Page 78 of Seeds of Christmas
RHIANNON
Iwake up on Christmas to the sound of Carter making coffee downstairs.
I’m disoriented—the loft is dim, my sleeping bag is twisted around me, and there’s a crick in my neck from the thin camping pillow. Then I remember: the cabin. The research. Carter.
Last night.
Oh my god.
My face heats instantly, and I press my palms against my cheeks like I can physically cool them down. We had sex again. I can’t believe weactuallydid it again. And it was?—
I bury my face in my pillow and let out a muffled sound that’s half-laugh, half-scream.
My roommates are going to lose their shit.
I lie there for a minute, listening to him move around below. The clink of mugs, the hiss of the propane stove, the creak of floorboards. There’s something oddly comforting about it, knowing someone else is awake, that I’m not alone in the pre-dawn quiet.
And it’s him. Carter. Who saved my life.
My phone is somewhere in my backpack, dead and useless. I haven’t thought about it in almost a day. Haven’t thought about the texts from my mom, or Matthew, or anyone asking where I am and why I’m not where I’m supposed to be.
I feel lighter without it.
“Rhi?” Carter’s voice floats up from below. “You awake?”
“Unfortunately.” I unzip my sleeping bag and immediately regret it—the loft is freezing. “Is there coffee?”
“There’s coffee.”
“Then I’m awake.”
I climb down the ladder, still in my thermal leggings and Carter’s hoodie that I stole at some point last night.
Carter’s stood at the stove and his hair is sticking up in about fifteen different directions.
He’s wearing grey sweatpants that sit low on his hips and a white t-shirt that’s slightly too tight across his chest and shoulders.
He looks soft and rumpled and heartbreakingly real. And I want to smooth down his hair and pull him back to bed and?—
Stop it, Rhiannon
Don’t look. Just focus on the coffee. Be normal. I look.
“Morning,” he says, his voice rough and deeper than usual as he turns around.
I freeze.
There’s a cupcake on a chipped plate. Red frosting, slightly squashed on one side.
My heart constricts.
“Merry Christmas,” Carter says softly, and there’s something nervous in his voice.
I can’t speak. I’m just staring at the cupcake.
“I asked at the motel the morning we left if they had anything,” he explains, words coming faster. “And they actually did. It’s not homemade or anything—definitely from agas station, and the frosting’s all messed up—but I thought, maybe...” He trails off, watching my face. “Is this okay? I know it’s not the same as your mom’s, but?—”
“It’s perfect,” I manage, my voice breaking. “Carter, it’s perfect.”
