Chapter 3
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 taunting him 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.”
He salutes. “Yes, ma’am. Happy to be bossed around.”
He hooks a garland on a nail above the barn door, muscles flexing under his coat. “Well, if I have you as my tour guide, I think I’ll survive.”
I almost drop the hammer. “Smooth, Jack. Very smooth.”
We finish hanging the garland, our hands brushing more than once, neither of us pretending not to notice. He teases me about my “serious business face,” I challenge him to a tree-carrying contest, and he lets me win, just barely.
By noon, the farm is humming and my cheeks hurt from smiling. As Jack waves goodbye, promising to return bright and early on Thanksgiving, Mom swoops in, pinching my arm.
“That one’s a keeper,” she whispers.
My heart thumps. I try to play it cool, but hope sneaks into my voice as I say, “Don’t worry, Mom. I think he’ll be back.”
As Jack disappears down the lane, I find myself counting the hours until Thursday. Maybe this Thanksgiving really will be something to remember.