He’s quiet, weighing options he’s probably never had to consider before. Then he nods. “Do it. We’ll deal with wildlife if it becomes a problem.”
“We should elevate them,” I say, looking at our growing pile of containers. “Keep them off the ground so they don’t freeze to the concrete. And we need something to stack them on.”
“There might be pallets in the equipment shed.” He’s already pulling on his coat. “Thomas keeps them for organizing tools.”
“Thomas is the caretaker, and Vin the chef,” I recite, trying to keep all these names straight.
“That’s right,” he replies, heading for the great room.
I follow him. “I’ll come with you.”
He shakes his head. “You don’t have to. It’s freezing out there.”
“I’m the one who knows how to organize a field cache properly. Besides, I need to see the space. Wait here.” I run upstairs into the cold guest room and grab my field jacket, which is finally dry. Then I hurry back down. I almost expect to find him gone, but he’s waiting with an impatient expression.
We head to the main entrance and its mudroom. He opens the main door.
The cold hits like a physical wall. The wind is absolutely screaming, driving snow horizontally across the property. I can barely see a shed out there even though it’s only about thirty yards away.
“Is that the equipment shed?” I ask.
Gregory glances at me. “Yep. Stay close. Visibility’s shit.”
Then he steps out into the storm.
I follow because pride won’t let me do anything else, even though the wind immediately steals my breath.
I won’t get a fever again.
I won’t get a fever again.
That’s my new mantra for the trek.
Hope it works.
He sets a quick pace, breaking trail through snow that’s knee-deep and higher in places. I’m reminded of my hike up to the chalet.
I won’t get a fever again.
I stay in his footprints, which is easier said than done given our height difference. His stride is about fifty percent longer than mine.
Stupid long-legged billionaire.
When we reach the shed, he yanks the door open against the wind and we stumble inside, bringing an avalanche of snow inwith us. It’s a relief to not be standing knee-deep in the stuff, though.
The interior is organized like a hardware store. Tools hung on pegboards. Supplies stacked on industrial shelving. And yes, a pile of wooden pallets in the corner.
“Perfect.” I brush snow off my face. “We’ll need four. Stack them two high for better insulation from the ground.”
He hefts one easily. Like it weighs nothing. Which it definitely doesn’t because when I try to pick one up, the thing barely moves.
Of course.
He’s stupidly strong.
I watch him carry two at once, muscles flexing under his coat, and I’m absolutely not thinking about those shoulders or how easily he lifted me yesterday when I collapsed or how his hands felt in my hair.
Absolutely not.
