odds something actually shows up?”
“In a blizzard? Low. But once the storm clears?” I shrug. “Honestly, probably decent. We’re in their territory, and we’re basically setting up a buffet.”
Gregory runs a hand through his hair, making it stick up in a way that’s annoyingly attractive. “So what do you recommend?”
“We prioritize. Pack the most expensive stuff in the sealed bins. The steaks, the salmon, the stuff that would be the biggest loss. The rest goes in heavy-duty trash bags, doubled up for scent control. We’ll stack those at the very back under the eaves you mentioned.”
“That doesn’t sound ideal.”
“It’s not. But neither is letting several hundred dollars of food spoil.” I meet his eyes. “Your call. You’re the one who owns this place. Your money...”
