The Baker and the Billionaire

by Lisa Oliver

The holidays have a way of bringing people together in unexpected ways. 

This story is part of The Manuscript Editor’s Holiday Romance Contest, where writers are challenged to explore romantic connections through a seasonal lens. Each entry brings its own interpretation of what a holiday romance can be.

Take your time reading. Let the story unfold. And if it resonates with you, don’t forget to show your support.

Note: This story has not yet been proofread.

Chapter 1

Cole Vanderbilt did not believe in Christmas miracles. Why would he? He had an empire to maintain and a billion-dollar family name that tolerated nothing less than perfection. He believed in numbers, contracts, and schedules color-coded by quarter. The Holiday Heritage Project, unfortunately, believed in heartwarming stories and televised collaborations.

Which was why there was a British baker in his private test kitchen.

The elevator doors opened on the top floor of Vanderbilt Tower. Cole looked up from his tablet as Lindsay Hilton stepped out, hugging a canvas tote. Snow glittered in her auburn hair. She wore jeans, ankle boots, and a navy coat that had clearly seen real weather. Her cheeks were pink from the cold. Her eyes went straight to the rows of steel counters and ovens and then to him.

“Mr. Vanderbilt,” she said, voice warm and precise. “You look exactly like your photos. Tall, rich, and mildly allergic to fun.” She walked toward him without shame about her remark.

“You’re one minute early,” he answered. He refused to smile. “Time is tight. The gala is in forty-eight hours. The Heritage cameras arrive at six. We need a final recipe today.”

Cole didn’t intimidate Lindsay. His title, his wealth, his razor-sharp stare—none of it rattled her. She had stood her ground against tougher critics than a billionaire with a superiority complex.

“Relax. I want this to be perfect just as much as you do.” She opened the tote and pulled out a worn, flour-dusted notebook. Her teasing expression softened as her fingers brushed the cover.

“So this is my gran’s recipe,” she said. “Hilton Orange-Clove Shortbread. Three generations, one biscuit. If we ran out at Christmas, she said the year was cursed.”

Cole reached into his suit jacket. For a second his hand paused. Then he set a faded index card on the counter. The paper was thin and soft, the ink looping, a grease stain in one corner.

“Vanderbilt Bourbon Pecan Pie,” he said. “My grandmother’s.”

He cleared his throat. “Rules are simple. We each bring one family recipe. Together we make a new dessert. It’s auctioned at the gala. The money funds scholarships for first-generation college students.”

“Two grandmothers, one tray,” she said. “No pressure.”

“A lot of pressure,” he replied. “We have forty-eight hours and three media slots. We need something that tastes like both of them and doesn’t embarrass the foundation.”

She rolled her shoulders like a boxer before a fight. “Ground rules?”

“We each get one nonnegotiable element,” he said. “Mine is the bourbon glaze.”

“Mine is the orange and clove sugar on top,” she said promptly. “Everything else is negotiable, but that stays.”

“Agreed.” He picked up an apron. “Bars are practical. Shortbread base, pecan layer, caramel on top.”

“As long as the base is proper shortbread and not some crumbly panic,” she said, tying on the spare apron. “And the top must crackle with sugar. And it must make people think of home even if they never had one.”

He hesitated. “That last requirement isn’t in the brief.”

She shrugged. “It’s in mine.”

And so they began.

He measured flour and sugar with exact precision. She rubbed butter into flour with quick fingers, talking about texture and how overworking the dough killed the crumb. He suggested a food processor. She looked horrified.

“You can’t put my gran into a machine,” she said. “Shortbread needs hands. Cold ones.”

She pressed the dough into the pan with efficient motions. “Now your pecans.”

He toasted them until the kitchen smelled warm and nutty. She tasted one, nodded, and began the caramel.

“Don’t stir yet,” she said as the sugar melted. “Let it go darker.”

“It will crystallize,” he warned.

“It won’t if you trust me.”

Trusting people was not his habit, but he stepped back. The sugar turned from clear to gold to deep amber.

She added butter and cream. The scent of bourbon and orange hit him in the chest.

“You’re impossible,” she said, but she was smiling.

They poured the caramel over the shortbread and pecans. She sprinkled orange-scented clove sugar on top until it glittered.

“Now we suffer,” she said. “It has to set.”

They stood side by side, arms folded, watching the tray cool. Snow slid down the windows behind them. The kitchen hummed quietly.

“So,” she said at last, “tell me about her. Your grandmother.”

