Seeds of Christmas (University of Mountain Springs #5)

Chapter 1

CARTER

I’m definitely fucked.

That’s my first thought when I see the email from Professor Bam with the subject line ‘URGENT: Meeting Required.’

My second thought is whether I can fake my own death and transfer to a university in Norway where no one knows my name.

My third thought—the one I’ve been having a lot lately—is that Dominic would’ve had a better plan.

The last time I sat in Professor Bam’s office, he was on my case about school. I remember because he’d texted me that morning.

Good luck with your meeting. And stop skipping Bam’s class. She’s a legend.

I’d ignored him because I was hungover and it was 8 AM, and who the hell schedules a meeting at 8 AM?

Now I’m here because I’ve skipped so many classes that “legendary” Professor Bam has summoned me for what I’m pretty sure is an academic intervention.

Her office is exactly what you’d expect: rocks everywhere. Like an absurd amount of rocks. Core samples, geodes, crystals. There are photos too—her at various field sites, covered in dust and grinning. One shows her with a younger guy, same wild curls, same bright smile.

“Carter Wolfe.” She doesn’t look up from her computer. “Have a seat.”

I drop into the chair across from her and flash my most charming smile—the one that usually works on professors. “Thanks for making time, Professor. I know you’re swamped with end-of-semester—”

“You’re failing my class.”

“Mm-hmm.” Shit. She’s not buying it. She folds her hands on top of a folder that I’m pretty sure contains my academic death certificate. “Let’s cut to the chase, shall we?”

“I love chases. Big fan of efficiency.” I lean back, trying to look relaxed even though my heart is hammering. “So, I’m guessing this is about my attendance? Because I can explain—”

“You’re failing my class.”

The smile falters. Just for a second. Then I rebuild it. “Okay, well, ‘failing’ is such a strong word. What if we called it ‘temporarily underperforming’?”

“Fifty-three percent on your last exam, Carter.”

“See, but that’s still technically passing in some countries—”

“Six weeks of missed lectures.”

“I was doing independent study—”

“And exactly three assignments turned in all semester.”

I hold up my hands in mock surrender, grin still in place.

“Okay, okay. You got me. I’ve been slacking.

But here’s the thing, Professor Bam—” I lean forward, letting my voice drop into something more genuine, more vulnerable.

“It’s been a really hard year. I don’t know if you heard, but my brother passed away last fall, and I’ve just been.

.. struggling, you know? To focus. To care about anything.

Some days it’s hard to even get out of bed. ”

I watch her face, waiting for the softening. The sympathy. The inevitable “Oh, you poor thing. Let’s talk about extensions and make-up work.”

It doesn’t come.

Instead, Professor Bam leans back in her chair and gives me a look that I can only describe as deeply unimpressed.

“Carter Wolfe.” She says my name like she’s tasting something sour. “Did you just try to use your dead brother to manipulate me into bumping your grade?”

The air leaves the room. I feel naked.

“I— no, I wasn’t—”

“Because if you were, that would be remarkably insulting. To me, to your brother, and to yourself.” She stands up, walks over to one of the photos on her wall. The one with the younger guy. “This is my brother, Marcus. He died four years ago. Car accident.”

Oh shit.

“Professor, I didn’t—”

“So when you sit in my office and try to weaponize your grief to avoid accountability?” She turns back to face me. “I see right through it. Because I’ve been where you are. And I know what real grief looks like versus what using grief as an excuse looks like.”

I open my mouth. Then close it. I’ve got nothing.

“Here’s what I think is happening,” she continues, coming back to her desk.

“I think you’re in a tremendous amount of pain.

Real, legitimate pain. And I think you’ve learned that mentioning your brother makes people uncomfortable enough to give you what you want.

A pass on the homework. An extension on the deadline. Maybe even a bump in your grade.”

My face is burning. “That’s not—”

“Isn’t it?” She sits down, and her expression is sharp but not unkind.

“Carter, I’m not saying you’re not grieving.

I’m saying you’re hiding behind it. Using it as a shield so you don’t have to try.

Because trying means you might fail, and failing means facing the fact that you’re lost and scared and have no idea who you are without your brother. ”

Ouch.

I should be angry. Should walk out.

Instead, I slump back. My face does something I haven’t let it do in months—it breaks.

“Yeah,” I say. “Yeah, that’s exactly what I’m doing.”

Professor Bam’s expression softens, just slightly. “Thank you for being honest.”

“Does it make me less of an asshole?”

“No. But it makes you more self-aware, which is a start.” She opens the folder on her desk.

“Look, I guess I’ve been…not myself for a while. But, please, just give me a chance until next term and I’ll turn this whole thing around. Trust me.”

“Carter, let me be clear about where you stand. Your current grade is 52%. You need a 70% to pass this class. If you fail, you go on academic probation. If you’re on probation, you lose your scholarship.

” Shit. “And since I know your family took out loans for your brother’s school tuition before he died, I’m guessing you can’t afford to stay here without that money.

And all those jokes you make? All that charm?

It won’t matter because you’ll be back home, explaining to your parents why you washed out. ”

I wince. “I—surely there is something else I can do? Can I retake this class?”

