Chapter 4
Chapter four
Jack
I’ve never been the type to agonize over the right shirt, but here I am with three collared options laid out on my bed.
Every time I look in the mirror, all I can see is the echo of Autumn’s smile, the way her lips curled around the words “smooth” and the way her laughter snagged in my chest like a hook I don’t want to remove.
I run a hand over the stubble on my jaw, debating whether to shave.
This isn’t a date. It’s Thanksgiving dinner with a family I barely know, in a town that still calls me “the new guy.” But I want to make a good impression.
I want her to notice me, to see me and want me in her world, even if it’s just for a night.
God, when did I turn into this guy? One morning with Autumn and I’m already half-feral with nerves.
In New York, my life was appointments, polished shoes, the clink of expensive glassware and the steady hum of ambition.
I realize I’ve been living on the surface for years, and this, this heady, electric want, is what I’ve been starving for.
I turn back to my kitchen, start chopping veggies for my dinner tonight.
My hands work on autopilot, but my mind is nowhere near the cutting board.
I keep seeing Autumn’s eyes, sharp and curious, catching on mine in the barn.
The flush in her cheeks when our fingers brushed, the way she teased me in front of her brother, the invitation I heard in her voice even when she was trying to play it cool.
My phone buzzes. For a split second, my heart kicks, is it her? It’s just a calendar notification, but it jolts me into action.
Maybe I should text her. Or is that too much? Too eager? Maybe she’s just being polite, letting her mother collect strays for Thanksgiving, nothing more.
I know attraction when I feel it, when I see it. That look she gave me, the way she leaned in, voice lowering just for me. It was real.
Hell with it. I open our thread, stare at her name in my contacts—Autumn Murphy, with a little leaf emoji Mia put in when she sent me her sister’s number “just in case.”
Me:Let me know if I should bring anything tomorrow. Bread, wine, helmet, or all of the above?
I wait, staring at the screen, breath caught in my chest. Five seconds. Ten. I swear I can hear my own heartbeat over the soft crackle of the fire.
Her reply pops up.
Autumn: Just bring yourself and maybe a sense of adventure. Murphy Thanksgivings are a contact sport.
Me: I played varsity in high school. I think I can handle it.
Autumn: Don’t say I didn’t warn you. My mom will try to feed you until you burst. Mia will grill you about your intentions. Connor will probably make you run a tree out to the car lot.
Me: All worth it if I get to see your “serious business” face again.
I hesitate, thumb hovering over the keyboard, then go for it.
Me: And, you know, try your famous pie. Word travels fast in this town.
Autumn: Do you have any idea what you’re getting into, Jack?
Me: Nope. But I’m looking forward to finding out.
I set my phone down, a grin spreading across my face, and stare up at the ceiling like a lovesick idiot. What the hell am I doing? Wanting someone this much, this quickly, isn’t normal. It isn’t safe.
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 stoop and 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.