He kept his gaze on the pan. “She ran the farm kitchen. Small house, too many people, not enough money. She believed in feeding anyone who knocked on the door even when the accounts said we couldn’t.”

“You grew up on a farm?”

“Until high school,” he said. “Debt piled up. We sold it, and I left. I made things bigger. She died before the first scholarship check went out.”

Lindsay’s voice softened. “I’m sorry.”

He shrugged, but his throat felt tight. “The sale funded my first investments. The investments built the foundation. It’s efficient.”

“Efficient,” she repeated. “But do you miss the kitchen?”

He almost said no. The word wouldn’t come.

“We’re not here for therapy,” he said lightly.

“We’re here for truth in sugar,” she replied. “Consider it part of the recipe.”

The caramel set. They cut bars, and each took one.

Butter, heat, orange, bourbon, nuts. For a moment, he was ten years old again, standing at a wooden table with a woman who smelled like vanilla and wood smoke. Then the new flavors pulled him back to the present.

He swallowed.

“Well?” she asked.

“It works,” he said. “Better than I expected.”

Relief loosened her shoulders. “Good. I was ready to argue.”

“You were always ready to argue.”

She grinned. “True. But this is a good start. We’ll need one more round to adjust the balance before the press.”

“I’ll schedule it,” he said.

“Of course you will,” she murmured.

As he watched her take another bite, eyes closed, Cole realized that the problem with this project was not the time pressure or the cameras or the donors.

The problem was that he was starting to look forward to spending more time in this kitchen with her.

Chapter 2

Lindsay woke to gray light and the steady hiss of central heating. For one confused second, she thought she was back in London above the bakery. Then she saw the unfamiliar ceiling and remembered, Oh shoot, I’m in New York with the billionaire and the caramel.

Her phone buzzed on the bedside table. It was a message from Cole.

Test kitchen, 8 a.m. Final adjustments before press tasting.

– C

She stared at the message. No greeting, no emoji, no wasted words. Of course.

Her mouth still curved.

Lindsay: Good morning. I’ll be there.

Cole: Good. Donors are already asking about “those bars.”

An hour later, she stepped into the kitchen. Snow still drifted past the windows, but the room felt warmer. A faint smear of flour marked the edge of the island where someone had leaned.

Cole stood at the counter in a dark sweater and rolled-up sleeves, apron already on, studying a tablet. He looked up when the door closed.

“Morning,” she said. “You look alarmingly domestic.” Lindsay read. “‘I would like to be buried with these.’ Dramatic. ‘More orange.’ ‘More bourbon.’ ‘Please name a scholarship after me if I fund an entire batch.’”

He shook his head. “We are not naming anything the Baroness of Caramel.”

“Coward,” she said. “Still, it means we’re close. Tiny bit more zest, pinch more salt, same amount of bourbon. Agreed?”

He hesitated for effect. “Fine. But if the bourbon disappears, we riot because I’m competitive like that.”

They worked. The second batch came together faster, their movements synchronized now. She zested oranges while he toasted pecans. They reached for the same jar of salt and their fingers brushed. A quick, sharp spark shot up her arm.

“Static,” she told herself. “Not static,” another part of her whispered.

“Do you actually like Christmas?” she asked while the sugar melted. “Or is it just another quarter to you?”

“I like what it does for donations,” he said. “Year-end giving spikes, tax incentives, clear metrics.”

“That’s not liking Christmas,” she said. “That’s liking spreadsheets with snow.”

He stirred. “When my grandmother died, my parents moved the holiday to hotels. Impeccable food, no dishes, no memories. It was…quiet.”

“You say that like it’s safe,” she said.

“Quiet is safe,” he answered.

“Sometimes,” she said. “Sometimes it’s just lonely.”

He didn’t respond.

Lindsay turned back to the pan. “In our house, Christmas was chaos. People everywhere. My parents, brothers, cousins, neighbors. My gran yelling at everyone to stop opening the oven and let the biscuits bake. Noise, mess, burnt edges sometimes. I miss that every year.”

“That sounds exhausting,” he said.

“It was,” she replied. “I loved it.”

They poured, sugared, waited.

“Cole, why did you agree to this specifically?” she asked. “Not the press answer.”

He thought for a moment. “Because the board was right,” he said slowly. “I spend a lot of time writing checks from far away. This felt…closer. Messier.”

“And you trusted me with your grandmother’s card,” she said. “That’s not nothing.”

