Page 1 of Once Upon a Thanksgiving
Chapter one
Autumn
There’s a nervous flutter in my chest as the Murphy Pines sign finally comes into view with chipped paint, a pinecone hanging by a thread, and a red ribbon from last year still clinging for dear life.
I roll down my window, letting that sharp November air fill my lungs and clear out the noise of three years in New York.
The old farmhouse looms ahead, wrapped in so many strings of colored lights it could double as an airport runway. Dad’s truck is parked at an angle near the barn, hazard lights blinking. There’s even an inflatable turkey perched on the lawn, one wing half-deflated, the other flapping in the wind.
For a second, I sit in the driveway, watching my breath fog up the windshield, and let myself feel everything: the relief, the fear,the tiny, hopeful ache in my chest that maybe coming back was the right decision after all.
I pop the trunk and step out, boots crunching on frost-bitten gravel. The cold wakes me up, as do the shouts from inside the house. Before I make it three steps, the door flies open and Mom rushes out, apron fluttering, hair escaping its bun in defiant, wild silver curls.
“Autumn! Oh, honey, you’re here!” She’s in my arms before I can answer, squeezing the air from my lungs, her embrace a heady mix of vanilla and cinnamon. She holds me back for a look, clucks her tongue at my tired eyes, then brushes a stray leaf from my collar. “You look pale. Are you eating? Have you slept?”
I laugh because it’s what she wants. “Mom, I’m fine. Just hungry and tired.”
She waves me in with a flick of her wrist, already shouting for Mia and Connor. “Get in here and warm up! Your father’s threatening to fix the snowblower himself, and we both know how that ends.”
Inside, the kitchen is a circus. There’s flour on every surface, music competing with the noise of a football game, the unmistakable scent of burnt toast. Mia is fighting with the coffee machine, her phone tucked under her chin. Connor tries to steal a taste of the pie filling, then darts away when Mom threatens him with the wooden spoon. Dad, in his “Grill Sergeant” apron, offers a bear hug and a wink.
I’m pulled in, my suitcase forgotten by the door as I’m handed a task list and put on pie duty like I never left. For a little while, I lose myself in the easy rhythm. I roll dough, dice apples, and share the sort of sarcastic banter only siblings can get away with. But under the surface, there’s a tremor of uncertainty, a sense that nothing here has paused for me. I’m home, but I have no idea if I belong.
By three o’clock, I’m out of flour, and Mom hands me a grocery list with a sigh. “No store-brand cinnamon, Autumn. The real stuff.”
“On it,” I promise, grabbing my coat and keys, desperate for a minute alone.
The Harvest Hollow Market is chaos, every aisle packed with people on last-minute missions. I zigzag between carts, muttering to myself, checking off items one by one. I’m reaching for the last container of heavy cream when someone else’s hand closes over it at the same time.
“Sorry,” a deep, smooth voice says, and my head snaps up.
He’s tall, really tall, wearing a slate-gray coat and jeans, with a face that could make a nun forget her vows. His hair is dark, a little mussed, like he’s just run a hand through it. His jaw is strong, and his eyes—oh, his eyes—are blue, rimmed with gold and sharp with interest.
For a second, neither of us lets go of the cream.
I manage a crooked smile. “Didn’t realize grocery shopping was a contact sport.”
He laughs, the sound curling through me like good bourbon. “You haven’t seen me fight for the last can of pumpkin puree.”
I let him have the cream, our fingers brushing for a fleeting, electric second. My heart does a little somersault.
“New in town?” I ask, trying to sound casual.
“Is it that obvious?” He lifts a brow, then offers a hand. “Jack Wilson.”
“Autumn Murphy.” I take his hand. It’s warm, steady, and strong. I hold it a heartbeat too long.
He glances at my basket, at the flour and spices, and the bag of Granny Smiths peeking out from under a loaf of bread. “What are you making?”
I shrug, cocky for a split second. “Pie, it's my love language.”
His grin is slow and dangerously charming. “If you’re accepting new students, I’d love a lesson. My baking skills top out at ‘slice and bake’.”
“Those don’t count. Not around here.”
He edges closer, voice lower, like he’s letting me in on a secret. “So what’s the secret to surviving Thanksgiving in Harvest Hollow?”
He’s flirting, and he’s good at it. “Don’t piss off the women in the Murphy family,” I reply. “And never underestimate the power of homemade pie.”
