It was Thanksgiving.

Somehow, between the Starbright Festival and Jake sending her emotions flipping upside down, Mackenzie hadn’t even registered the holiday coming. It wasn’t until people started leaving the bakery early on Wednesday, while she was still savoring her lunch, that Mackenzie realized something was different.

“Don’t rush,” Summer insisted, even as she began flipping chairs over around Mackenzie’s table. “I just want to get a head start. We’re meeting my mom in New York for the weekend,” she added with a grimace, “and the traffic will be a nightmare.”

Mackenzie blinked as it finally dawned on her. The paper turkeys lining the counter should have been her first hint. “Thanksgiving! Right.”

“I’m just hoping my mom breaks her diet. She’s much easier to handle with carbs,” Summer grinned. “Do you have any plans?”

“I’m not sure yet,” Mackenzie replied, her mind racing. “I’m sure I’ll figure out something.”

She left the bakery—with a goodie bag of pastries—and called around, seeing if anyone wanted to get together to celebrate. But Poppy and Cooper were visiting her folks back east, and even Riley was closing up the pub and heading out of town.

“We’re taking the boat down the coast,” he explained with a smile. “I never thought Brooke would take the time off work, so I’m getting her out of cellphone range before she changes her mind. What about you?”

“Just family, I guess,” Mackenzie replied, but when she called her mom, she got a brief text message in reply.

We’ll be at a silent retreat until Monday. Have fun!

It looked like she was spending Thanksgiving on her own.

Mackenzie tried to ignore the pang of loneliness. It was just another weekend, she told herself. And sure, everyone else was celebrating with loved ones, but she could do the same: all she needed to do was stick her favorite pot pie in the oven and cue up a classic movie marathon.

There was nothing wrong with being alone.

---

She worked late that night on some sketches, and woke early on Thursday to find the streets of Sweetbriar eerily silent. Strolling to the gallery, it almost felt like a ghost town, empty, save a few anxious-looking men loitering outside the market with lists crumpled in their hands. She was lucky to be saving herself the stress of a big dinner, Mackenzie told herself firmly, as she unlocked and made her way to her studio in the back. A whole day just to focus on her art without distraction. That was something worth being thankful for.

Right?

There was a list of orders waiting, but Mackenzie moved her potter’s wheel aside and dragged her favorite work bench into the middle of the room. She tugged down the sheets she had covering her sculptures, and stood back, assessing her progress.

It was a new series, a trio, she imagined, although she was still working on the first piece, the figure of a woman, sleek and abstracted, a suggestion of the human form instead of something recognizable. Arched, reaching, in motion—Mackenzie was trying to capture a feeling more than anything, and although some days she looked at her progress and felt stupid for even trying, today, in the silvery morning light, she could see where she was going.

It was a start, anyway.

She put on some music, hauled a chunk of wet clay from the bin, and set to work, this time on the next figure. He would be reaching too, and the third piece would be the two of them, intertwined. Inevitable.

At least, that was the plan.

Mackenzie didn’t share this side of her art with anyone. It felt too personal, too out there to just put on display for everyone to see—and judge. They knew her for her cute bowls and pretty ceramics, and Mackenzie didn’t want to imagine what people would say if they were faced with this side of her art: weird and abstract, and hard for her to even put into words.

Still, she loved it. Here, in the privacy of her studio, with the clay sinking under her fingertips and the light falling through the windows just right. She lost track of time, smoothing and molding the clay just right, until a second figure was slowly shaped in front of her: not reaching and open like the first one, but holding back. Restrained. Closed, and careful.

Just like Jake.

Mackenzie paused, coming out of her reverie. You couldn’t see it in the abstract form, but now that she stood back and assessed the sculpture, she could see it was him.

Or rather, the heart of him.

Leaning back while she was reaching forward. Always drifting out of reach. Without even realizing it, she’d been sculpting their relationship, committing her own foolish yearnings to solid clay.

It was like she was seventeen all over again.

Mackenzie flushed, remembering her big plan to finally come clean about her feelings. She and Jake had agreed to go together to prom, and despite everything, she couldn’t help getting caught up in wishful fantasies about their romantic night together. Every smile, every glance . . . Mackenzie wondered if this was finally the moment he would realize she was more than just a friend.

After the dance, the party moved to his place, and—fueled by too many teen movies and a dose of peach schnapps—Mackenzie somehow decided a dramatic romantic gesture was in order. She snuck away up to Jake’s bedroom, peeled off her dress and arranged herself in a seductive pose, and was just about to text him to come meet her there, when she’d heard voices outside the bedroom door. Jake, and some of his football buddies.

She froze.

“Mac’s looking hot tonight, man,” one of the voices jeered. “Didn’t think she had it under those sweaters.”

Jake’s voice came, sounding annoyed. “Come on, quit it.”

“So you’re really not getting any?”

“No way, man.” Jake laughed. “She’s like a sister to me!”

“Sweet. So you won’t mind if I hit that!”

The voices moved further away, and Mackenzie sat there, frozen in place, her blood rushing hot. She’d known that Jake was probably oblivious to her feelings, but hearing him laugh along to their crude jokes was too much. The rejection sliced through her, knowing without a doubt that the boy she’d spent so much hope, and energy, and sleepless nights on didn’t even see her, not as a girl who mattered.

Then, just when she thought her humiliation couldn’t get any worse, Jake’s voice came again. “Hold up, let me grab that CD—”

Mackenzie panicked.

She bolted up, grabbing for her dress. They were on the second floor, and the only other way out was the window. She yanked it open as she struggled to pull her dress on again. It was a ten-foot drop, but she didn’t hesitate for a moment.

A broken ankle was better than Jake finding her there, so, saying a quick prayer, Mackenzie clambered out the window, and dropped to the ground.

