Which is its own kind of terrifying.
Suddenly he stirs behind me. His arm tightens fractionally and I feel him wake fully, the change in his breathing giving him away.
Neither of us moves.
It’s like we’re both holding our breath, waiting to see who’ll acknowledge this first. The morning after feels somehow more intimate than the night before. Last night was heat and desperation and breaking tension. This morning is gentle and vulnerable andreal.
“Good morning,” he finally murmurs against my hair.
“Hi.” My voice comes out embarrassingly breathy.
His hand slides from my stomach to my hip and back again, a slow exploration that makes my breath catch. We should probably talk about this. About what it means. About what happens when rescue finally comes.
But talking requires acknowledging reality and right now I’m perfectly content to stay in this little bubble where--
Silence.
I bolt upright so fast Gregory actually grunts in surprise, and I’m suddenly very aware that I’m completely naked in broad daylight with blankets pooling around my waist.
Just flash him your boobs.
Great plan.
I snatch the top blanket and yank it up to cover my chest, probably giving myself friction burn in the process. With my free hand, I point at the nearest floor-to-ceiling window where sunlight is streaming in like someone just turned on stadium lights.
“The storm stopped!” My voice comes out higher than intended, possibly because I’m clutching a blanket to my naked body while trying to point out the window. “Look!”
He sits up beside me... considerably less flustered about his own nakedness, I might add. His eyes follow my pointing finger.
The view is almost offensive in its beauty. Brilliant sunshine. Impossibly blue sky. Snow sparkling like someone dumped an entire craft store’s worth of glitter across the mountain.
“Holy shit.” He runs a hand through his hair. “You’re right.”
We scramble for clothes. Well,Iscramble. He moves with that controlled efficiency that somehow makes pulling on jeans look like a GQ photoshoot.
Meanwhile I’m hopping on one foot trying to get my thermal leggings on while not falling face-first into the fireplace.
Graceful as always, Sorrel.
He checks his watch. “We slept in late. It’s almost 11:30 a.m.”
“Jesus,” I tell him.
Last night was justthatgood.
I finish dressing, sliding on his hoodie last.
He flicks a light switch. Nothing. “Main power is still offline.” He tosses me my jacket. “Your phone. Check if it has signal.”
I dig out my ancient smartphone. It powers on, battery at fifteen percent, and I watch the signal bars with the kind of desperate hope usually reserved for dissertation defense results.
Nothing.
“Damn it.” I look up to find him frowning at his own phone. “You?”
“Some battery left but no signal.” He tries his satellite phone next. Presses the power button. Nothing. Tries again. “Shit. Dead battery.”
I stare at him. “Dead battery? Seriously?” I gesture at him with my phone-holding hand. “You’re abillionaire. Aren’t your batteries supposed to be like, I don’t know, diamond-encrusted and perpetually charged by tiny hamsters running on solid gold wheels or something?”
