Holidate Scramble (Return to Starlight Bay #31)

Chapter One

Piper

The Little Red Hen smelled like heaven—cinnamon, butter, and coffee. I pushed through the door, bells jingling overhead, and felt my shoulders drop for the first time all morning.

"There's my favorite stress case," Maisie called from behind the counter, her red hair escaping its bun in wild curls. "Let me guess—you need caffeine and carbs, in that order?"

"You know me so well." I collapsed onto a stool, dropping my overstuffed tote. "Double shot latte and whatever you're pulling out of the oven."

"Cranberry orange scones, just baked." She plated three golden pastries, their tops sparkling with coarse sugar. "You look exhausted. Still running yourself ragged with the campaign?"

"The Twelve Days of Christmas campaign is the biggest opportunity of my career." I bit into the first scone and nearly moaned. "God, Maze. These are incredible."

"Thanks. But seriously, Piper—you can't keep skipping meals." She worked the espresso machine, the familiar hiss and gurgle comforting. "Even charitable causes aren't worth making yourself sick."

"I'm fine. Just busy." I pulled out my phone, scrolling through my endless checklists. "Hey, thanks again for volunteering the Little Red Hen for the Cookie Contest and Christmas Day Brunch. Having venues locked down has been a lifesaver."

"Happy to help. It's great publicity, and it's for Virginia.

" Maisie's expression softened as she nodded toward a booth across the café where retired baker Virginia Thornton sat with a distinguished-looking man.

"She's here this morning with someone—must be her son judging by the resemblance.

Watching her decline the past few years.

.. if this campaign raises money for Alzheimer's research, I'm all in. "

My chest tightened. Virginia Thornton had run Ginny's Sweet Spot bakery for decades before closing it last year, and she'd always judged the Christmas Cookie Contest—for as long as I could remember.

When I'd asked her to judge one more time, she was hesitant but finally declined, citing her health.

I understood why. With her condition progressing, the pressure wouldn't be fair to her.

My phone buzzed against the counter. Caroline Bridgewater from the Alzheimer's Foundation.

"I have to take this." I slid off the stool, heading toward the quieter corner by the windows—closer to Virginia's booth than I'd intended. "Hey, Caroline!"

"Piper, we have a problem. Chef Buzz Romano just canceled."

The world tilted. "What? No. The Cookie Contest is December twenty-fourth—that's only ten days away. His agent confirmed months ago. We've already promoted his appearance everywhere—"

"I know. I got a call from his representative this morning.

Apparently he was offered a spot on some celebrity cooking competition show filming in LA—bigger exposure, national audience.

Too good to pass up for a small-town cookie contest, or so we've been told.

" Caroline's frustration crackled through the line.

"We need a replacement judge. Someone with credibility who can draw a crowd and media coverage. "

Ten days before Christmas Eve. Every food personality in New England would be booked solid.

"I'll figure something out," I heard myself say, though panic clawed at my throat.

"You're amazing. I knew we made the right choice hiring you."

The call ended. I stood frozen, staring out at Main Street's holiday shoppers, their faces full of Christmas cheer while mine felt like professional disaster.

I turned to head back to the counter, and that's when I heard it.

"I don't want to show up solo to some overpriced soiree, making small talk with board members and their spouses while nursing bad champagne just to look like a team player." The deep voice came from Virginia's booth, rough with irritation.

I paused mid-step. The man across from her—broad shoulders in a charcoal sweater, dark hair silvered at the temples—had his hands wrapped around a coffee mug, his profile all sharp angles and masculine strength.

"Now, sweetheart, it won't be that bad," Virginia said gently. "The Christmas Eve hospital gala is important for your career."

"I don't care about hospital politics, Mom. I became a surgeon to save lives, not schmooze with donors."

Mom. So this definitely was Virginia's son. The one I’d heard moved back to Starlight Bay to care for her after the diagnosis.

"Still, you should go. You work too hard. You need to get out more, meet people your own age." Virginia patted his hand. "When's the last time you went on a date since the divorce?"

"I know you mean well, Mom, but I'm not discussing my love life at breakfast."

"What love life? That's my point." She sighed. "You're only forty-seven, honey. That's still young."

I should have moved away, given them privacy. But something about the tenderness in his voice when he spoke to his mother, the patience even as he clearly wanted to change the subject—it caught my attention.

An idea sparked. Wild, impulsive, possibly brilliant.

