Afterward, he wraps me in towels that we’d warmed by the fire earlier. The heated fabric has retained enough heat to feel like heaven against my cold skin.
He dries me carefully, almost reverently, paying attention to every inch. Then he wraps me in the warm towel. He ties the second towel around his waist, and I’m a little disappointed I don’t get to admire his beautiful assets any more.
When he pulls out some fancy expensive lotion and starts applying it to my chapped skin, I might actually cry.
“Your hands,” he murmurs, working the cream into my rough, callused palms. “Your skin is so dry from all the fieldwork.”
“Occupational hazard.” My voice comes out wobbly. “Part of the job description: will develop hands like sandpaper.”
He kisses each knuckle after he’s done with the lotion. “I like your hands. They’re capable hands. Strong hands.”
Oh no.
The emotions are happening.
Abort abort.
“Gregory.” I cup his face with my newly moisturized hands. “I don’t want to lose this when we leave here.”
His expression shifts to something serious, almost fierce. “Neither do I. We’ll figure it out.”
“Promise?” The vulnerability in my voice embarrasses me, but I need to hear it.
“I promise.” He pulls me against his chest, both of us wrapped in warm towels and smelling like expensive lotion and sex. “I’m not letting you go, Sorrel. Not without a fight.”
I want to believe him.
God, I want to believe him so badly it physically hurts.
But tomorrow we have to climb onto the roof to clear that satellite dish.
Tomorrow we attempt rescue.
Tomorrow the real world comes crashing back in with all its complications.
Tomorrow I have to figure out how to reconcile loving a man whose fortune is built on destroying the ecosystems I’m trying to save.
Loving.
Oh fuck.
I’m in love with Gregory Falk.
The realization hits me like a physical blow, and I tighten my arms around him, press my face into his neck, and breathe in the scent of him mixed with all that steam and expensive lotion.
“Hey.” His hand strokes down my back. “You okay?”
“Yeah.”I’m absolutely not okay. I’m catastrophically not okay.“Just... processing.”
“Processing what?”
That I’m in love with you, you impossible man.
That somewhere between hating you and fixing generators with you and letting you ravage me in a bathtub, I fell completely in love with you.
And I have no idea what the hell to do about that.
“Just everything,” I say instead. “It feels like... like the bubble we’ve been living in is about to pop.”
