Chapter Two
Rhett
Isat in my car outside the Holiday Market, engine running, watching the controlled pandemonium through my windshield.
What the hell was I doing here? I had patient charts to review, a surgery scheduled for Monday, and my mother's care schedule to coordinate.
Instead, I was about to spend my Saturday morning helping a woman I barely knew make gingerbread houses for charity.
The market sprawled across the town square like Christmas had exploded and nobody bothered to clean it up.
Colorful tents clustered together in rows, their peaks draped with an excessive amount of twinkling lights.
The crowd moved like a clogged artery—slow, unpredictable, potentially dangerous to navigate.
I checked my watch. Nine-thirty. If I left now, I could claim car trouble.
"Rhett!" Piper's voice cut through my escape plan. "You made it!"
She appeared beside my driver's window, having apparently spotted me from across the square.
Today's outfit assaulted my retinas—a cherry-red coat over what appeared to be a green sweater covered in tiny reindeer, jeans tucked into boots that had actual bells attached.
A headband with glitter caught the morning sun, making her look like an elf who'd raided a craft store.
"I said I'd help," I replied, killing the engine with reluctance.
"Come on, the gingerbread station is already getting busy." She grabbed my arm the moment I stood, tugging me through the crowd with determination. "The market opened fifteen minutes ago and we already have a line. This is going to be huge!"
The gingerbread station occupied a double-wide tent that smelled like a sugar factory.
Tables stretched along three sides, covered in white cloth and loaded with enough candy to send half of Massachusetts into diabetic shock.
Pre-cut gingerbread pieces sat in organized rows, while bowls of colored icing and a myriad of utensils waited like surgical instruments for a procedure nobody had properly explained to me.
"Welcome to the madness," Piper announced, holding up a green apron that had 'Official Elf Helper' spelled out in what appeared to be glitter glue. "Put this on."
I stared at it. "That's not happening."
"It's part of the experience. Besides, it matches your eyes."
"My eyes are brown."
"With green flecks when you're amused." She tilted her head, studying me like I was a particularly interesting specimen. "Which happens more often than you'd probably admit."
Heat crept up my neck—an involuntary vasodilation response I chose not to analyze. I took the ridiculous apron, tying it on with the same resignation I'd felt putting on my first set of scrubs as a medical student. At least those had served a purpose beyond public humiliation.
"So what am I actually supposed to do here?" I asked.
"Help kids—and adults—build gingerbread houses. Think of it as surgery but with frosting instead of sutures."
"That comparison is medically inaccurate on multiple levels."
She laughed, bright and unrestrained. "Just go with it. Here, let me show you the technique."
For the next twenty minutes, she demonstrated gingerbread house construction with surprising attention to detail.
The icing needed to be the right consistency—too thin and it wouldn't hold, too thick and it wouldn't spread.
Walls had to set for exactly ninety seconds before adding weight.
The roof required support at a thirty-degree angle for optimal stability.
She explained it all with the focus I typically associated with medical residents presenting cases.
"You've really thought this through," I observed, watching her sort gumdrops by size and color into separate containers.
"Events like this matter." She adjusted a bowl of peppermints that had been perfectly fine where it was.
"They create connections and build memories, as well as raise money for research.
Speaking of which—" Her whole face transformed, lighting up from within.
"Yesterday's children's story time was incredible! You should have seen it."
"The second event in the challenge?"
"Yes! We had over sixty kids at the library, all in pajamas for 'Bedtime Stories at Breakfast.' Local authors read, we served cocoa and cookies, and every child left with a free book.
" She practically vibrated with excitement, her hands moving as she talked.
"We raised eight hundred dollars in just two hours. "
"Impressive numbers."
"And we're just getting started." She pulled out her phone, showing me a schedule that looked like a cardiac surgeon's OR board—color-coded, time-blocked, annotated with multiple contingencies.
"Look, we've got the gift wrapping contest tomorrow at the community center—that's from two to five.
Then Monday is technically a rest day, but Tuesday is the ornament crafting workshop at the library, four to six in the evening. "
She continued scrolling, her finger tracing down the list. "Wednesday the nineteenth is movie night at Town Hall—we're showing 'It's a Wonderful Life' and I'm running concessions.
