Page 1 of Holidate Scramble
Chapter One
Piper
The Little Red Hen smelled like heaven—cinnamon, butter, and coffee. I pushed through the door, bells jingling overhead, and felt my shoulders drop for the first time all morning.
"There's my favorite stress case," Maisie called from behind the counter, her red hair escaping its bun in wild curls. "Let me guess—you need caffeine and carbs, in that order?"
"You know me so well." I collapsed onto a stool, dropping my overstuffed tote. "Double shot latte and whatever you're pulling out of the oven."
"Cranberry orange scones, just baked." She plated three golden pastries, their tops sparkling with coarse sugar. "You look exhausted. Still running yourself ragged with the campaign?"
"The Twelve Days of Christmas campaign is the biggest opportunity of my career." I bit into the first scone and nearly moaned. "God, Maze. These are incredible."
"Thanks. But seriously, Piper—you can't keep skipping meals." She worked the espresso machine, the familiar hiss and gurgle comforting. "Even charitable causes aren't worth making yourself sick."
"I'm fine. Just busy." I pulled out my phone, scrolling through my endless checklists. "Hey, thanks again for volunteering the Little Red Hen for the Cookie Contest and Christmas Day Brunch. Having venues locked down has been a lifesaver."
"Happy to help. It's great publicity, and it's for Virginia." Maisie's expression softened as she nodded toward a booth across the café where retired baker Virginia Thornton sat with a distinguished-looking man. "She's here this morning with someone—must be her son judging by the resemblance. Watching her decline the past few years... if this campaign raises money for Alzheimer's research, I'm all in."
My chest tightened. Virginia Thornton had run Ginny's Sweet Spot bakery for decades before closing it last year, and she'd always judged the Christmas Cookie Contest—for as long as I could remember. When I'd asked her to judge one more time, she was hesitant but finally declined, citing her health. I understood why. With her condition progressing, the pressure wouldn't be fair to her.
My phone buzzed against the counter. Caroline Bridgewater from the Alzheimer's Foundation.
"I have to take this." I slid off the stool, heading toward the quieter corner by the windows—closer to Virginia's booth than I'd intended. "Hey, Caroline!"
"Piper, we have a problem. Chef Buzz Romano just canceled."
The world tilted. "What? No. The Cookie Contest is December twenty-fourth—that's only ten days away. His agentconfirmed months ago. We've already promoted his appearance everywhere—"
"I know. I got a call from his representative this morning. Apparently he was offered a spot on some celebrity cooking competition show filming in LA—bigger exposure, national audience. Too good to pass up for a small-town cookie contest, or so we've been told." Caroline's frustration crackled through the line. "We need a replacement judge. Someone with credibility who can draw a crowd and media coverage."
Ten days before Christmas Eve. Every food personality in New England would be booked solid.
"I'll figure something out," I heard myself say, though panic clawed at my throat.
"You're amazing. I knew we made the right choice hiring you."
The call ended. I stood frozen, staring out at Main Street's holiday shoppers, their faces full of Christmas cheer while mine felt like professional disaster.
I turned to head back to the counter, and that's when I heard it.
"I don't want to show up solo to some overpriced soiree, making small talk with board members and their spouses while nursing bad champagne just to look like a team player." The deep voice came from Virginia's booth, rough with irritation.
I paused mid-step. The man across from her—broad shoulders in a charcoal sweater, dark hair silvered at the temples—had his hands wrapped around a coffee mug, his profile all sharp angles and masculine strength.
"Now, sweetheart, it won't be that bad," Virginia said gently. "The Christmas Eve hospital gala is important for your career."
"I don't care about hospital politics, Mom. I became a surgeon to save lives, not schmooze with donors."
Mom.So this definitely was Virginia's son. The one I’d heard moved back to Starlight Bay to care for her after the diagnosis.
"Still, you should go. You work too hard. You need to get out more, meet people your own age." Virginia patted his hand. "When's the last time you went on a date since the divorce?"
"I know you mean well, Mom, but I'm not discussing my love life at breakfast."
"What love life? That's my point." She sighed. "You're only forty-seven, honey. That's still young."
I should have moved away, given them privacy. But something about the tenderness in his voice when he spoke to his mother, the patience even as he clearly wanted to change the subject—it caught my attention.
