Page 5 of Once Upon a Thanksgiving
But God, I want her. I want the curve of her mouth, the quick wit, the way her confidence slips just enough to let me see her uncertainty. I want to stand shoulder to shoulder with her, tangled in family chaos, trading secret glances and flirting under the table while the rest of the world blurs to background noise.
I clean up the kitchen, restless. Everything smells like sage and onion and possibility. I open the back door, stand on the stoopand let the night air bite at my skin. The sky is clear, a spill of stars overhead, and somewhere across town, I imagine Autumn in her room, maybe thinking of me, maybe not.
Would she be this open anywhere else? Is it just the holiday, the nostalgia, the gravity of coming home? Or is there something between us that’s bigger than timing and small-town proximity?
I go back inside and settle on the couch, scrolling through texts, rereading her last message more times than I care to admit.
Autumn:Don’t be late tomorrow. Or I’ll send Mia to fetch you.
Me:Wouldn’t dare risk it. See you at two, Autumn.
I put my phone on the coffee table, resisting the urge to send one more text. Instead, I close my eyes and let the sound of my own breathing slow. I’ve spent my whole life calculating risks. This time, I want to leap before I look.
Tomorrow, I walk into the Murphy house and let whatever this is, whatever it could be, take its shot. I want the mess, the laughter, the chaos, the girl. I want all of it.
For the first time in years, I can’t wait for Thanksgiving.
Chapter five
Autumn
Thanksgiving at the Murphy house is always a circus, but this year feels charged, as if the whole day is waiting for something big to happen. The morning starts with the scent of cinnamon rolls and coffee, a dozen voices arguing over playlist choices, and Mom barking orders like a general preparing for battle.
“Autumn, roll out those pie crusts! Mia, you’re on potatoes, don’t let Connor near the mixer! And who let the dog into the pantry?”
By nine, the kitchen is already hot and crowded. Flour dusts the countertops, the dog barks at everything, and the front door opens and closes with a steady stream of neighbors, friends, and the kind of relatives who only appear when there’s free pie. Dad’s outside basting the turkey, taking “supervisory sips” from hiscider mug, while Mia snaps Instagram stories and Connor tries to convince Mom to let him deep-fry something…anything.
I take refuge in my pies, letting my hands remember the movements: flour, sugar, chilled butter. Each roll of the pin, each careful crimp, grounds me even as my thoughts drift to the one guest I can’t stop thinking about.
Every time I remember Jack’s, “See you at two, Autumn”, my stomach flips. I keep replaying our texts from last night.
By early afternoon, the house is full. Laughter bounces off the walls. The dog’s in a turkey coma under the table, and Dad’s trying to give a toast before everyone’s even sat down. I sneak upstairs for a quick change, swapping flour-dusted clothes for a dress I’ve always loved. It’s a deep red, a little daring, a lot “not just the farm girl anymore.” A swipe of lipstick, mascara, and run the brush through my hair.
The doorbell rings. For a second, the whole house hushes. I hear my mother’s delighted greeting, the creak of the door, and then his voice, a little uncertain.
“Happy Thanksgiving,” Jack says, and when I walk out onto the landing, our eyes lock.
He’s gorgeous, in a soft blue button-down that makes his eyes look impossibly bright. He carries a bottle of wine and a sweet bouquet of flowers.
Mom hustles him into the chaos, introducing him to every Murphy and neighbor in a thirty-mile radius. He shakes hands, laughs at Dad’s terrible jokes, lets Mia interrogate him about his “intentions”, and somehow manages to charm everyone, including, I’m pretty sure, the dog.
We find each other in the kitchen, hands brushing as we pass plates, our banter threaded through with heat.
“Pie server?” he asks, his breath warm near my ear.
“In the top drawer,” I reply, voice shaky, but when our fingers touch, neither of us lets go right away.
“Your mom told me you make the best pie in three counties,” he says, thumb lingering against my palm.
I arch an eyebrow. “Only three?”
He grins. “I’ll have to confirm for myself.”
Each touch, each glance, is charged. I feel him pressed to my side as we squeeze past each other in the crowded kitchen, the rough scrape of his hand over my waist as he steadies me with a low, “Careful.”
At dinner, we sit side by side. Our knees touch under the table and when his fingers graze my thigh, and neither of us pretends it’s an accident.
When dessert arrives, Jack takes a bite of my pie and meets my gaze, eyes dark and intent. “Best I’ve ever tasted,” he says.
