Page 29 of Seeds of Christmas
It doesn’t. It holds exactly three types of burgers, two salads, a few sides and something called “Chef’s Surprise” that you’d have to be pretty brave to order.
The room is aggressively beige. Floral bedspread that’s seen better decades. Landscape art that looks like it was created by a computer program designed to make the most generic mountain scene possible. The faint smell of industrial cleaner mixed with something I’m choosing not to identify.
I’ve already showered—standing under water that alternated between scalding and arctic with no in-between—and changed into my pajamas. Which are, objectively, very unsexy pajamas. Old paint stained leggings and an oversized UMS t-shirt. The kind of thing you wear when you have no expectations of seeing another human.
Which is why the knock at my door sends me into immediate panic.
I freeze, menu in hand, like a deer caught in headlights.
It’s probably just housekeeping.
Or the front desk.
Or literally anyone except?—
“Rhi?” Carter’s voice, muffled through the door. “You there?”
Oh god.
I look down at my leggings. There is a very unfortunate phallic shaped stain right by the crotch. My roommate Meg calls them my cock leggings. My complete lack of makeup and the fact that my hair is still damp from the shower, and probably doing something unfortunate, is probably projecting a very comical slash horrific image.
This is fine.
This is totally fine.
We’re colleagues. Research partners. Two professionals who spent the day collecting geothermal data. But still, it can’t hurt to change into something more…appropriate.
“One second!” I call out.
I quickly smooth out my hair and throw on a pair of cotton shorts. They’re a little old and possibly too short for me. But I have shaved my legs and they’re better than the cock leggings.
I open the door.
Carter’s still in his thermal shirt from the fieldwork—the dark green one that does unfair things to his eyes—and his hair is damp like he just showered too. He smells clean, like soap and something woodsy, and I have to physically stop myself from leaning in to inhale.
“Hey,” he says, and his smile is dangerous. “Sorry to bother you. I was just going over today’s data,” he says, “and wanted to double-check the pH reading from Site 2. I think I wrote down 7.2 but?—”
“7.4,” I say automatically, because I’ve already typed up my notes like the overachiever I am.
“Right. 7.4.” He grins. “See, this is why you’re a great partner. Organized. Efficient. Good handwriting.”
“My handwriting is mediocre.”
“It’s better than mine. Mine looks like a drunk spider fell into an inkwell.” He rubs the back of his neck, and his hair curls slightly when it’s wet. “I was too busy trying not to drop the temperature probe in the spring.”
“You did almost drop it.”
“But I didn’t!” He looks genuinely proud of this. “I’m basically a new man. An expert at geological field work. I should get one of those flannels all the men in the department wear.”
“It’s been one day.”
“A very transformative day.” He leans against the doorframe—casual, easy, like he has no idea what he’s doing to mycardiovascular system. “Between you and me, I think I was showing off. Trying to prove to you I’m not completely useless with equipment.”
My face is on fire. Actual fire. I’m going to spontaneously combust, and they’ll find my charred remains in this crappy motel. “You did fine.”
“Really?” His eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles like that. It’s a problem. “Because I got the impression you thought I was going to break something expensive.”
“I didn’t think that.”
