Red, White, and You (Short & Sweet Holiday Treats #2)

1. Chapter 1

Gigi

I'm elbow-deep in red, white, and blue buttercream when the bell over the bakery door jingles.

"Be right with you!" I call, piping a swirl onto a star-shaped cupcake with what I can only describe as patriotic fury. My piping bag is leaking. My "Summer Fun" playlist shuffled to a Christmas song for some reason. And my apron looks like a glitter cannon exploded on it.

I've been up since four, stress-baking my way through a family crisis. Well, potential family crisis. My mother texted yesterday with her usual warm, maternal touch: "Georgina, it's time to discuss your future."

It's time. Like I'm a ticking bomb of unfulfilled potential instead of a successful small business owner who just happens to deal in buttercream.

But when your parents are the owners of Hart Health, a multi-million-dollar health and fitness empire, I guess it should come as no surprise that they disapprove of their only child sinfully-delicious desserts for a living. Still hurts, though.

I finish piping the tray of cupcakes—each one a tiny, defiant middle finger to the Hart Health empire.

Each swirl of frosting is an act of rebellion.

Patriotic rebellion. Red for rage. White for their delusional ideals.

Blue for my bakery's business account, which is somehow both thriving and still not enough for them.

I turn around, ready to dazzle whatever early bird customer wandered in with a smile and a sparkler-shaped cookie sample.

But the man standing in front of my counter isn't a local looking for coffee and a sugar rush.

He’s stupid tall—like duck-through-doorways tall—with shoulders built for carrying the weight of his own ego, and his eyes are an intense shade of brown that makes otherwise reasonable people say embarrassing things. And there’s a dimple in his cheek when he smiles. Because of course there is.

And he's wearing a Hart Health T-shirt like it's a badge of honor.

My smile flatlines faster than a deflated soufflé.

"Good morning," he says, flashing a grin that's way too confident for someone who just walked into enemy territory. That voice—low and smooth, with just enough gravel to make my stomach do an unwelcome flip.

I cannot believe my mother would stoop so low.

"Phoenix Wood, in the flesh," I say, narrowing my eyes. "You must be lost."

His grin deepens. "You know who I am?"

"Football is hard to avoid when your best friend is married to Joe Matthews." I cross my arms. "I watched you catch his hail Mary pass in the Super Bowl just a few months ago. Pretty sure half the country did."

And I may have screamed myself hoarse when he made that incredible diving catch in the end zone to win the game. Not that I'm admitting that out loud.

"Plus, you're all over my parents' marketing materials now," I add. "Guess retiring at the top of your game leaves time for new ventures."

He chuckles. "Joe's the best quarterback I ever had the honor of playing with. And Ella is perfect for him."

"So you're in town visiting them," I say, "and decided to make a detour to find the Black Sheep of the Hart family?" I eye his T-shirt like it might spontaneously combust.

He glances down at the logo on his shirt. "Would you believe it's a coincidence that I walked into your shop?"

"No," I say flatly. "So what's the official reason for this visit? Delivering a protein bar bouquet from my mother with a note that says I should go on a diet?"

His eyebrows shoot up. "A protein bar bouquet? Is that a real thing?"

"That's what she gave me for my 30th birthday."

I still remember the exact wording of the note in the birthday card: Hello, 30! It's harder to lose weight as you age, so get healthy now. Love, Mom & Dad.

"Actually," he says, and I can see him choosing his words carefully, "when I mentioned I'd be visiting Joe and Ella, your parents asked if I'd deliver a message while I'm here."

I roll my eyes. "Let me guess what they want. I should drink a green smoothie, do some trust falls, and rebrand my bakery into a wellness café called 'Gigi's Guilt-Free Goodies'?"

"Honestly?" Phoenix tilts his head, studying me like I'm a particularly interesting puzzle. "They just want to talk about your future with the company."

"Hard pass."

"You haven't even heard what they want to say."

"I don't need to. I've been hearing what they want to say my entire life." I grab my piping bag and start aggressively decorating red velvet cupcakes, hoping he'll take the hint. "Thanks for stopping by. The highway's that way."

But Phoenix doesn't leave. Instead, he leans against my counter, and I can feel his eyes on me as I pipe frosting roses with perhaps more force than necessary.

"You know," he says after a moment, "you're not what I expected."

I glance over my shoulder. "Good. Expectations are the root of all disappointment."

"Is that embroidered on a pillow somewhere around here?"

"Check the merch shelf. Right next to my 'Don't Kale My Vibe' tea towels."

He actually looks toward the small display of bakery-branded items I keep near the register, and his laugh is genuine this time. Surprised. Like he wasn't expecting me to be funny.

Which is oddly insulting and flattering at the same time.

"Your parents mentioned you had a unique sense of humor," he says.

"That's parent-speak for 'refuses to fall in line and promote our agenda.'" I set down my piping bag and face him fully. "Look, Phoenix, I'm sure you're a very nice person. I'm sure you drink your protein shakes and do your squats and inspire millions of people to buy overpriced supplements."

He flashes that grin again. "But?"

"But I'm not interested in whatever wellness intervention my parents have planned.

I like my life. I like my bakery. I like making things that taste good instead of things that are supposed to be good for you.

" I gesture around the shop, taking in the cheerful yellow walls, the mismatched vintage chairs, the display case full of sinful treats.

"This makes people happy. Real, immediate, sugar-induced happiness.

Despite what my parents think, that's a good thing. "

Phoenix follows my gaze, and for a second, his expression softens. "It's a nice place," he says, and there's something genuine in his voice that catches me off guard.

But before I can analyze it, he straightens up. "Anyway, message delivered. My job is done." He pauses. "It was a pleasure to meet you, Gigi."

I grab the nearest cupcake—chocolate cake piled high with cookies & cream frosting—and hold it out. "For your trouble."

He takes the cupcake, eyebrow raised. "This looks dangerously indulgent."

“It is,” I agree.

He stares at it like it might explode in his hands. "It's been a long time since I let myself have something like this."

"Your handlers watching?" I ask.

"Something like that," he mutters.

Phoenix heads for the door, then pauses with his hand on the handle. "See you around," he says, looking back over his shoulder with that infuriating grin.

The door jingles as he leaves, and I watch through the window as he walks down Main Street, cupcake in hand. He moves with an easy confidence that's annoyingly attractive—athletic but not showy.

Ugh. The last thing I need is to find my parents' golden boy appealing.

I have a festival to prep for, a business to run, and exactly zero time to think about the way his eyes crinkled when he laughed.