Page 31 of Seeds of Christmas
“Extremely professional.”
“So professional.” His voice drops an octave and his eyes lazily scan over my legs. I resist the urge to shut the door in his face. I become aware that I’m not wearing a bra and my t shirt is thin and my nipples are hardening by the second.
Please don’t look.
Please look.
My face explodes with heat as I cross my arms over my chest, not so subtly hiding my erect nipples. “Are we doing this?”
“Are we?” He tilts his head like he’s considering this. “Do you mean doing this or doingthis…”
“Carter!”
He laughs—full, genuine laughter that makes his eyes crinkle. “Sorry. Sorry. I’ll stop. But your face right now is incredible.”
“You’re the worst.”
“I’m the best. You just haven’t realized it yet.” He steps back from the doorway. “So? My room or yours?”
I glance behind me at my room.
My meticulously organized suitcase with clothes folded by category.
My binders spread across the desk in a rainbow of preparedness.
My nighttime routine already laid out in the bathroom like I’m running a small pharmacy.
Having Carter in here feels too intimate. Like letting him see inside my brain. Like admitting that I’m the kind of person who folds field notes and packs three types of moisturizer.
“Yours,” I say quickly. “Let’s do yours.”
Something flickers across his face before he nods. “Perfect. Give me five minutes to make it look like a human lives there instead of a tornado.”
“You don’t have to?—”
“No, I definitely do. There are... layers of mess. Archaeological layers. You could probably date them with carbon-14.”
He’s back in four minutes, slightly out of breath, hair even more disheveled than before. I had just enough time to throw on a bra underneath my UMS sweatshirt. Hiding my offending peaks. “Okay. I shoved everything in the closet and said a prayer to the god of first impressions. Come on in.”
His room is identical to mine in layout but feels completely different in energy.
There’s a duffel bag on the floor—partially unpacked, clothes spilling out in a way that suggests he just grabbed what he needed and left the rest. His jacket is thrown over a chair. Field notes scattered across the desk in what I’m sure makes perfect sense to him but looks like abstract art to me.
It’s chaotic.
It’s the opposite of my room.
And somehow, it’s incredibly endearing.
“Sorry,” he says, following my gaze. “I know it’s a disaster. I have a system, I swear. It just looks like a mess to anyone who isn’t me.”
“It’s fine.” I mean it. There’s something charming about the mess. Something honest. “It’s cute.”
“Is that a compliment or an insult?”
“I’m not sure.”
He hands me the room service menu with a flourish, like he’s presenting me with a Michelin-star menu instead of a laminated piece of cardboard.