He watched the caramel settle. “Don’t make a big deal out of it, Lindsay.”

“It is a big deal,” she said. “People don’t give away recipes lightly.”

“You didn’t give it away,” he pointed out. “You brought it here.”

She smiled. “Maybe I’m messier than I look.”

He gave her a slantwise glance. “Definitely.”

They tasted the new batch. The orange came through brighter, the salt sharpened everything. The bourbon lingered just long enough.

“This is it,” Lindsay said. “They’ll stop filming and start fighting over slices.”

“Then it’s ready,” he agreed. “Press at six. Gala tomorrow. After that, you go home. It’s a fact,” Cole added. “Flights, schedules, obligations.”

“Do you ever do anything that isn’t planned?” she asked.

He looked at her for a long moment. “I’m considering it,” he said quietly.

The press tasting turned the dessert into a story. Cameras zoomed in on sugar crystals. A reporter from a lifestyle network made happy noises on live stream. Cole spoke about scholarships with more feeling than he had in any previous interview. When a journalist asked what surprised him most about the project, he said, “How much I remembered.”

The second ended. Questions continued. Trays were emptied.

Back at her hotel that night, she stood in front of the mirror in an emerald dress, hair pinned up, mascara applied, and tried to talk sense into herself.

“He is rich, bossy, and pathologically efficient,” she told her reflection. “He also cares more than he admits and looks at you like you are a problem he wants to keep.”

The reflection looked unconvinced.

She sighed. “Fine. Gala first. Feelings later.”

Chapter 3

The Vanderbilt Foundation’s ballroom looked like a snow globe in mid-shake. Lights glowed from the chandeliers, garlands hung along the balcony, and a huge tree glittered with tiny laminated recipe cards sent in by donors. Outside, snow drifted down past tall windows, and in the inside, everything smelled faintly of pine and sugar.

On a central table under a soft spotlight sat three long trays of their dessert. “Heritage Harmony Bars,” the sign read. “A collaboration between Cole Vanderbilt and Lindsay Hilton.”

Lindsay stood offstage, heels pinching, fingers twisted around a program. Her stomach rattled like a mixing bowl.

Cole appeared at her side in a black tuxedo and perfectly knotted bow tie. He looked expensive and composed and, up close, a little strained around the eyes.

“You all right?” she asked.

“I’d rather face a shareholder revolt,” he said. “Fewer sequins.”

She smiled. “You’ll be fine. Tell the truth, pretend the cameras aren’t there, and don’t fall off the stage.”

“I’ll do my best,” he said. “Thank you for doing this.”

Harper swept up in a red jumpsuit and headset. “Okay, you two, the emcee will introduce the project, then call you up. Talk about grandmothers, keep it short, no f-bombs. Also, if you kiss, please at least wait until after the auction.”

Lindsay choked. “We are not—”

Harper winked and vanished.

The emcee’s voice boomed over the speakers, explaining the Heritage Project, the idea of using recipes as bridges, the scholarship fund. Then they were welcomed.

“Please welcome Cole Vanderbilt and Lindsay Hilton!”

Applause rolled through the room. Cole offered Lindsay his arm. She took it and tried not to trip.

“Ms. Hilton,” the emcee said, “tell us about these bars.”

Lindsay took the microphone. Her hands trembled once, then steadied.

“My gran believed shortbread could fix almost anything,” she said. “Bad marks, big fights, broken hearts. She didn’t have much, but she could always find butter, flour, sugar, and time. Her orange-clove biscuit meant our Christmas had officially begun. When Mr. Vanderbilt’s team sent me his grandmother’s pecan pie card, I saw the same kind of love written in different ink. We wanted to put them on the same plate and use that to open doors for students who need them.”

Her throat tightened, but she forced a smile. “When you bid tonight, you’re helping turn two cramped kitchens into classrooms. Thank you!”

Applause. She handed the microphone to Cole.

“I grew up on a failing farm,” he said. “We measured debt in seasons. My grandmother measured hope in pies. She believed if you fed people, they might remember they weren’t alone. We lost the land, and I left. For a long time, Christmas meant hotel buffets and good suits and pretending the smell of pecans didn’t hurt.” He glanced at the trays. “This project made me remember more than I expected. It also made me very competitive. So please, bid high. Let’s give these recipes the biggest impact they’ve ever had.”

Strong applause followed.

The auctioneer took over. Numbers climbed up from five hundred thousand, a million, to two million. Paddles flashed. The room hummed.

