Exactly how it should be.
So why does some stupid part of me feel disappointed?
I sit up, shoving that thought down where it belongs... buried deep with all my other inconvenient reactions to this man.
My hair feels like it’s a disaster, my mouth tastes like I’ve been licking the fireplace stones, and I’m pretty sure I dreamedabout mycorrhizal networks, which is either very on-brand or a sign I need therapy.
Outside, the blizzard rages on. This is what, the third day, now? You’d think it would have blown itself out by now. Three days.
That makes this the day after Christmas.
Boxing Day.
Back home, I’d be elbow-deep in post-Christmas sales right now, fighting suburban moms for discounted TVs and bulk noodles at Target. December 26th is the one day a year when I can actually afford to stock up on things that are never on sale otherwise. My roommates and I have a whole strategy. Divide and conquer, hit three stores before noon, reconvene for victory tacos.
Instead I’m trapped in a billionaire’s mountain fortress, sleeping on furniture that costs more than my annual stipend, watching a man who couldbuyTarget casually tend a fire in yesterday’s cashmere.
And somehow... it’s cozy? Like, genuinely comfortable in a way that makes no sense given the circumstances?
No.
Stop that.
You’re not getting comfortable here.
This is temporary.
Survival.
Not... whatever my brain is trying to make it into.
I push the throw aside and stand, immediately regretting the movement as colder air hits me. The fire has burned low, and the great room is a bit chilly. Which would explain why Gregory is adding logs to the fire.
Wait, what’s that smell?
Like old soup cooking on a stove somewhere.
And then it hits me.
That’s not old soup.
It’sme.
Oh no.
Can’t be.
But... three days.
Three days without proper running water means...
I double-check that he’s not looking, then risk an armpit sniff.
Yep.
Bacterial colonies are having a rave party in my armpits.
Sexy.