Thursday the twentieth is the ice skating fundraiser at the harbor rink, Friday is caroling in the town square, Saturday is the knit-a-scarf class—though you probably don't need to come to that one—Sunday is the snowman competition if we get enough snow, then Monday the twenty-fourth is your big moment with the cookie contest before the hospital gala that evening. "
I found myself leaning closer to see the screen, telling myself it was about the schedule and not about catching the vanilla scent that seemed to follow her everywhere. "Which ones need coverage?"
"Well, I can't require you to attend everything. This is supposed to be mutually beneficial, not indentured servitude."
"I'm on call tomorrow, but Tuesday's ornament workshop works. Wednesday's movie night too, barring emergencies."
"The ice skating fundraiser Thursday?"
"I'll be there."
Her eyes widened. "Can you actually skate, or will I be scraping you off the ice?"
"I played hockey at Dartmouth."
"Of course you did." She shook her head, grinning. "Let me guess—aggressive forward, lots of penalty box time?"
"Defense, actually. Spent four years keeping other people from doing damage rather than seeking glory."
"Why does that not surprise me?" Her expression softened. "Always protecting people, even then."
Before I could respond—before I could think about why that observation burrowed under my skin—the first wave of families descended.
The next three hours became a blur of messy fingers, spilled sprinkles, and surprisingly heated debates about candy cane placement.
A five-year-old informed me my technique was "wrong" because I'd placed the door off-center.
Her mother apologized, but the kid had a point.
Functional didn't always mean aesthetically pleasing.
Despite my initial resistance, I found myself absorbed in the process.
When a boy's roof kept sliding off, I fashioned support beams from pretzel rods—a solution that earned me a high-five covered in icing.
When a grandmother wanted to recreate her childhood home, I helped her engineer a second story using graham crackers as load-bearing walls.
Piper and I developed a workflow without discussion. She handled design and customer relations while I managed structural integrity and supply organization. It was like being in surgery—anticipating needs, moving in sync, communicating without words.
"You two work so well together," an elderly woman observed, watching us help her granddaughter. "How long have you been a couple?"
"Oh, we're not—" I started.
"Not long," Piper said smoothly, her hand sliding into mine like it belonged there. "But when you know, you know. Right, honey?"
The endearment made my mind go blank. "Right," I managed, hyperaware of her fingers interlaced with mine.
After the woman moved on, Piper released my hand. The absence of contact felt wrong. I flexed my fingers to dispel the lingering warmth of her touch.
The crowd finally thinned around one o'clock. We stood behind our station, surveying the carnage—icing smears on every surface, candy ground into the floor, and there was something sticky in my hair.
"You have—" Piper reached up, brushing green icing from my temple. "There."
"Occupational hazard," I said, my voice rougher than intended.
"You were good with the kids. Patient." She tilted her head. "Not what I expected."
"Children are straightforward. They say what they mean, ask for what they need. It's refreshing."
"Unlike adults?"
"Adults lie. To others, to themselves. They present symptoms that mask the real problem." I thought of Adrienne, how she'd hidden her ambitions behind false promises. "Children just want their gingerbread houses to stay standing."
"Speaking of which, we should make samples," Piper said, clearly sensing the shift in my mood. "Show people what's possible."
We claimed a corner table, spreading supplies between us.
She immediately abandoned all restraint—creating a structure that violated several laws of physics while somehow remaining upright.
Every possible candy found its way onto her creation in combinations that would give a nutritionist nightmares.
"It looks like a sugar bomb detonated," I observed.
"It's whimsical! Joyful! Full of character!" She examined my creation with obvious disapproval. "Yours looks like it was designed by a computer algorithm."
I'd built a traditional house—perpendicular walls, forty-five-degree roof pitch, symmetrical window placement. "It's architecturally sound."
"It's boring."
"It's classic."
"It needs something more." Before I could stop her, she'd grabbed blue icing and created elaborate swirls along my roof line, then pressed yellow star-shaped candies into the design. "There. Now it has soul."
"You just vandalized my property."