Chapter 7 Rhiannon #2
I stand there for a second longer, trying to process what just happened.
Then I shake myself out of it and start unpacking. “Water samples first. Then temperature readings.”
We work in tandem, and it’s surprising how easily we fall into our roles.
I handle the water sample collection and pH readings, explaining each step as I go.
Carter manages the temperature readings.
He’s methodical, careful, double-checking his work in a way that makes me revise my entire internal assessment of him.
Maybe he’s not the guy who bailed freshman year.
Or maybe he is, but he’s trying not to be.
We barely need to talk—just the occasional “hand me that” or “what’s the pH reading?” Our movements are synchronized in a way that shouldn’t be possible after less than a day together. He reaches for something, I hand it to him. I need the thermometer, he’s already passing it over.
“Hey,” Carter says, pulling me from my spiral. “What’s the baseline temp supposed to be for this site?”
I check my tablet. “Forty-two point three Celsius. Why?”
“We’re reading forty-two point seven.”
I frown, double-checking his work. He’s right. “That’s... weird. Let me recalibrate.”
But even after recalibration, the reading holds. Point four degrees higher than baseline.
“Is that bad?” Carter asks.
“It’s probably nothing. Seasonal variation, maybe. Or the sensor drifted since last check.” But I’m already making notes, flagging it for analysis. Because point four degrees might be nothing, or it might be the start of a pattern. And patterns are what make papers interesting.
“You’re really into this,” Carter observes.
I look up from my tablet. “What?”
“This. The data. The measurements.” He gestures at the hot spring. “You get this look on your face when you’re working. Like everything else disappears and it’s just you and the numbers.”
My cheeks heat. “That’s not—I don’t—”
“It’s not a bad thing.” He’s smiling, but it’s not teasing. It’s... warm. “It’s kind of cool, actually. Seeing someone care this much about something.”
I don’t know what to say to that. Matthew used to complain that I cared too much about my work. That I was “obsessed.” That I chose geology over him.
Carter’s still watching me with that expression I can’t quite read. Like he’s seeing something he didn’t expect.
“We should finish up,” I say, deflecting. “We’ve got three more sites today.”
“Right. Yeah.” He helps me pack the equipment, and as we’re loading it back into the truck, he says casually, “You were right, by the way.”
“About what?”
“The weather. We had plenty of time.” He looks at the sky, which is still holding, still grey but not threatening. “You know what you’re doing. You should trust that more.”
The words land softly, but they hit something deep.
“I’m working on it,” I say quietly.
“Yeah.” He smiles. “I can tell.”
As we drive to Site Three, it sinks in that I stated my professional opinion and someone actually listened.
Didn’t dismiss it. Didn’t talk over it. Didn’t make me doubt myself.
Just... listened.
And believed me.
Site three passes in a blur, no mishaps or problems. I actually like working with Carter Wolfe.
I’m standing in my motel room staring at the laminated room service menu like it will answer all my big burning questions about the meaning of life.
It doesn’t. It holds exactly three types of burgers, two salads, a few sides and something called “Chef’s Surprise” that you’d have to be pretty brave to order.
The room is aggressively beige. Floral bedspread that’s seen better decades. Landscape art that looks like it was created by a computer program designed to make the most generic mountain scene possible. The faint smell of industrial cleaner mixed with something I’m choosing not to identify.
I’ve already showered—standing under water that alternated between scalding and arctic with no in-between—and changed into my pajamas.
Which are, objectively, very unsexy pajamas.
Old paint stained leggings and an oversized UMS t-shirt.
The kind of thing you wear when you have no expectations of seeing another human.
Which is why the knock at my door sends me into immediate panic.
I freeze, menu in hand, like a deer caught in headlights.
It’s probably just housekeeping.
Or the front desk.
Or literally anyone except—
“Rhi?” Carter’s voice, muffled through the door. “You there?”
Oh god.
I look down at my leggings. There is a very unfortunate phallic shaped stain right by the crotch.
My roommate Meg calls them my cock leggings.
My complete lack of makeup and the fact that my hair is still damp from the shower, and probably doing something unfortunate, is probably projecting a very comical slash horrific image.
This is fine.
This is totally fine.
