Page 19 of Holidate Scramble
"Debatable." I found myself standing closer to her than strictly necessary. "Surgery has clear protocols. People are far more unpredictable."
She looked up from her clipboard, her brown eyes meeting mine. "Speaking of unpredictable..." She gestured vaguely between us.
"The hand-holding?" I asked quietly.
"That wasn't—I didn't plan—" She set down her pen, flustered in a way I hadn't seen before. "It just felt right in the moment. I apologize if I overstepped."
"It did—and you didn’t."
The admission hung between us, heavy with implication. We stood facing each other in the quiet hall, Christmas lights still twinkling overhead, the wall clock ticking loudly in the silence.
"Rhett..." she began, then stopped, seeming unsure for the first time since I'd met her.
I don't know which of us moved first. Perhaps we both did, drawn together by whatever this was between us—this connection that had been building since that first conversation at The Little Red Hen. One moment we were standing apart, the next my hands were framing her face and her fingers were gripping my sweater.
The first brush of her lips against mine was tentative, questioning. The second was not. She rose onto her toes, pressing herself against me as I pulled her closer, one hand sliding to her waist, the other cradling the back of her head.
She tasted like chocolate and sugar, her eagerness melting my careful restraint. The kiss deepened, giving way to instinct as she made a soft sound against my mouth. Her fingers threaded through my hair, the height difference somehow making us fit together perfectly.
I backed her gently against the table, lifting her slightly to sit on its edge, stepping between her legs as her arms wrapped around my neck. The part of me that always planned, analyzed, and calculated had gone silent, overridden by the need to be closer to her.
Her hands slid under my sweater, warm against my naked sides, and I groaned softly, trailing kisses along her jaw to the sensitive spot below her ear. She shivered, pulling me tighter against her.
"Rhett," she whispered, her voice breaking slightly. "Wait."
It took every ounce of willpower to stop, to pull back enough to see her face. Her lips were swollen from our kisses, her pupils dilated, cheeks flushed.
"This isn't..." She took a shaky breath. "This isn't what we agreed to."
Reality crashed back, cold and unwelcome. She was right. This wasn't part of our arrangement. We had rules, boundaries, a clear endpoint.
"I know." I stepped back, creating necessary distance. "I’m sorry. That was—"
"No," she interrupted, sliding off the table and straightening her headband. "Don't apologize. I wanted it too. That's the problem."
The problem. Of course it was a problem. I was eighteen years older than her, carrying the weight of a failed marriage, adult children, a mother with progressing Alzheimer's. She was vibrant, unencumbered, with her whole life ahead of her. What could I possibly offer her beyond complications?
"We should stick to the plan," I said, my voice sounding foreign to my own ears. "Keep things... simple."
She nodded, though her eyes told a different story. "Right. Simple."
We finished cleaning in strained silence, the air between us heavy with what had happened and what we'd decided shouldn't happen again. When everything was packed and loaded into her car, we stood awkwardly in the empty parking lot.
"I'll see you at the ice skating fundraiser," she said, keys clutched tightly in her hand. "Tomorrow."
"Tomorrow," I agreed, resisting the urge to touch her again. "Goodnight, Piper."
"Goodnight, Rhett."
I watched her drive away, then sat in my car for long minutes, trying to regain equilibrium. My lips still tingled from her kisses, my body humming with thwarted desire. But it was more than physical. Something about Piper Summers had breached mydefenses, slipped past careful barriers erected after my marriage collapsed.
The drive to my rented cottage was a blur. Inside, I poured a scotch I didn't really want and stood at the window overlooking the harbor, just as I had earlier this week, wondering what the hell I’d gotten myself into. Christmas lights reflected on the dark water, boats gently rocking with the tide.
My phone buzzed with a text from Eliza, checking whether I’d be returning to Boston for New Year’s. Such a simple question, yet suddenly laden with implications. What would my daughter think of Piper? Would she see past the age difference to the woman beneath—intelligent, compassionate, determined? Or would she assume what most people would—that I was having some predictable middle-aged crisis?
I set the untouched scotch aside and texted back that I'd be there. Family obligations, professional decisions, personal desires—all colliding in ways I hadn't anticipated when I'd agreed to Piper's holiday arrangement.
The irony wasn't lost on me. I'd taken a sabbatical to simplify my life, to create space for clarity. Instead, I found myself more confused than ever, caught between the life I'd planned and whatever this new feeling was—this sensation of waking up after a long, dreamless sleep.
