Chapter Five
Piper
I'd been at the harbor skating rink for nearly two hours, hanging fairy lights, setting up the food and beverage station, and arranging donation jars before most volunteers even arrived.
Staying busy kept me from obsessing over last night—the way Rhett's mouth had felt against mine, how his strong arms had lifted me onto the table, the heat that had flared between us before we'd agreed to keep things simple.
"Piper? Where do you want these?" One of the local volunteers held up a box of rental skates.
"By the entrance booth." I pointed to the small wooden structure decorated with wreaths. "Size them smallest to largest, left to right."
She gave me a thumbs-up, trudging through the light dusting of snow that had fallen overnight. Perfect weather for the event—cold enough to keep the ice solid, just enough snow to make everything look magical without hindering travel.
The harbor skating rink was Starlight Bay's hidden gem—a wide oval of natural ice that formed in a protected cove, ringed by benches and strung with lights. The town had installed heating lamps and a sound system that now played Christmas carols across the ice.
"Looking good," Mayor Reeves said, appearing beside me in a plush white parka and matching muff. "Advance ticket sales already passed last year's numbers."
"We've been promoting it all week." I straightened a wreath that had tilted. "Plus, the weather's cooperating."
"Indeed. I see your doctor friend made it."
My heart stuttered as I followed her gaze. Rhett stood at the edge of the rink, scanning the crowd. He wore dark jeans and a charcoal sweater under a black wool coat that made him look both distinguished and approachable. His hair was slightly windblown, a contrast to his usual composed appearance.
"He's been helping with all the events," I managed, hoping my voice sounded normal.
"Mmm-hmm." The mayor's knowing smile suggested she was well aware of our purported relationship. "I'll handle the welcome booth. You go say hello."
I agreed silently, suddenly unsure how to approach him after last night.
We'd crossed a line, then deliberately stepped back, agreeing to maintain the boundaries we’d set before this whole thing began.
What was the protocol for greeting someone after a mind-melting kiss that you'd both decided couldn’t happen again?
He spotted me before I could decide, his posture straightening as his eyes met mine. We met halfway across the snowy ground, stopping just short of touching.
"Hi," I said, brilliantly.
"Hello." He shifted his weight slightly. "Nice turnout."
"Thanks. It's, um, one of our more popular events."
We stood there, the ease of our previous interactions replaced by hyper-awareness. I could still feel the ghost of his hands on my waist, the warmth of his breath against my neck.
"About last night—" he began.
"We don't have to—"
"I just wanted to say—"
"It's fine, really—"
We both stopped, then laughed nervously at our overlapping attempts.
"Can we maybe start over?" I asked. "Just enjoy today?"
Relief washed over his features. "I'd like that."
"Great!" I gestured to the skate rental booth. "Fair warning, though—I'm terrible at ice skating. Complete hazard to myself and others."
"Really? You strike me as someone who'd be good at everything."
"Flattering, but wildly inaccurate. I have exactly three skills: creating social media campaigns, hosting events, and making outstanding hot chocolate. Everything else is aspirational at best, catastrophic at worst."
He smiled, the tension between us easing. "Well, I played hockey for years. I could help you, if you'd like."
My pulse quickened at the thought of his hands steadying me. "That would be... helpful."
Twenty minutes later, I clung to the rink's edge like it was the only thing between me and certain death.
Around us, children glided effortlessly, elderly couples held hands while making smooth circles, and teenagers showed off with spins and jumps.
Meanwhile, I couldn't let go of the railing without my legs splaying in opposite directions.
"You're overthinking it," Rhett said, standing on the ice with frustrating ease. "Skating is about rhythm and balance."
"Two things I notably lack." I gripped the railing tighter. "Maybe I should stick to concessions."
"Trust me?" He extended both hands toward me.
I hesitated, then placed my mittened hands in his. He skated backward, gently pulling me away from the safety of the wall. My legs wobbled embarrassingly.
"Keep your knees slightly bent," he instructed, his voice taking on that calm, authoritative tone that sent a rush of warmth spiraling through my center. "Weight centered, eyes up, not down."
"If I don't look down, how will I know when I hit the ice face-first?"
"You won't hit the ice because I'm not going to let you fall." His grip tightened slightly. "Small steps, push and glide."