We’re colleagues. Research partners. Two professionals who spent the day collecting geothermal data. But still, it can’t hurt to change into something more…appropriate.
“One second!” I call out.
I quickly smooth out my hair and throw on a pair of cotton shorts. They’re a little old and possibly too short for me. But I have shaved my legs and they’re better than the cock leggings.
I open the door.
Carter’s still in his thermal shirt from the fieldwork—the dark green one that does unfair things to his eyes—and his hair is damp like he just showered too. He smells clean, like soap and something woodsy, and I have to physically stop myself from leaning in to inhale.
“Hey,” he says, and his smile is dangerous. “Sorry to bother you. I was just going over today’s data,” he says, “and wanted to double-check the pH reading from Site 2. I think I wrote down 7.2 but—”
“7.4,” I say automatically, because I’ve already typed up my notes like the overachiever I am.
“Right. 7.4.” He grins. “See, this is why you’re a great partner. Organized. Efficient. Good handwriting.”
“My handwriting is mediocre.”
“It’s better than mine. Mine looks like a drunk spider fell into an inkwell.” He rubs the back of his neck, and his hair curls slightly when it’s wet. “I was too busy trying not to drop the temperature probe in the spring.”
“You did almost drop it.”
“But I didn’t!” He looks genuinely proud of this. “I’m basically a new man. An expert at geological field work. I should get one of those flannels all the men in the department wear.”
“It’s been one day.”
“A very transformative day.” He leans against the doorframe—casual, easy, like he has no idea what he’s doing to my cardiovascular system. “Between you and me, I think I was showing off. Trying to prove to you I’m not completely useless with equipment.”
My face is on fire. Actual fire. I’m going to spontaneously combust, and they’ll find my charred remains in this crappy motel. “You did fine.”
“Really?” His eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles like that. It’s a problem. “Because I got the impression you thought I was going to break something expensive.”
“I didn’t think that.”
“You were hovering.”
“I was not hovering. I was... supervising.”
“Rhi, you physically stepped between me and the pH meter at one point.”
“That was—that was for safety reasons.”
“Uh-huh.” He’s trying not to laugh. “Very normal coworker behavior.”
I want to defend myself, but he’s right. I was absolutely hovering. “The equipment is expensive. Bam even warned us about it. I can’t mess this up.”
“The equipment is safe. I promise.” His voice goes softer. “I’m taking this seriously, Rhi. I know my track record isn’t great, but I’m not going to let you down.”
And just like that, the teasing shifts into something more sincere, and I don’t know what to do with it.
“Anyway,” he says, straightening up from the doorframe. “That’s all I needed. I’ll let you get back to—”
He glances past me into my room, and I watch his gaze land on the room service menu spread out on my bed.
I can practically see him taking in the full picture of my personality disorder.
“Oh shit,” he says. “Were you about to order food?”
“I was thinking about it.”
“What are you getting?” He leans in slightly, like this is crucial information. “Please tell me you’re not one of those people who orders a salad from a motel at nine PM. Because that’s deeply depressing.”
“I was looking at the burger.” This is a lie. I was absolutely looking at the salad.
“Thank god.” The relief on his face is comically exaggerated. “You had me worried for a second there. I was preparing an intervention.”
And then, because my brain has decided to just start doing things without consulting me first, I hear myself say: “Do you want to... I mean, we should probably eat dinner anyway, and it seems silly to order separately when we could just...”
I trail off, my face heating as I realize what I’m suggesting.
Dinner. Together. In a motel room.
This is not professional researcher behavior.
This is not maintaining appropriate boundaries.
This is—
“Yes.” He says it so quickly that I barely finish my sentence. “Yes. Absolutely. My room or yours?”
He waggles his eyebrows suggestively, and my ovaries cry with joy.
I take in a sharp breath. “I—”
“Relax, Rhi.” He laughs, holding up his hands in surrender. “I’m joking. I don’t mean it like that. I just mean, where would you feel most comfortable?”
I let out a breath. “Right. Obviously. I knew that.”
“Did you, though?” He’s grinning now, clearly enjoying my discomfort.
“Yes. Obviously. Because we’re co-workers.”
“Very professional.”
“Extremely professional.”
“So professional.” His voice drops an octave and his eyes lazily scan over my legs. I resist the urge to shut the door in his face. I become aware that I’m not wearing a bra and my t shirt is thin and my nipples are hardening by the second.
