Page 30 of Seeds of Christmas
“You were hovering.”
“I was not hovering. I was... supervising.”
“Rhi, you physically stepped between me and the pH meter at one point.”
“That was—that was for safety reasons.”
“Uh-huh.” He’s trying not to laugh. “Very normal coworker behavior.”
I want to defend myself, but he’s right. I was absolutely hovering. “The equipment is expensive. Bam even warned us about it. I can’t mess this up.”
“The equipment is safe. I promise.” His voice goes softer. “I’m taking this seriously, Rhi. I know my track record isn’t great, but I’m not going to let you down.”
And just like that, the teasing shifts into something more sincere, and I don’t know what to do with it.
“Anyway,” he says, straightening up from the doorframe. “That’s all I needed. I’ll let you get back to?—”
He glances past me into my room, and I watch his gaze land on the room service menu spread out on my bed.
I can practically see him taking in the full picture of my personality disorder.
“Oh shit,” he says. “Were you about to order food?”
“I was thinking about it.”
“What are you getting?” He leans in slightly, like this is crucial information. “Please tell me you’re not one of those people who orders a salad from a motel at nine PM. Because that’s deeply depressing.”
“I was looking at the burger.” This is a lie. I was absolutely looking at the salad.
“Thank god.” The relief on his face is comically exaggerated. “You had me worried for a second there. I was preparing an intervention.”
And then, because my brain has decided to just start doing things without consulting me first, I hear myself say: “Do you want to... I mean, we should probably eat dinner anyway, and it seems silly to order separately when we could just...”
I trail off, my face heating as I realize what I’m suggesting.
Dinner. Together. In a motel room.
This is not professional researcher behavior.
This is not maintaining appropriate boundaries.
This is?—
“Yes.” He says it so quickly that I barely finish my sentence. “Yes. Absolutely. My room or yours?”
He waggles his eyebrows suggestively, and my ovaries cry with joy.
I take in a sharp breath. “I?—”
“Relax, Rhi.” He laughs, holding up his hands in surrender. “I’m joking. I don’t mean it like that. I just mean, where would you feel most comfortable?”
I let out a breath. “Right. Obviously. I knew that.”
“Did you, though?” He’s grinning now, clearly enjoying my discomfort.
“Yes. Obviously. Because we’re co-workers.”
“Very professional.”
