Page 11 of Holidate Scramble
"That's me," she said, pointing to a Victorian converted to apartments. "Third floor."
I pulled to the curb. Neither of us moved.
"Thanks for the ride," she said softly. "And for everything today. I know you've got a lot going on with your mom."
"It's fine," I said, though it wasn't. Not because of the fake dating situation, but because I was having thoughts I shouldn't be having. She was too young, too bright, too everything I didn'tneed right now. And yet...I found myself craving more of her in a way that made me wonder what the hell was wrong with me.
"I should go," she said, reaching for the door handle.
"Text me when you get upstairs. So I know you made it safely."
She smiled. "I will."
After she disappeared inside, I sat there for a solid minute, gripping the steering wheel. This was supposed to be simple. A business deal. Mutual benefit. Instead, I was sitting outside her building wondering what her apartment looked like, whether she had roommates, what she did on quiet evenings.
My phone buzzed.
Made it upstairs safely. Thanks again for today. You're not nearly as grumpy as you pretend to be.
I typed back:You're not as scattered as you pretend either.
Don't tell anyone. I have a reputation to maintain.
Your secret's safe.
I drove home, her laugh still echoing in my head. My rented cottage felt especially sterile when I walked in—beige walls, bland rental furniture, nothing personal anywhere. The kind of generic coastal décor designed to offend no one and appeal to summer tourists. Piper would probably attack it with bright throw pillows, scatter photographs everywhere, fill it with plants until it felt like somewhere people actually lived instead of just stayed.
I poured myself a scotch and stood at the window, looking out at the harbor. Tuesday's ornament workshop was in three days. Three days to get my head straight.
My phone sat on the counter, her text still on the screen. I read it again, then set the phone aside.
This was definitely becoming a problem.
And I had no one to blame but myself.
Chapter Three
Piper
The Starlight Bay Public Library's community room had been transformed into a cozy workshop space. Someone had arranged a display of holiday picture books on the windowsills, and a small decorated tree twinkled in the corner. The librarians had gone all out with decorations—snow globes on the checkout desk, a collection of nutcrackers marching across the mantle, even a menorah and kinara displayed respectfully near the world cultures section. Only about a dozen people had signed up for the Thursday afternoon ornament crafting session—perfect for maintaining our couple charade without having to cater to a huge crowd.
I'd arrived early to help set up, spreading supplies across the round tables while Walt Mackenzie prepared his demonstration area. Walt had been teaching art at the high school for thirty years before retiring, and now he ran workshops with the easy-going way of someone who'd survived three decades of teenagers wielding paintbrushes. His paint-stained flannel and Red Soxcap were as much a December fixture in Starlight Bay as the town tree lighting.
"Piper, your doctor friend coming today?" Walt asked, sorting paint bottles by color into a pretty rainbow gradient.
