Page 15 of Seeds of Christmas
“I read the equipment manual.”
“The whole manual?”
“All the manuals, actually.” I don’t look at him. “Some of us care about data integrity.”
“Hey, I care about data integrity. I also care about not having a stress-induced heart attack at twenty-one, but different priorities, I guess.”
I do look at him then. He’s grinning at me—not meanly, but like he thinks this is funny. Like I’m funny.
Something hot and uncomfortable twists in my chest.
Professor Bam returns and I sigh with relief.
“Before you go,” Professor Bam saves me from overexplaining my strange outburst, “I need to be clear about expectations. This isn’t a camping trip. This is a professional research project. The equipment you’re using is worth $30,000. The truck is university property. And the data you’re collecting will be reviewed by my entire department.” She fixes us both with a serious look. “If either of you screws this up, meaning genuinely fails to follow protocol, damages equipment, or comes back with unusable data—it reflects on me. On my lab. On myreputation. I’m trusting you both with something I care deeply about.”
No pressure then.
We work in silence for a few minutes, passing equipment back and forth. At one point, we both reach for the same case of thermometers, and our hands collide.
His fingers are warm. Calloused. I pull back like I’ve been shocked.
“Sorry,” we both say.
He pulls his hand back with a half-smile. “You take it.”
“No, you can?—”
“Rhi.” He’s trying not to laugh. “It’s a box. Not a limited resource. I promise there’s enough equipment for both of us.”
“Iknowthat.” I purse my lips.
“Do you? Because you’re looking at these thermometers like they’re the last ones on Earth and you need to protect them with your life.”
I clutch the box to my chest defensively. “They’re delicate instruments.”
“And I’m sure they appreciate your devotion.” He’s definitely laughing now. “But maybe we could load them into the truck before you formally adopt them?”
I want to smile. I glare. “You’re very annoying.”
“I’ve been told.” He reaches for a different case. “But I’ll grow on you. I always do...”
“I doubt it.”
“Lies. You smiled. I saw it. That’s basically a declaration of friendship.”
“That was a grimace of tolerance.”
“Tomato, tomahto.” He hefts the case into the truck with an ease that I definitely don’t notice. “By day three, you’ll be laughing at all my jokes.”
“Do you make jokes?” I tilt my head, “Or just say ridiculous things and hope people laugh?” I deadpan.
He puts a hand over his heart. “Wounded. Genuinely wounded. I’ll have you know I’m hilarious.”
“I’ll keep you posted on that assessment.”
“Please do. I need the feedback for my personal growth.”
And okay, fine. Maybe he is a little bit charming. Maybe the way he grins when he’s trying not to laugh does something unfortunate to my cardiovascular system.
