Page 2 of Once Upon a Thanksgiving
Jack’s eyes flicker to my mouth. I feel the tension in the space between us, thick enough to bottle and label as a seasonal special. I should step back, but I don’t want to.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” he says, a little husky. “Any chance I could get a slice of this famous pie?”
I arch a brow. “Depends. Do you have plans for Thanksgiving?”
“Um, just what I can manage to make myself.”
Are you brave enough to come to dinner with a house full of Murphys?”
He laughs, surprised, delighted. “Is that a challenge?”
“Maybe. You up for it?”
His gaze is unwavering. “I’m up for anything, Autumn.”
The world around us falls away. The background chatter fades along with the clatter of carts and the tinny holiday music. It’s just his eyes, my racing heart, and the ridiculous fact that I’m wishing, for the first time in a long time, that I could keep talking to a stranger forever.
He hands me the heavy cream, fingertips brushing mine again, no accident this time. “See you around, Autumn. Don’t be a stranger.”
“Dinner is at two on Thursday,” I pause. “If you want to come.”
He nods and walks away, glancing over his shoulder. Our eyes lock again, the connection still buzzing between us. It’s stupid, but I have to force myself to follow.
Back at the farm, with groceries on my hip and a stupid smile I can’t quite hide, I let myself hope, for just a minute, that coming home this year might be about more than family and tradition. It might be the start of something new, wild, and unexpected.
And it might have just started in Aisle Six, with a smile and a simple, electrifying touch.
Chapter two
Jack
It’s been years since a stranger’s touch got under my skin. Years since a woman’s laugh cut through the background noise of my mind and made me want to chase after it just to hear it again. But as I push through the doors of the Harvest Hollow Market and step out into the evening chill, all I can think about is the way Autumn Murphy said my name.
The sun is low, painting the town in long shadows and cold gold. There’s frost on the corners of the parking lot, a group of kids bundled up in puffy coats racing for the donut shop on the corner, their breath clouds in the air. The light from the market spills onto the sidewalk behind me, and for a moment I stand there, letting the cold bite my cheeks, not quite ready to let the spell break.
I cross to my truck, still thinking about Autumn. She looked like a city girl with the way she carried herself, that edge in her voice, the expensive-looking boots already dusted with farm dirt, but there was nothing guarded about her smile.
I slide the groceries into the back seat, not caring if the bread gets smushed. My hands move on autopilot, but my head is somewhere else. I can’t remember the last time I felt this curious about someone, hungry to know what makes them laugh, what keeps them up at night, what they look like first thing in the morning.
People warned me when I moved here that small towns have long memories. That outsiders don’t always get invited in. But it’s only been a month and already I know where the best coffee is, where to find gas after midnight, which bar to avoid if you don’t want to get dragged into a political debate. I know the court clerk’s birthday and the librarian’s son’s football stats.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, dragging me out of my thoughts. It’s a reminder for a conference call I have no intention of joining. I silence it, then thumb through my contacts. I didn’t ask for her number. Should I have? Would it have been too forward, too fast?
I climb into the truck and drive the long way home, letting the scenery blur by. Harvest Hollow is a town that slows you down whether you like it or not. The Christmas lights are already tangled in the bushes outside the library. The ice cream shop on Main Street is closed for the season, with a sign taped to the door that reads “See you in spring!”
I count four wreaths on the hardware store, two on the fire station, and at least a dozen on houses as I wind through the neighborhoods.
My house is a blue Craftsman a block off the square, with floors that creak and radiators that barely work, but I love the place already. There’s a porch swing out front and a cluster ofpumpkins left over from Halloween. I can’t wait to get started on fixing it up in the spring.
I carry the groceries inside, stepping over a stack of boxes I still haven’t unpacked, and dump everything on the counter.
It’s quiet, just the tick of the kitchen clock and the whisper of wind at the windows. I light a fire in the small living room fireplace, watching the kindling catch, and lean against the doorframe, lost in thought.
There’s a photo of my old college friends on the mantle, everyone grinning, holding drinks at a rooftop bar. I used to think that was the life I wanted. Partner at the best law firm in the city, a calendar full of parties and dinners, along with all the noise I could handle. The truth is, the more successful I got, the less I recognized myself. I was tired of being needed but never known. Harvest Hollow was supposed to be a reset button. I didn’t expect to want anything more than peace and quiet.
And now? All I want is another five minutes with Autumn Murphy.
I try to read an old mystery novel borrowed from the library, the kind with yellowed pages and someone else’s notes in the margins, but I can’t get past the first paragraph. Her voice, her laugh, the way she challenged me in the market keep looping through my head.