I turned toward their booth. "Excuse me. I'm so sorry to interrupt, but I couldn't help overhearing—"

The man's head snapped up. His eyes were dark brown, intense, framed by lines that suggested he frowned more than he smiled. The look he gave me was pure irritation. "Were you eavesdropping on a private conversation?"

Heat flooded my face. "Not intentionally. Small space, voices carry." I straightened my spine, summoning every ounce of professional confidence I had. "I'm Piper Summers. I'm coordinating the Alzheimer's Foundation's Twelve Days of Christmas campaign."

Virginia's face lit up with recognition. "Oh yes! I remember you! You are so cute, and I just love your hair.”

I smiled, touching the sparkle clip I'd fastened in my blonde pixie cut this morning. I'd chopped off my long hair right before Easter, needing a change, and the short style still felt liberating.

“Thank you,” I replied before turning back to her son. "I heard you mention the hospital gala and needing a date. I also heard Mrs. Thornton call you her son, which means you're connected to someone who's always judged our annual Christmas Cookie Contest."

His eyes narrowed. "And?"

"And I have a proposition." I gripped my phone tighter.

"I need a celebrity judge for the Cookie Contest on Christmas Eve morning.

My original judge just canceled. You're Virginia Thornton's son, which gives you credibility in this community and a connection to the cause we're supporting.

If you agree to judge the contest, I'll be your date for the hospital gala. "

Silence stretched across the booth. He stared at me like I'd suggested we rob a bank.

"You want me to judge a cookie contest in exchange for you pretending to be my date to a hospital fundraiser."

"It's mutually beneficial. You get a date for your work event, I get a judge for mine. Win-win."

"That's a wonderful idea!" Virginia clapped her hands. "You should do it, honey. The Alzheimer's Foundation is doing important work."

"Mom—"

"And this lovely young woman needs help. What was your name again, dear?"

"Piper Summers, Mrs. Thornton."

Before he could formulate a refusal, the bells over the door jingled. A plump woman in her mid-fifties bundled in a bright purple coat and red scarf entered, her smile warm.

"Mrs. Thornton? I'm here to take you home." She approached with easy confidence. "Did you enjoy your breakfast?"

"Oh, Lenora!" Virginia looked up with relief. "Yes, it was lovely. My son took me out for French toast."

The woman—clearly Virginia’s caregiver—helped gather her things.

"Are you ready to head back?" Lenora asked. "We can watch that baking show you like."

"Will you come too, sweetheart?" Virginia looked at her son.

"I'm working this afternoon, Mom." He stood, helping her into her coat. "But I'll stop by later this evening. We can look through those photo albums."

"All right." Virginia kissed his cheek, then turned to me with a conspiratorial smile. "You make sure my son behaves himself. He needs someone to keep him on his toes."

After Lenora escorted Virginia out, the man sank back into the booth and rubbed his face with both hands. He looked exhausted.

"That was awkward," he muttered.

"Join me for coffee?" I gestured to his half-empty mug. "We should talk about my proposal."

He looked up at me, those brown eyes still skeptical. "I haven't agreed to anything."

"I know. But you haven't said no either."

He studied me for a beat, then gestured to the seat across from him. "Five minutes."

I slid into the booth, suddenly aware of how close the table brought us. Up close, he was even more imposing—and more attractive than I wanted to notice.

“Everett Thornton," he said, extending his hand across the table. "But most people call me ‘Rhett.’ I'm a cardiothoracic surgeon at Cape Cod Regional."

"Nice to meet you, Rhett." I shook his hand, his grip firm and brief.

A hint of amusement touched his expression. "Let me guess—you want to explain why this arrangement makes sense."

"I do." I met his gaze directly. "The Twelve Days of Christmas campaign is twelve events in twelve days, all raising awareness and funding for Alzheimer's research. I've been coordinating everything—vendors, venues, volunteers, sponsors, media coverage. It's incredible, but also overwhelming."

"I see," he said slowly.

"You need to attend your hospital fundraiser," I countered. "Not just for appearances, but to show you're engaged with the community, supporting important causes. I can help with that."

"And in exchange, I eat cookies."

"You serve as the judge of an annual competition that's going to be filmed by local news, attended by over a hundred people, and has the potential to raise thousands of dollars for research into the disease that's stealing your mother's memories.

" I softened my voice. "I'm guessing you support this cause. "

Something shifted in his expression—not agreement, but consideration.