Chapter 9 Carter #2
“Uh,” he says. “Are you the geology students?”
“Yes!” she says, her voice about three octaves higher than normal. “Yes, we’re—we were just—there was a snowball fight—we fell—”
“Equipment check,” I supply, rolling to my feet and brushing snow off my jeans. “Making sure everything’s... durable. In snow conditions.”
The forestry guy looks at us like we’re insane.
“Right,” he says slowly. “Well, I’m Dave.
I got the cabin set up for you guys. Fire’s going, supplies are stocked, thermal monitoring equipment is in the shed out back.
” He gestures with his clipboard. “I’m heading out now, but there’s a radio inside if you need anything. Next check-in is in four days.”
“Great,” Rhi says, still not looking at me. “Thank you. We’ll just—we’ll get our stuff.”
Dave nods, gives us one more bemused look, and heads to his truck.
We watch him drive away in excruciating silence.
The moment his truck disappears around the bend, Rhi turns to me.
Her face is bright red. And not from the cold.
We stare at each other.
Her lips are still pink. Still perfect. Still way too close to mine in my memory.
“We should get the equipment inside,” she says finally.
“Yeah. Before it gets dark.”
“Before it gets dark,” she repeats
The inside of the cabin is…rustic.
One main room—cozy bordering on claustrophobic—with a stone fireplace that’s currently doing its best to heat the entire space.
A small kitchen area with a propane stove that looks like it predates the Nixon administration.
A wooden table with four mismatched chairs that have probably been here since the cabin was built.
And a ladder leading up to a loft that I can’t see from here but I’m already anxious about.
The fire crackles, warm and welcoming.
Kerosene lamps sit on the table, casting soft yellow light that makes everything look like a vintage photograph.
The cabin even smells like history. The scent of a place that’s been used and loved and left alone in equal measure.
“No electricity,” Rhi observes, setting down her suitcase and looking around with the expression of someone mentally cataloguing every detail. “That’s... rustic.”
“There’s a generator out back for emergencies,” I say, remembering reading it in my email from Bam. “But yeah. Pretty rustic. We’re basically pioneers now. Should we churn some butter?”
“Do you know how to churn butter?”
“Absolutely not. But I’m confident I could figure it out. How hard can it be?”
“Famous last words.”
“Only if something goes catastrophically wrong. Which it won’t. Probably.”
She shakes her head, but she’s smiling as she heads for the ladder. “I’m going to check out the loft. Please don’t burn the cabin down while I’m gone.”
“I make no promises.”
Her ponytail is a little lopsided now, like she tugged it loose while climbing the ladder. It shouldn’t make my stomach flip the way it does, but something about the undone softness of her—after two days of seeing her so tightly wound—is kind of sexy.
“So,” she says, and I’ve learned that when Rhi starts a sentence with “so” in that particular tone, she’s about to tell me something she’s uncomfortable about. “The loft situation.”
I set down the case I’m holding. “Okay?”
“There are two separate sleeping areas. Kind of.” She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear—a nervous gesture I’ve also catalogued. “They’re on opposite ends, and there’s a curtain for privacy, but it’s all... one loft. One big open loft.”
“Oh.” I process this. “That’s... fine?”
It’s not fine.
It’s the opposite of fine.
Because I’ve spent the last two days trying very hard not to notice things about Rhiannon Pierce—like the way she scrunches her nose when she’s concentrating, or how she hums under her breath when she thinks no one’s listening, or the fact that she’s genuinely beautiful in this understated way that sneaks up on you.
And now I’m going to sleep approximately fifteen feet away from her with only a curtain between us.
Fuck me.
“Right?” She’s watching me carefully. “I mean, we’re adults. We can handle sleeping in the same general vicinity.”
“Absolutely. I’ll keep to my side.”
“Yeah. Good. Great.” She’s still pink. “Just wanted to make sure you knew. So there’s no weird... surprises.”
She’s flustered. Good. At least we’re both drowning.
“I can take the couch if you want,” I offer, gesturing to the worn sofa by the fireplace. “It actually looks pretty comfortable. And I’ve slept in worse places.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” She straightens up, and I can see her pulling on her armor of competence. “We’re adults. Professionals. We can share a loft like civilized people.”
“Very civilized,” I agree.
“Extremely civilized.”
“The most civilized people to ever share a loft.”
“Are you mocking me?”
“I would never.”
“You absolutely are.” But she’s smiling now, and the tension breaks. “I’m going to make coffee. Do you want some?”
“God, yes. Please. I need caffeine to process the fact that we’re essentially living in a historical reenactment.”
While Rhi figures out the propane stove—there’s a concerning amount of clicking and muttered swearing—I finish unloading and start organizing our equipment on the table.
It’s become a routine over the past two days, this division of labor. She handles anything related to water and heat. I handle the tech and documentation. Neither of us discussed it. It just happened naturally, like we’re two parts of the same system figuring out how to work together.
Which is a dangerous thought to have.
Because I’m not supposed to be thinking about systems or compatibility or the way Rhi bites her lip when she’s concentrating on lighting the stove.
I’m supposed to be thinking about geothermal gradients and sample protocols and literally anything else.
The cabin smells incredible—wood smoke and pine and that clean, cold scent that snow leaves behind. Through the window, I can see it starting to fall again, fat flakes drifting down like the sky is taking its time.
“Carter?”
I turn. Rhi’s holding up an ancient percolator like it’s a museum artifact she’s afraid to break.
“I think this is from 1987,” she says seriously. “Possibly older. It might be a family heirloom. Do you know how to use it?”