“Two point three million dollars!” the auctioneer shouted finally. “Going once, twice—sold!”

The ballroom exploded.

Lindsay looked at Cole, dazed. “We just raised two point three million with butter and stubbornness.”

“And memory,” he said. “Don’t forget memory.”

The next thirty minutes blurred into photos and handshakes. Cameras flashed, and the donors thanked them. Harper shoved them gently toward a side door.

“Back hall,” she hissed. “Five minutes. You both look like you might pass out.”

The corridor behind the stage was dimmer, cooler, and lined with storage cases. The band’s music thumped through the wall, muted. Lindsay leaned against the plaster and kicked off her shoes with a small groan.

“My feet have filed for divorce,” she said.

Without comment, Cole bent and picked up the heels.

“I can carry these,” he said. “You just raised a fortune. We can afford for you to be three inches shorter.”

She laughed, suddenly lightheaded. “Is this your rebellious phase? Letting a barefoot woman near a donor event?”

He hesitated, still holding the shoes. “No. This is…something else.”

He straightened. They were closer now, almost eye level.

“Lindsay,” he said quietly.

Her heart stuttered. “Yes?”

“I had a very tidy plan,” he said. “Fly you in, do the project, raise the money, shake hands, say goodbye. It was logical. Efficient.”

“Sounds like you,” she said softly.

“I didn’t factor in you,” he admitted. “Not really. Not the way you argue about salt and talk about your family and look at my grandmother’s card like she mattered to you too.” He exhaled. “It’s fast and badly timed and you live on another continent, and I believe I would regret not saying this more than I’ll ever regret saying it, but I love yo—”

“You’re an idiot,” Lindsay interrupted before Cole could even finish his last word.

Lindsay could hear the band, Harper laughing somewhere, someone asking for more dessert. She could feel her own pulse in her fingertips.

His face shuttered. “Understood. We can forget I—”

She grabbed his lapels and kissed him.

He froze, then kissed her back with sudden, fierce relief. His hands settled at her waist. She rose on her toes. For a moment, there was no gala, no donors, no cameras. Ther was just heat and the faint taste of citrus and bourbon on his mouth.

They broke apart slowly.

“For the record,” he said, breathless, “I need a translation. Does ‘idiot’ mean what I hope it means?”

She laughed, shaking. “It means I’ve been trying not to fall for you since you told me you color-code your calendar, and I failed. Spectacularly. Yes, I love you too.”

He closed his eyes for a second, as if absorbing the words, then opened them brighter than she’d ever seen.

“Logistics,” he began automatically.

She groaned. “Of course.”

“We live in different cities,” he said. “I have a company. You have a bakery. There are time zones and press and—”

“And planes,” she interrupted again. “And video calls and holidays and recipe testing. We don’t need a full plan tonight, Cole. We just need to decide not to pretend this didn’t happen.”

He looked at her, then nodded once, as if signing a deal. “Done. New agreement. We try. We make room. We adjust.”

“And once a year,” she said, “we pick one recipe from your family and one from mine and make something new together. We feed people. We name scholarships after them. We argue about salt until we’re old.”

He smiled slowly. “You negotiate well.”

“I had a good opponent,” she said.

Harper’s voice drifted faintly down the hall. “If they’re not making out back there, I’m disappointed in both of them!”

Lindsay giggled. “We should probably go reassure your donors that you haven’t eloped with the dessert.”

“I might,” he said, threading his fingers through hers. “But I’m taking you, not the bars.”

Hand in hand, they walked back into the ballroom. A few guests noticed their joined hands and smiled in a way that said they were not surprised. Harper saw them, punched the air, and immediately pulled out her phone.

Later, when the last glasses had been cleared and only staff remained, they stood together by the big tree. Tiny recipe cards fluttered gently in the warm air. Cole held a small clear ornament containing photocopies of both grandmothers’ recipes.

“Ready?” he asked.

“Ready,” she said.

They hung it in the middle of the tree.

“Two stories,” he said.

“One future,” she answered.

Outside, the last flakes of snow drifted down. Inside, the lights glowed around them. For the first time in years, Christmas didn’t feel like a deadline to him. It felt like the start of something.

“Merry Christmas, Lindsay,” he murmured.

“Merry Christmas, Cole,” she said.

He leaned down to kiss her again, and for once he did not think about schedules or targets or efficiency at all. He thought about butter and sugar and second chances, and how sometimes, if you were willing to share what hurt, love really could rise.

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