Page 46 of Seeds of Christmas
“Before it gets dark,” she repeats
The insideof the cabin is…rustic.
One main room—cozy bordering on claustrophobic—with a stone fireplace that’s currently doing its best to heat the entire space. A small kitchen area with a propane stove that looks like it predates the Nixon administration. A wooden table with four mismatched chairs that have probably been here since the cabin was built. And a ladder leading up to a loft that I can’t see from here but I’m already anxious about.
The fire crackles, warm and welcoming.
Kerosene lamps sit on the table, casting soft yellow light that makes everything look like a vintage photograph.
The cabin even smells like history. The scent of a place that’s been used and loved and left alone in equal measure.
“No electricity,” Rhi observes, setting down her suitcase and looking around with the expression of someone mentally cataloguing every detail. “That’s... rustic.”
“There’s a generator out back for emergencies,” I say, remembering reading it in my email from Bam. “But yeah. Pretty rustic. We’re basically pioneers now. Should we churn some butter?”
“Do you know how to churn butter?”
“Absolutely not. But I’m confident I could figure it out. How hard can it be?”
“Famous last words.”
“Only if something goes catastrophically wrong. Which it won’t. Probably.”
She shakes her head, but she’s smiling as she heads for the ladder. “I’m going to check out the loft. Please don’t burn the cabin down while I’m gone.”
“I make no promises.”
Her ponytail is a little lopsided now, like she tugged it loose while climbing the ladder. It shouldn’t make my stomach flip the way it does, but something about the undone softness of her—after two days of seeing her so tightly wound—is kind of sexy.
“So,” she says, and I’ve learned that when Rhi starts a sentence with “so” in that particular tone, she’s about to tell me something she’s uncomfortable about. “The loft situation.”
I set down the case I’m holding. “Okay?”
“There are two separate sleeping areas. Kind of.” She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear—a nervous gesture I’ve also catalogued. “They’re on opposite ends, and there’s a curtain for privacy, but it’s all... one loft. One big open loft.”
“Oh.” I process this. “That’s... fine?”
It’s not fine.
It’s the opposite of fine.
Because I’ve spent the last two days trying very hard not to notice things about Rhiannon Pierce—like the way she scrunches her nose when she’s concentrating, or how she hums under her breath when she thinks no one’s listening, or thefact that she’s genuinely beautiful in this understated way that sneaks up on you.
And now I’m going to sleep approximately fifteen feet away from her with only a curtain between us.
Fuck me.
“Right?” She’s watching me carefully. “I mean, we’re adults. We can handle sleeping in the same general vicinity.”
“Absolutely. I’ll keep to my side.”
“Yeah. Good. Great.” She’s still pink. “Just wanted to make sure you knew. So there’s no weird... surprises.”
She’s flustered. Good. At least we’re both drowning.
“I can take the couch if you want,” I offer, gesturing to the worn sofa by the fireplace. “It actually looks pretty comfortable. And I’ve slept in worse places.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” She straightens up, and I can see her pulling on her armor of competence. “We’re adults. Professionals. We can share a loft like civilized people.”