Despite everything—the isolation, the weird sleeping situation, the fact that I’m spending Christmas in a cabin with a girl I’m definitely not developing feelings for—I laugh.
“My grandpa has one. Here”—I cross the kitchen, which requires exactly four steps because the cabin is tiny, and take the percolator from her.
Our fingers brush.
She pulls back like she’s been shocked.
Or maybe I’m imagining it.
Probably imagining it.
“Coffee grounds go here,” I explain, showing her the basket. “Water in the bottom. You put it on the stove and wait for the magic to happen.”
“That’s your technical explanation? Magic?”
“It’s a very precise scientific term.”
“You’re a geology major. You should have better explanations than ‘magic.’”
“Okay, fine. The water heats up, creates steam pressure, forces the water up through this tube where it percolates through the coffee grounds and drips back down as coffee. Better?”
“Much better. Thank you for the unnecessary lesson.”
“You asked!”
“I asked how to use it, not for a dissertation on the thermodynamics of percolation.”
I grin. “You’re welcome.”
She rolls her eyes, but she’s trying not to smile. “For the record, I’m a French press person.”
“Of course, you are.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing. Just... it tracks.” I get the percolator going on the stove, adjusting the flame. “You seem like someone who has opinions about coffee. Strong opinions. Possibly documented in a spreadsheet.”
She leans against the counter—a casual pose that would look relaxed on anyone else, but on Rhi looks like she’s actively working at appearing relaxed—and crosses her arms. “I do have opinions about coffee.”
“Let me guess.” I turn to face her, and we’re standing maybe two feet apart in this tiny kitchen. “You buy it from that place on campus that roasts their own beans. You know the barista’s name. Probably multiple baristas’ names. You have a specific order that you never deviate from.”
“Oat milk latte, extra hot, no foam,” she says, like it’s a point of pride. “And yes, I know Marcus and Sophie and the new girl whose name I keep forgetting but she has the blue hair.”
“See? I’m very perceptive.”
“You’re very predictable.”
“Ouch.”
“What about you?” She tilts her head. “Let me guess. You drink whatever’s cheapest and has the most caffeine. You probably buy those horrible giant cans from the grocery store. You don’t even taste it, do you? You just need it for survival purposes.”
I clutch my chest. “How could you think so low of me?”
“Am I wrong?”
“You’re absolutely right and I hate it.” I shake my head. “But in my defense, coffee is coffee. It’s all just caffeinated bean water.”
She gasps—actually gasps, like I’ve just insulted her entire family. “Caffeinated bean water? That’s the most tragic thing I’ve ever heard.”
“It is what it is.”
“It’s sad. You’re sad. Your coffee philosophy is sad.”
“My coffee philosophy is practical.”
“When we get back to civilization, I’m buying you a real cup of coffee. From a real coffee shop. And you’re going to taste it—actually taste it—and realize what you’ve been missing.”
“Rhiannon Peirce, is that a date?”
Her face goes redder than I’ve ever seen it.
“You want to take me on a coffee date? I am flattered, darling.”
“I–I just meant from CC’s, you know –”
“Deal. I would love to go on a coffee date with you.” I hear myself say.
The percolator starts to bubble and hiss, breaking the moment. The smell of coffee fills the cabin, mixing with the wood smoke and pine. Outside, the snow falls heavier, covering everything in soft white silence.
This is nice. Just... being here. Talking about nothing important. Arguing about coffee like it matters. No weight to it. No grief pressing down. No expectations beyond making it through the next five days without freezing to death or breaking expensive equipment.
Just this.
When the coffee’s ready, I pour us both mugs—chipped ceramic that’s probably been in this cabin since before either of us was born—and we sit at the table with our equipment spread between us like a very boring treasure map.
“So,” Rhi says, wrapping her hands around her mug in that way she does when she’s cold, or thinking, or both. “Game plan. Tomorrow’s. We should hit site four in the morning—weather’s supposed to be clear—come back and process data in the afternoon. Then site five the day after?”
“Sounds good.” I pull out my field notebook, flipping to the page where I’ve been tracking our progress. My handwriting is terrible but, at least, it’s consistent. “We’re making really good time. Professor Bam’s going to be impressed.”
“You think so?”
There’s something vulnerable in the way she asks—like my opinion matters more than it probably should.
“Yeah. Definitely.” I look at her over the rim of my mug. “The data we’re collecting is solid. We’re ahead of schedule. And we haven’t killed each other yet, which I think deserves bonus points.”
She laughs. “The trip’s not over yet. Don’t jinx it.”
“Fair point.” I flip another page. “But seriously, Rhi. You’re really good at this. The fieldwork. The organization. All of it. You should be proud.”
She ducks her head, but I catch the pleased expression before she hides it behind her coffee mug. “Thanks. You’re better than you give yourself credit for too.”
“High praise from Rhiannon Pierce.”
“Don’t let it go to your head.”
“Too late. My ego is already insufferable.”
“I have a feeling that your ego has always been insufferable,” she says, but she’s smiling.
And okay, fine. Maybe I’m in trouble here.
Maybe spending five days in a remote cabin with Rhiannon Pierce is going to be a problem.
The weird thing is—I don’t hate this.
I hate lectures. I hate labs. I hate sitting at a desk analyzing mineral compositions until my eyes cross.
But this? Hiking through snow to collect water samples? Working with my hands? Being outside where I can actually breathe?
This I could do.
Not the data analysis part. Not the research papers or the academic bullshit. But the being outside, doing physical work, solving problems in real-time part?
Yeah. I could do this forever.