“You need to hear it. You’re already retaking how many classes?

” She pulls out another folder. “But I also think—despite your impressive commitment to self-sabotage—that you’re better than this.

Your reports, the few you’ve turned in, are actually good.

Really good. You have an eye for detail.

You understand the material when you bother to engage with it. ”

“So what are you saying?”

“I’m saying I have a research opportunity. And I’m saying that if you’re willing to actually show up and do the work—real work, not charm-your-way-through-it work—I can offer it to you.”

I sit up straighter. “What kind of opportunity?”

“Winter geothermal monitoring project.” She slides a map across the desk.

“Essential data collection. Continuous readings through the holiday season. Nature doesn’t care about human holidays, and neither does my research grant.

This research project is worth 30% of your final grade—if you do it well.

The data has to be usable, accurate, and complete.

If it’s not, you get nothing. If it is, you pass. Barely. But you pass.”

Christmas. Away from home. From the pitiful looks, the careful conversations, and my parents’ aggressive cheerfulness.

From the empty chair at the table.

“I’m in,” I say immediately.

“You haven’t heard the details—”

“Don’t need to. I’m in.”

Professor Bam raises an eyebrow. “That eager to avoid your family for Christmas?”

And there it is. She sees right through me. Again.

I try to rebuild the smile, make it charming and dismissive. “What? No. I just think it sounds like a great opportunity for hands-on learning and—”

“Carter.”

I shrug, trying to look casual even though my chest is tight. “Maybe. But, at least, I’ll be running toward something productive. Geothermal data, right? Very important.”

Professor Bam studies me for a long moment. Then she does something unexpected.

She laughs. “You know what, Carter? You’re exhausting. But I like you.”

“You know, I wouldn’t normally offer this opportunity to a student like you,” she says finally. “Someone who’s missed as much class as you have. This is an important assignment.”

My stomach sinks. Here it comes. The rejection.

“But,” she continues, “your brother was one of my best students. Dominic took my Advanced Petrology seminar. Brilliant kid. Passionate about the work. He used to stay after class to debate igneous formation processes.”

“When I heard what happened—” She stops, clears her throat. “I’m sorry. That was a terrible loss. For everyone who knew him. And I can see it’s been especially hard on you.”

I can’t speak. Can only nod.

“So here’s the thing.” She leans forward, elbows on her desk.

“I know grief. I know what it does to people. How it makes everything feel impossible. How just getting out of bed feels like climbing Everest.” She taps the folder in front of her.

“But I also knew Dominic. And I don’t think he’d want you to throw away your education because you’re in pain.

I think he’d want you to fight. Even when it’s hard. ”

“I don’t know if I can,” I admit quietly.

“That’s why I’m offering this,” she says.

“Not because you’ve earned it. You haven’t.

But because I think you’ve got what Dominic had—that same spark, that same potential.

You just need a reason to give a damn again.

And maybe—maybe getting outside… that’ll help you figure out if this is really what you want. ”

She’s right. She’s completely, uncomfortably right.

“The data is critical,” she continues, her voice firm again.

“This research is going to the environmental board in February. So I need you to understand—I’m not giving you a free pass.

I’m giving you a chance. One chance. If you screw this up, if you don’t take it seriously, if you let the other student down.

..” She levels me with a look that could cut glass.

“Then you fail my class, and you’re on your own.

No second chances. No appeals. Do you understand? ”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And if you try to coast on that smile one more time, I will personally make sure you retake this class next semester with the 8 AM lab section.”

I actually shudder. “That’s a genuine threat. I respect that.”

“I thought you might.” She pulls out another sheet of paper. “Your partner on this project is Rhiannon Pierce. She’s in your cohort. Very serious student. Very organized. Probably the exact opposite of you in every way.”

“Sounds like a match made in heaven.”

“Sounds like she’s going to keep you from screwing this up.” Professor Bam slides the paper across the desk. “Meeting tomorrow, 8 AM, here. I’ll go over protocols with both of you. Don’t be late.”

“8 AM,” I repeat, already making a mental note to set seven alarms.

“And Carter?” She waits until I look up. “I know you’re running. But sometimes running toward something is just as good as running away from something. This could actually help. If you let it.”

I want to make a joke. Deflect with humor. Keep things light.

Instead, I just nod.

“Thank you, Professor. For... giving me a chance anyway.”

“Thank you for finally dropping the act.” She stands, extends her hand. “Don’t make me regret this.”

I shake her hand, and her grip is firm. “I won’t. I promise.”

“We’ll see.”

I’m at the door when she calls after me.

“Carter?”

I turn back.

“Your brother—Dominic. He was a great kid.” She glances at the photo of Marcus on her wall. “He wouldn’t want you to use his death as an excuse. But he also wouldn’t want you to pretend you’re fine when you’re not. There’s a middle ground. You should try to find it.”

My throat closes up. I manage a nod, and then I’m in the hallway, blinking hard.

The thing is, she’s right.

I have gotten so good at using Dominic as a get-out-of-jail-free card that I do not even notice it anymore. It has become muscle memory. Skip class? Dead brother. Miss deadline? Dead brother. Need sympathy? Dead brother.

And I hate myself for it.

Because he would hate it.