Page 28 of Holidate Scramble
Tonight, in this room with this man—his heartbeat steady beneath my ear, his scent surrounding me, the evidence of our shared passion still humming through my body—I had everything I needed.
Even if I had no idea what came next.
Chapter Six
Rhett
I'D JUDGED MANY THINGSin my life—surgical residents' techniques, medical journal submissions, my children's science fair projects. But Christmas cookies? That was new territory.
Standing at the entrance of The Little Red Hen on Christmas Eve morning, I adjusted my sport coat and prepared to fulfill my end of our arrangement—an arrangement that had evolved well beyond its original parameters over the past ten days. As if summoned by my thoughts, Piper appeared at the door, her cheeks flushed with excitement or exertion, maybe both.
"You're here!" She stepped outside, glancing over her shoulder before rising on tiptoe to press a quick kiss to my lips. "Sorry. I've been dying to do that all morning."
The kiss, though brief, sent a jolt of warmth through me.
"I've been thinking about you, too," I admitted, lightly touching the sparkly clip in her pixie cut. "You look beautiful."
She did—a green dress with tiny embroidered snowflakes, a delicate strand of pearls, and a touch more makeup than usual. But it was the sparkle in her eyes, the vitality that radiated from her whole being, that truly drew me in.
"Flatterer." She straightened my tie, her fingers lingering over the fabric. "Ready to judge some cookies, Dr. Thornton?"
"As ready as a cardiothoracic surgeon with no culinary expertise can be."
"You'll do great. Just follow your taste buds and the judging rubric." She handed me a clipboard. "Structure, taste, appearance, creativity, and holiday spirit—five categories, ten points each."
"Very scientific."
She grinned. "I thought you'd appreciate that. Now come on, they're waiting for you."
The café had been transformed for the competition. Round tables had been pushed back to create an exhibition area, each contestant assigned a numbered station with their baked goods displayed on identical white plates. The center table held the judges' station—three chairs, water glasses, and notepads arranged with Piper's characteristic attention to detail.
The air hummed with excitement and smelled of vanilla, cinnamon, and freshly brewed coffee. Holiday music played softly beneath the buzz of conversation, punctuated by the occasional clink of cups against saucers and bursts of laughter.
"Rhett!" Maisie called from behind the counter, where she stood filling coffee carafes. "Perfect timing. Logan just got back with Henrietta."
As if on cue, a man I recognized as Maisie's boyfriend entered through the back door, cradling what appeared to be a large copper-colored chicken in his arms.
"The feathered diva has returned," he announced, setting the bird down gently. "And according to Doc Bailey, she's fully recovered from her cold and ready to judge some cookies."
The chicken—Henrietta, I presumed—ruffled her red feathers with an indignant head shake, then released what sounded suspiciously like a sneeze.
"Almost recovered," Logan amended with a grin.
"Wait," I said to Maisie as she approached. "You have a... chicken... inside the café?"
