Chapter 5
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 his cider 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.
After dinner, the house settles into a golden hush. Kids run off to play, the grown-ups sprawl in the living room, the dog snores beneath the table. I slip out onto the porch, needing air, needing space for all the wild wanting in my chest.
Jack finds me there, closing the door softly behind him. The night is cold, the sky streaked deep blue and silver, and my breath hangs in the air.
“Hell of a meal,” he says, voice low, his body close enough I can feel his heat even in the November chill.
“Survival of the fittest,” I murmur, shivering for reasons that have nothing to do with the wind.
He steps into my space, gaze fixed on my mouth. “You were incredible tonight. I couldn’t look away.”
My pulse hammers in my throat. “You weren’t exactly subtle.”
His hand finds my waist, warm and sure. He trails his fingers up my side, slow, until his palm cups my jaw. He leans in, close enough that his breath ghosts over my lips, the world shrinking to just us.
“Tell me to stop,” he whispers, voice rough.
“Don’t even think about it,” I breathe.
He laughs, the sound dark and hungry. His lips find mine, soft at first, searching, then urgent, claiming.
His tongue teases the seam of my mouth, and I open for him, greedy, desperate, all pretense forgotten.
The porch is freezing but I’m burning, every inch of my skin awake, every nerve tuned to the press of his body.
He presses me into the railing, his hips flush to mine, hands sliding down to my lower back, pulling me closer. I arch against him, my hands tangled in his hair, the heat between us hotter than any fire. He groans into my mouth, low and rough, and the sound goes straight to my core.
When we finally break apart, we’re both breathless. He rests his forehead against mine, his hands still framing my face, his thumbs tracing my cheekbones.
“I’ve wanted to do that since the grocery store,” he murmurs, voice ragged.
“You should’ve,” I say, my voice barely more than a gasp.
He kisses me again, quick and hard, like he can’t help himself. “I was waiting for the right moment.”
My fingers slide beneath the collar of his shirt, nails dragging lightly down his skin, and he shivers.
“Text me when you’re done with family stuff tonight. I’ll come back and meet you in the barn,” he whispers, lips brushing my ear. “I want you all to myself.”
I nod, my whole body buzzing. “I will.”
He lingers, lips brushing my jaw, my neck, before he finally steps away, just far enough that I miss his warmth instantly.
Inside, the house is full of laughter. Out here, there’s only hunger, promise, and the knowledge that this is just the beginning.