Page 48 of Seeds of Christmas
I grin. “You’re welcome.”
She rolls her eyes, but she’s trying not to smile. “For the record, I’m a French press person.”
“Of course, you are.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing. Just... it tracks.” I get the percolator going on the stove, adjusting the flame. “You seem like someone who has opinions about coffee. Strong opinions. Possibly documented in a spreadsheet.”
She leans against the counter—a casual pose that would look relaxed on anyone else, but on Rhi looks like she’s actively working at appearing relaxed—and crosses her arms. “I do have opinions about coffee.”
“Let me guess.” I turn to face her, and we’re standing maybe two feet apart in this tiny kitchen. “You buy it from that place on campus that roasts their own beans. You know the barista’s name. Probably multiple baristas’ names. You have a specific order that you never deviate from.”
“Oat milk latte, extra hot, no foam,” she says, like it’s a point of pride. “And yes, I know Marcus and Sophie and the new girl whose name I keep forgetting but she has the blue hair.”
“See? I’m very perceptive.”
“You’re very predictable.”
“Ouch.”
“What about you?” She tilts her head. “Let me guess. You drink whatever’s cheapest and has the most caffeine. You probably buy those horrible giant cans from the grocery store. You don’t even taste it, do you? You just need it for survival purposes.”
I clutch my chest. “How could you think so low of me?”
“Am I wrong?”
“You’re absolutely right and I hate it.” I shake my head. “But in my defense, coffee is coffee. It’s all just caffeinated bean water.”
She gasps—actually gasps, like I’ve just insulted her entire family. “Caffeinated bean water? That’s the most tragic thing I’ve ever heard.”
“It is what it is.”
“It’s sad. You’re sad. Your coffee philosophy is sad.”
“My coffee philosophy is practical.”
“When we get back to civilization, I’m buying you a real cup of coffee. From a real coffee shop. And you’re going to taste it—actually taste it—and realize what you’ve been missing.”
“Rhiannon Peirce, is that a date?”
Her face goes redder than I’ve ever seen it.
“You want to take me on a coffee date? I am flattered, darling.”
“I–I just meant from CC’s, you know –”
“Deal. I would love to go on a coffee date with you.” I hear myself say.
The percolator starts to bubble and hiss, breaking the moment. The smell of coffee fills the cabin, mixing with the wood smoke and pine. Outside, the snow falls heavier, covering everything in soft white silence.
This is nice. Just... being here. Talking about nothing important. Arguing about coffee like it matters. No weight toit. No grief pressing down. No expectations beyond making it through the next five days without freezing to death or breaking expensive equipment.
Just this.
When the coffee’s ready, I pour us both mugs—chipped ceramic that’s probably been in this cabin since before either of us was born—and we sit at the table with our equipment spread between us like a very boring treasure map.
“So,” Rhi says, wrapping her hands around her mug in that way she does when she’s cold, or thinking, or both. “Game plan. Tomorrow’s. We should hit site four in the morning—weather’s supposed to be clear—come back and process data in the afternoon. Then site five the day after?”