Slowly, with his hands providing steady support, I managed a few tentative strokes. When my balance faltered, his arm slipped around my waist, pulling me against his side. The firm, reassuring pressure of his body against mine steadied me in more ways than one.
"That's it," he encouraged. "You're getting it."
We made a full, wobbly circuit of the rink, his fingers laced through mine, his arm occasionally circling my waist when I teetered. Each touch sent awareness skittering through me despite the layers of winter clothing between us.
"See? Not so terrible." His breath formed clouds in the cold air.
"Only because you're basically carrying me." But I was smiling, the initial awkwardness between us dissolving into something easier, more natural.
"Another lap?" he asked.
I tilted my head in agreement, allowing him to guide me through another circuit. This time I focused less on my feet and more on him—the way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled, how his hand engulfed mine completely, the gentle pressure of his fingers at my waist.
"You know," he said as we rounded a corner, "I haven't skated since moving here. I forgot how much I enjoyed it."
"Why did you stop?"
His expression turned contemplative. "Life got busy. Work consumed everything. It's easy to let the things you enjoy slip away, one missed opportunity at a time."
"Until you wake up one day and realize you've forgotten what makes you happy?"
"Something like that." He met my eyes. "What about you? What makes you happy, Piper Summers?"
"This," I said without thinking. "Creating moments where people connect, where they feel part of something larger than themselves." I gestured toward the rink where families laughed and couples held hands. "Seeing people make memories."
"You're good at it."
"It's easier than what you do. You save lives. I just organize parties."
"Don't diminish it." His voice held surprising intensity. "What you do matters. Connection matters."
Before I could respond, a flash of burgundy caught my eye—a tall, elegant woman standing at the edge of the rink, watching us with undisguised interest. The same woman I'd glimpsed through the restaurant window last night.
"Rhett," I said quietly, "do you know that woman in the burgundy coat? By the welcome table?"
He turned, following my gaze, and froze mid-stride. His hand tightened almost painfully around mine.
"Adrienne," he said, the name sounding like gravel in his throat.
"Your ex-wife?" I whispered, suddenly understanding why she'd been watching us the night before.
"Yes." His jaw clenched. "What is she doing here?"
"Does she live nearby?"
"Boston. She hasn't been to Starlight Bay in years."
The woman—Adrienne—noticed us looking and lifted her hand in a small, deliberate wave. She was striking—tall and slender with chestnut hair styled in a sleek low chignon. Everything about her screamed expensive taste, from her tailored coat to her leather boots.
"You should probably go say hello," I suggested, though the thought made my stomach knot.
Rhett's expression darkened. "I don't have to."
"She clearly came to find you. Better to address it directly than have her lurking around all day."
He sighed, knowing I was right. "Stay beside me?"
"Of course."
We skated toward the rink exit, Rhett's steadying hand never leaving mine. As we stepped off the ice, Adrienne approached with the confident stride of someone accustomed to commanding attention.
"Rhett," she said, her voice carrying the crisp precision of someone in a position of authority. "What a surprise."
"Is it?" Rhett's tone was clipped. "Considering you're two hours from Boston in a town you've claimed to hate."
"The hospital gala," she replied smoothly. "NeuraTech is a major sponsor this year. As VP of Marketing, my attendance was required." Her gaze shifted to me, assessing and dismissive in the span of seconds. "Aren't you going to introduce your... little friend?"
"Adrienne, this is Piper Summers. Piper, my ex-wife, Adrienne Whitney."
I extended my hand, forcing a smile. "Nice to meet you."
Her handshake was brief, her fingers barely touching mine. "Charmed, I'm sure." She turned back to Rhett.
"Rhett's been kind enough to help with the Alzheimer's Foundation events I'm coordinating,” I blurted out before I could stop myself.
"How... charitable." Her lips curved into a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Rhett always did have a soft spot for lost causes."
Rhett stiffened beside me. "Piper's campaign has already raised thousands for Alzheimer's research."
"Of course." She waved a dismissive hand. "I didn't mean to imply otherwise. It's just—" she paused, her gaze traveling from Rhett to me and back, "—interesting to see your midlife crisis taking such a predictable turn."
"Excuse me?" Rhett's voice dropped dangerously.