“Storm’s interfering. Happens sometimes.” I reach for my satellite phone next, the one that’s supposed to work anywhere on the planet. Also nothing, yet again.
I return to the kitchen, grab my laptop, and carry it back to the great room. I set it down on the coffee table and try the Starlink interface again.
Searching for connection.
Still searching.
Connection failed.
“Still down,” I tell her.
“So we’re completely cut off?” Her voice climbs an octave.
“Temporarily.” I close the laptop with more force than necessary. “The storm must be worse than forecasted. But don’t worry, once it clears, everything will reconnect. I’ll reserve a transport for you in the morning. Roads should be passable by then.”
I’m lying. The roadswon’tbe passable. I can see the snow coming down through the massive windows even now, and it’s not the gentle holiday-card variety. This is the kind of snow that buries cars and closes highways and keeps people trapped for days.
The irony is that if I hadn’t fired my entire security team exactly nine days ago in a fit of rage, they’d probably be trying to reach me via helicopter right about now, as they’re supposed to do when communications go down.
But nine days is an eternity in private security. They were scooped up by rival firms within forty-eight hours.
So no helicopter.
No rescue team.
No one even checking if I’m alive.
Exactly what I wanted.
Until now.
Then again, a helicopter probably wouldn’t be able to land in these kind of white-out conditions anyway.
But she doesn’t need to know any of that yet.
And neither do I, really, because acknowledging it means acknowledging that my three days of solitude just became an indefinite hostage situation.
Maybe I’m being too harsh. She isn’t so bad on the eyes...
Don’t go there.
She takes a sip of coffee and winces slightly. Too hot, probably. Or too bitter. I didn’t ask if she takes sugar or cream and I’m not about to start playing host now.
“I really am sorry about earlier,” she says quietly. “The whole thinking you were staff thing. And the twenty dollars. And calling you a billionaire asshole. I didn’t mean--”
“You meant it.” I cut her off. “You just didn’t expect to say it to my face.”
Her cheeks flush darker. She buries her face in the coffee mug like she’s trying to disappear into it.
“For what it’s worth,” I continue, “you’re not wrong. I am an asshole. The billionaire part is just a modifier.”
That startles a laugh out of her. Small, maybe, but genuine. It transforms her face completely. Makes her look younger. Less like a half-frozen disaster and more like the brilliant researcher she claims to be.
Dangerous. Yes.
That laugh isdangerous.
I stand up abruptly. “When’s the last time you ate?”
