Page 3 of Once Upon a Thanksgiving
I remember the way she looked at me, steady and a little appraising. There was a spark there, more than just a polite hello, more than the usual small-town curiosity about the new guy. It was heat, and interest, and a flicker of hope so strong I almost reached for it.
Eventually, I give up on the book. I think about tomorrow. Am I really thinking about going to her family’s house for Thanksgiving?
I wonder what her family is like, if her laugh is as easy around them as it was with me, and if her mom taught her to bake pies.I think about the way her hair slipped from its tie, the flush on her cheeks when our hands touched, and the way she didn’t let go right away.
I finish my wine, restless. There’s too much space in this house tonight. I wander to the porch and sit in the swing, watching the windows glow up and down the street, people setting tables and arguing about football and burning pies in kitchens just like mine.
I close my eyes, listening to the wind, and let myself imagine what it would be like to be part of that world. To stand in the middle of the chaos and know that I belong, that someone wants me to stay, not because I can fix their legal problems or pay the tab, but because they see me, really see me.
Chapter three
Autumn
The first thing I notice when I wake up is the scent of cinnamon and coffee, mingling with cold air and a faint whiff of pine. My old bedroom looks smaller than it did last year, the pale sunlight making the wallpaper’s faded roses look even more tired. But the quilt on my bed is just as soft, and there’s something comforting about the way the world sounds here, my siblings' footsteps, water pipes clanging, the low hum of the farm coming to life outside my window.
Downstairs, it’s controlled chaos. Dad is already outside, wrestling with the log splitter. Mia’s shouting into her phone about online orders, her hair piled on her head in a messy knot. Connor’s eating cold pizza for breakfast, ignoring Mom’s lecture about nutrition. The dog is barking at a squirrel that’s tauntinghim through the kitchen window. And Mom, of course, is trying to direct it all like a conductor with a runaway orchestra.
“Autumn, honey, grab that box of ornaments and put it in the barn! Connor, leave the pizza and help your sister with the cocoa station. Mia, stop arguing with Shopify and find my good apron—no, not the one with gravy stains. And will someone let the dog out before he explodes?”
I jump in like I never left, loading ornaments, fielding questions about pie crust, and dodging Connor’s attempts to trip me on the way out the door. It’s loud, it’s messy, and it’s absolutely home.
By nine, I’m outside with a clipboard and a mug of Mom’s nuclear-strength coffee, double-checking the inventory and trying to ignore the cold. Frost glitters on the barn roof and on the rows of pines lined up like little soldiers. Dad waves from across the lot, then shouts to someone I can’t see about “holiday hustle, not holiday hassle.”
I snap a picture of the sunrise through the trees for Instagram, caption it with something cheesy about “farm magic,” and nearly trip over a stack of tree stands.
Then I hear a low, warm voice with just a hint of teasing. “Excuse me, can anyone get a tree today?”
I spin, and there he is, Jack Wilson, all broad shoulders and wicked smile, his hands shoved into the pockets of his coat. He’s somehow even more handsome in the morning light, a little stubble on his jaw, eyes bright with mischief.
He glances at my clipboard, grinning. “If this is a closed operation, I’ll settle for a cup of whatever you’re drinking. Unless you only share coffee with VIPs?”
I laugh, letting myself lean into the flirtation. “You want to join the coffee club? You’ll need to prove yourself. Can you haul a seven-foot fir, untangle three years’ worth of Christmas lights, and survive my mother’s interview questions?”
Jack moves closer, close enough that I catch a whiff of cedar and aftershave. He lowers his voice, his words meant for me alone. “If it means I get to work alongside you, I’ll brave anything. Including the lights and your mother.”
My heart thuds. “Careful, she’ll put you to work before you can say ‘pumpkin pie.’”
Right on cue, Mom pops up behind me, cheeks pink from the cold and eyes sharp with intent. She sizes up Jack in an instant. “Jack, isn’t it? Autumn mentioned she met you at the store. Did she tell you about her famous pies?”
Jack shoots me a conspiratorial look. “She did. I was just saying I’m hoping for a taste.”
“Oh, you poor man,” Mom says, laying it on thick. “You’re alone for Thanksgiving, aren’t you?”
He laughs, hands raised in mock surrender. “Guilty as charged.”
“Well, we can’t have that. You’ll join us. Two o’clock sharp. I hope you’re not afraid of chaos.”
He winks at me, like we’re sharing a secret. “Sounds perfect.”
Connor appears, lugging a tree stand that’s nearly as big as he is. “Hey, Autumn, is this the guy from the store?”
Jack grins. “That would be me.”
“Careful, Jack,” I warn, “or you’ll end up on cocoa station with Connor.”
Connor snorts. “It’s better than listening to Mia try to ‘optimize’ the cocoa recipe. Last year she added cayenne and nearly killed Grandpa.”
Jack laughs, easy and real, and I catch myself staring at the way his eyes crinkle, the relaxed way he fits into the chaos. Mom’s back again, this time with an armload of garland. “Jack, could you give Autumn a hand with the wreaths? We need them hung on the barn before noon, and I trust her not to let you nail your thumb to the wall.”
