Page 79 of Seeds of Christmas
Relief floods his face. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” I move closer to the table, unable to look away from the cupcake. It’s ridiculous—a cheap, squashed gas station cupcake on a chipped plate in a cabin in the middle of nowhere. But it’s everything.
He remembered. He listened when I talked about Christmas mornings and my mom’s off-key singing and red velvet cupcakes. He went out of his way to find this for me.
Carter pulls something from his pocket—a lighter. “I didn’t have a candle, but...” He flicks it on, holding the small flame over the cupcake. The light dances across his face, making his eyes bright. “Make a wish?”
My throat closes up completely.
I close my eyes. I’m seven again, Mom singing off-key, red velvet in the oven, everything simple.
Then I’m back—twenty-two, in a cabin, with a boy who listens.
I don’t know what to wish for.
I have everything I want right here.
I don’t want this to end.
I open my eyes and blow out the flame.
Carter clicks the lighter off, grinning. “What’d you wish for?”
“Can’t tell you. Won’t come true.”
“Superstitious.” He hands me the plate. “Want to eat it for breakfast like a rebel?”
I laugh, wiping at my eyes. “Absolutely.”
We sit at the table, and I break the cupcake in half, offering him a piece.
“No way,” he says. “That’s yours. Christmas morning tradition.”
“New tradition,” I counter. “Sharing it with you.”
His expression softens. “Okay. New tradition.”
We eat the slightly stale, probably-expired gas station cupcake, and it’s the best thing I’ve ever tasted. Not because of what it is, but because of what it means. Because Carter remembered. Because he cared enough to try.
“This is perfect,” I say, and I mean it.
That’s the problem.
Because the last time something felt perfect, it wasn’t.
Matthew used to do things like this. At the start. Small gestures that felt huge. And then those gestures became expectations. And then chains.
Until one day, I didn’t recognize myself anymore.
I’m just staring at the crumbs of this stupid, perfect, gas station cupcake, and my eyes are burning.
His hand finds mine across the table. “You deserve to have your Christmas cupcakes, Rhi.”
And that’s when I know.
I’m falling for Carter Wolfe.
Not the cute butterflies kind. The terrifying, lose-yourself-completely kind.