Please don’t look.
Please look.
My face explodes with heat as I cross my arms over my chest, not so subtly hiding my erect nipples. “Are we doing this?”
“Are we?” He tilts his head like he’s considering this. “Do you mean doing this or doing this…”
“Carter!”
He laughs—full, genuine laughter that makes his eyes crinkle. “Sorry. Sorry. I’ll stop. But your face right now is incredible.”
“You’re the worst.”
“I’m the best. You just haven’t realized it yet.” He steps back from the doorway. “So? My room or yours?”
I glance behind me at my room.
My meticulously organized suitcase with clothes folded by category.
My binders spread across the desk in a rainbow of preparedness.
My nighttime routine already laid out in the bathroom like I’m running a small pharmacy.
Having Carter in here feels too intimate. Like letting him see inside my brain. Like admitting that I’m the kind of person who folds field notes and packs three types of moisturizer.
“Yours,” I say quickly. “Let’s do yours.”
Something flickers across his face before he nods. “Perfect. Give me five minutes to make it look like a human lives there instead of a tornado.”
“You don’t have to—”
“No, I definitely do. There are... layers of mess. Archaeological layers. You could probably date them with carbon-14.”
He’s back in four minutes, slightly out of breath, hair even more disheveled than before. I had just enough time to throw on a bra underneath my UMS sweatshirt. Hiding my offending peaks. “Okay. I shoved everything in the closet and said a prayer to the god of first impressions. Come on in.”
His room is identical to mine in layout but feels completely different in energy.
There’s a duffel bag on the floor—partially unpacked, clothes spilling out in a way that suggests he just grabbed what he needed and left the rest. His jacket is thrown over a chair. Field notes scattered across the desk in what I’m sure makes perfect sense to him but looks like abstract art to me.
It’s chaotic.
It’s the opposite of my room.
And somehow, it’s incredibly endearing.
“Sorry,” he says, following my gaze. “I know it’s a disaster. I have a system, I swear. It just looks like a mess to anyone who isn’t me.”
“It’s fine.” I mean it. There’s something charming about the mess. Something honest. “It’s cute.”
“Is that a compliment or an insult?”
“I’m not sure.”
He hands me the room service menu with a flourish, like he’s presenting me with a Michelin-star menu instead of a laminated piece of cardboard.
“Now,” he says seriously, “let’s discuss the important decisions. What are we ordering? And please say cheese fries. I’ve been thinking about cheese fries for the last hour.”
“You’ve been thinking about cheese fries?”
“Obsessively. They’ve taken over my entire mental landscape. I can’t think about anything else.”
“That’s concerning.”
“It’s dedication.” He sits on the edge of the bed. “So? Cheese fries?”
“I was thinking a burger—”
“Perfect. Two burgers. What else?”
“That’s probably enough—”
“Rhi. Rhiannon. Look at me.” He waits until I meet his eyes, and there’s this mock-serious expression on his face that makes me want to laugh.
“We hiked for four hours today. Uphill. In the snow. While carrying expensive equipment and the weight of Professor Bam’s expectations. We earned this meal.”
“The weight of her expectations is pretty heavy,” I admit.
“Exactly. So we’re getting burgers, fries, onion rings, and”—he scans the menu dramatically—“oh damn, they have mozzarella sticks. We’re definitely getting those.”
“That’s a lot of fried food.”
“It’s a celebration of fried food. There’s a difference.”
“What are we celebrating?”
“Not dying of hypothermia?” He grins. “Successfully collecting data? New friendship?”
I bite my lip so hard I taste blood. “Alright, you order.”
He orders with the kind of easy charm that makes the person on the other end laugh. I can hear them through the phone. He does that to people—makes them want to please him, want to be in on the joke.
“And two slices of pie,” he’s saying. “What kind? Surprise us. We’re feeling adventurous... Yeah, room 16. Thanks, you’re a lifesaver.”
He hangs up and sprawls across the bed, propped up on pillows like he’s posing for a magazine shoot he doesn’t know he’s in.
“Pie?”
“What? The sign downstairs said it’s world famous, Rhi. World famous. We can’t not get pie!”
I laugh easily.
“I do like pie.”