Page 47 of Seeds of Christmas
“Very civilized,” I agree.
“Extremely civilized.”
“The most civilized people to ever share a loft.”
“Are you mocking me?”
“I would never.”
“You absolutely are.” But she’s smiling now, and the tension breaks. “I’m going to make coffee. Do you want some?”
“God, yes. Please. I need caffeine to process the fact that we’re essentially living in a historical reenactment.”
While Rhi figures out the propane stove—there’s a concerning amount of clicking and muttered swearing—I finish unloading and start organizing our equipment on the table.
It’s become a routine over the past two days, this division of labor. She handles anything related to water and heat. I handle the tech and documentation. Neither of us discussed it. It justhappened naturally, like we’re two parts of the same system figuring out how to work together.
Which is a dangerous thought to have.
Because I’m not supposed to be thinking about systems or compatibility or the way Rhi bites her lip when she’s concentrating on lighting the stove.
I’m supposed to be thinking about geothermal gradients and sample protocols and literally anything else.
The cabin smells incredible—wood smoke and pine and that clean, cold scent that snow leaves behind. Through the window, I can see it starting to fall again, fat flakes drifting down like the sky is taking its time.
“Carter?”
I turn. Rhi’s holding up an ancient percolator like it’s a museum artifact she’s afraid to break.
“I think this is from 1987,” she says seriously. “Possibly older. It might be a family heirloom. Do you know how to use it?”
Despite everything—the isolation, the weird sleeping situation, the fact that I’m spending Christmas in a cabin with a girl I’m definitely not developing feelings for—I laugh.
“My grandpa has one. Here”—I cross the kitchen, which requires exactly four steps because the cabin is tiny, and take the percolator from her.
Our fingers brush.
She pulls back like she’s been shocked.
Or maybe I’m imagining it.
Probably imagining it.
“Coffee grounds go here,” I explain, showing her the basket. “Water in the bottom. You put it on the stove and wait for the magic to happen.”
“That’s your technical explanation? Magic?”
“It’s a very precise scientific term.”
“You’re a geology major. You should have better explanations than ‘magic.’”
“Okay, fine. The water heats up, creates steam pressure, forces the water up through this tube where it percolates through the coffee grounds and drips back down as coffee. Better?”
“Much better. Thank you for the unnecessary lesson.”
“You asked!”
“I asked how to use it, not for a dissertation on the thermodynamics of percolation.”
