Brazil, I remind myself.
Toxic waste.
Forty-two sick people.
This latest mantra helps.
Barely.
We make two trips, stacking the pallets under the north eaves where the roof overhang provides about six feet of coverage. The location is perfect, just as he promised. Protected from direct snowfall but exposed to the frigid air. A natural refrigeration spot.
Then we return to the kitchen. Gregory carries out the heavy bins and when we arrive I arrange them on the pallets. He hauls the trash bags of overflow food next. Three large bags that we stack at the very back of the covered area, as far from the main house as possible while still under the eaves.
We work surprisingly well together. He anticipates what I need before I ask. Doesn’t question my organization system. Just provides the muscle while I provide the brain.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not trying to say he’s stupid.
Quite the opposite. He’s smart as hell, I know that. He wouldn’t be a billionaire if he wasn’t. It’s just that he’s tuned his mind to far more... environmentally damaging... things.
Yes, this would be really satisfying if he wasn’t an environmental criminal.
“That should do it,” I say finally, stepping back to survey our work. The bins are stacked securely, covered with a tarp Gregory found and weighed down with firewood to prevent it from blowing away. Everything is otherwise elevated and organized for easy access. The trash bags lurk in the shadows behind everything else, a necessary compromise that makes my field-trained brain itch with unease.
“You really think something might come for those?” Gregory asks, following my gaze to the bags.
“Maybe. Not until the storm clears, though.” I pull my jacket tighter against the cold. “But yeah. It’s possible.”
He doesn’t look thrilled about that, but he doesn’t argue either.
“This is... not bad.” There’s something in his voice that might be respect. “You’ve done this before.”
“Field research in remote locations.” I shrug. “You learn to improvise food storage. Can’t exactly call DoorDash when you’re at nine thousand feet.”
The corner of his mouth twitches. Almost a smile.
Don’t you dare find him charming.
By the time we finish, it’s nearly seven and I’m starving. Gregory retreats to the great room while I raid the pantry. I find pasta, canned tomatoes, olive oil, garlic, dried herbs. Nothing fancy, but I can work with it.
I find matches in a drawer, and light the burner.
Cooking is weirdly meditative. The rhythm of chopping garlic. The smell of olive oil heating in the pan. The satisfying sizzle when aromatics hit hot oil.
The burner pumps out heat like a tiny sun, and within ten minutes the kitchen is actually warm. Like, properly warm. Not as warm as the great room, but certainly cozy enough to cook in while wearing a jacket.
For twenty minutes, I’m not thinking about corrupted data or toxic waste or how unfairly attractive my immoral billionaire host is.
I’m just... cooking.
When it’s ready, I carry two bowls to the great room.
Gregory is sitting on his side of the sectional, staring into the fire with that brooding intensity he seems to specialize in.
He looks up as I approach, and yeah, he definitely smelled dinner cooking. Hard not to when garlic and tomatoes have been perfuming the entire area for the last twenty minutes.
But when his eyes land on the second bowl, the one clearly meant for him, something shifts in his expression.
“You made dinner.”
