Page 3 of Holidate Scramble
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 coordinatingeverything—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.
"What exactly would this entail?" he asked.
"You show up Christmas Eve morning for judging. The event takes about two hours. I handle all logistics, you just taste the samples and provide feedback." I pulled up the website for Cape Cod Regional on my phone. "The hospital gala is that evening at seven. I'll be your plus-one. We attend together, make small talk, show your colleagues you're a well-rounded human, then go our separate ways."
"Why do I feel like there's a catch?"
"No catch. Just..." I hesitated. "There's a tree lighting ceremony tonight in the town square. First event of the campaign. If you could attend with me, it would be good practice. Help us get used to being around each other before more high-pressure situations."
"Fake couple." He said it like the words tasted bitter. "So we're supposed to pretend we're dating?"
"We're supposed to act like two people who enjoy each other's company and support community causes together. Ifpeople make assumptions, we don't correct them." I shrugged. "It's not complicated."
He studied me with an intensity that made my skin warm. His gaze traveled from my face down to my hands and back up, assessing.
"You're very young," he finally said.
"I'm twenty-nine. Plenty old enough to attend a hospital gala."
"I'm forty-seven."
"Eighteen years isn't that big a gap." I leaned forward. "Look, we both need something from each other. We're both adults. Unless you have a better solution?"
Silence stretched between us. His fingers drummed against his mug—long, capable fingers that probably moved with confidence in an operating room.
"I hate office politics," he finally said. "I became a surgeon to save lives, not attend parties.”
"I hate disappointing people," I admitted. "This campaign could make a real difference for Alzheimer's research—for people like your mother."
Our eyes met across the table, and something shifted between us—a recognition that we both understood pressure, even if from different directions.
"I bought a condo here six months ago," he said quietly. "Moved to Starlight Bay to be closer to my mom. I take her to breakfast twice a week and watch her forget a little more each time." He shook his head. "If supporting this work helps fund better treatments, it's worth doing."
"Then help me make these events successful. The more attention we draw, the more money we raise."
He exhaled slowly. "Fine. I'll judge your cookie contest. And you'll be my date on Christmas Eve."
Relief flooded through me. "Thank you. Seriously."
"What time is this tree lighting?"
