Page 58 of Seeds of Christmas
“Rhi.” He sets down his pen. “I always want to know what you think.”
The morning air is so cold it burns my lungs, but I don’t care.
I feel alive.
Carter and I left the cabin an hour ago, both of us bundled in layers, our breath creating clouds in the crystalline air. The hike to Site 4 is longer than the others—almost two hours through increasingly remote terrain—but the landscape is breathtaking. Snow-covered pines stretch endlessly, and the mountains rise up around us like sentries.
“You good?” Carter calls back. He’s breaking trail ahead of me, his boots crunching through the snow.
“Great,” I say, and I mean it.
He glances over his shoulder, and there’s something in his smile that makes my stomach flip. We kissed earlier. Now I know what it feels like to kiss Carter Wolfe. I have not kissed many men in my lifetime, but I cannot fathom that there is a better feeling out there than kissing him.
“What?” he asks, catching my expression.
“Nothing. Just... this is nice.”
“The hike?”
“All of it.” I gesture vaguely at the forest, the mountains, him. “Being here. Being away from everything. Just... being.”
His smile softens. “Yeah. It is.”
He keeps moving ahead of me, looking back every few minutes.
I make the mistake of watching him.
Carter Wolfe in motion is unfairly attractive. His cheeks are flushed from the cold and exertion. His hair is messy. He grins when he catches my eyes like this is the most fun he’s had in months, and the smile transforms his entire face—makes him look younger, lighter, less haunted.
His body moves with this easy athleticism.
He is criminally hot.
We keep walking, and I let myself just exist in this moment. No phone buzzing with texts from my mom. No Matthew trying to tell me what I should want. No pressure to be anyone other than exactly who I am.
Just me and Carter and the quiet wilderness.
For the first time in years, I feel free.
The trail narrows as we climb, winding through a section of exposed rock face. Carter points out the geological formations—ancient volcanic activity, mineral deposits, the kind of thing that would normally have me pulling out my field notebook.
But right now, I’m just happy to listen to his voice, to watch the way he gestures when he’s excited about something.
“You’re not even taking notes,” he teases.
“I’m storing it all up here.” I tap my temple. “Eidetic memory.”
“Bullshit.”
“Okay, fine. I’m just enjoying the view.”
“The rocks?”
“Sure. The rocks.”
He catches my meaning and grins, his cheeks flushing—though that might just be from the cold.
We crest a ridge, and suddenly, the landscape opens up before us. A narrow canyon, steam rising from somewhere below where the hot spring must be located. The rock walls are streaked with incredible colors—oranges, deep purples, and rust reds, all layered like a painting.