RIIIIP.

Her bodice caught on the ledge and tore clean away. Which is how she wound up sneaking home through the Sweetbriar town square in nothing but half her prom dress and a nude strapless bra. Somebody must have seen her, because soon the gossip spread, but Mackenzie never said a word. They all assumed she’d had some scandalous hook-up, and she let them go right on believing. Better some sexy story than the humiliating truth. Jake left for college a few months later, and as far as Mackenzie was concerned, she was taking her secret to the grave.

And here she was, spending precious time and energy on Jake all over again. Except this time she had more to go on than wishful thinking. Two whole kisses more, and the kind of chemistry than her teenage self could never even dream about.

But had anything really changed?

Mackenzie looked at the sculpture again. She was tempted to smush the whole thing down and start over, but something made her leave it. There was a beauty to the longing, at least, and even if her own romantic dreams were nothing but that—dreams—at least it was good material.

She rinsed off and cleaned her things away, and when she emerged from the gallery, she was surprised to find the streets dark in the late afternoon. The whole day had disappeared, but it always went that way when she got lost in a piece. Even when she was back in high school, she would get so deep into a painting or project, that her teachers would have to clap out loud to get her attention again.

She pulled her coat tighter and started walking for home. Then she saw a familiar figure on the other side of the street, his head bent against the wind.

Mackenzie couldn’t see his face, but she already knew. It had been thirteen years since she’d learned his steady gait by heart, and time may have changed a lot, but it didn’t change that.

Jake looked up and saw her. Mackenzie raised her hand in a wave. He crossed the street, smiling as he reached her. “Another Thanksgiving orphan?” he asked. “I thought you’d be with your folks.”

“Mom’s dragged them to some retreat,” Mackenzie explained. “You?”

Jake shrugged. “I pretty much forgot about it, until I went by the pizza place, and they were closed.”

“You should come over.” She made the invitation without thinking. “For dinner, I mean. Us orphans have to stick together.”

Jake’s face softened. “I’d like that,” he said. “If you’re sure I’m not interrupting anything.”

“Cary will understand.”

Jake raised an eyebrow.

“Cary Grant,” she explained. “I had a hot date planned with him and Gene Kelly.”

Jake chuckled. “Then sure, I’d love to come.”

“Give me an hour?” Mackenzie looked down at her clay-stained hands. “I’m on Primrose Lane. The one with the blue door.”

“Alright then. See you later.” Jake saluted and strolled away. It wasn’t until he was around the corner and her pulse had just about returned to normal that Mackenzie realized what she’d just signed herself up for.

Thanksgiving dinner from scratch in an hour?

She better get a move on.

---

Jake stood on Mackenzie’s doorstep with a Tupperware container in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other, feeling like he was fifteen years old and picking a girl up for a date for the first time. His shirt collar was tight around his neck; he’d figured he should make an effort for the occasion, but now he felt overdressed and just plain awkward.

He used his elbow to knock, and a moment later, the door flung open.

“Hey! Come on in.” Mackenzie was barefoot in jeans and a tank top, her red hair damp from the shower and falling out of a messy bun. Her smile lit up the night, and

Jake tried to remember how to speak.

“Ignore the mess,” Mackenzie continued, gesturing him in. She headed inside, calling back over her shoulder. “It was either a clean house or food, and I figured you would only care about one.”

Jake stepped inside and carefully wiped his boots on the mat. Music was playing, some jazz song on the old-fashioned record player that was sandwiched on a cabinet between a stack of art books and a bowl of yarn, and everywhere he looked, there was bright, haphazard clutter: paintings on the wall, and colorful throws on the furniture, and even a carved wooden panther sitting waist-high beside the fireplace.

It was totally, perfectly Mackenzie.

He followed the sound of clattering pans into the small, blue-tiled kitchen, where Mackenzie was tasting something at the stove.

“I thought about going traditional, but it turns out, I don’t have turkey, potatoes, or any veggies,” Mackenzie said, looking over. “So I’m doing my classic, spaghetti and meatballs.”

“Is it safe?” Jake teased, and Mackenzie hit him lightly with a tea towel.

“Hey! I’ll have you know, I’m an excellent cook now. This recipe is the real deal,” she added, returning to the simmering pans. “My roommate in art school was from a big Italian family. I used to beg to go home with her on the weekends just to get a taste of Nona’s sauce. Here.” She offered Jake the wooden spoon, and he took a taste.

“That’s great,” he said, hit with the tomato flavor, warm with spices.

“You don’t have to sound so surprised.” Mackenzie grinned. “I couldn’t go around burning toast forever.”

“I can,” Jake said. “Ordering takeout is about the height of my skills in the kitchen.”

“We’ll see about that,” Mackenzie said, then noticed the Tupperware he was holding. She lit up. “Is that . . . ?”

“My mom’s famous pecan pie? Yup.” Jake set it down on the counter and stripped off his jacket. “You’re lucky, this was the last one left in the freezer.”

Mackenzie gave an appreciative groan. “Your mom makes the best pie. Don’t tell Summer I said that,” she added quickly. “But it’s true. You know she used to bring one over for my folks every year when they lived in town? It was so sweet.”

“She’s good like that,” Jake agreed. “She even tried to mail them to me, out at college, but they kept going missing. Somewhere, there’s a very fat postal worker.”

Mackenzie laughed. “Well, what are you waiting for? Open that bottle, and let’s get Thanksgiving started right. With dessert first!”

Jake poured them both a glass of wine and set the table, a safe distance away from Mackenzie’s enthusiastic chopping and stirring. She cooked the way she painted: by instinct, adding a dash of this and a sprinkle of that, pausing to taste with her eyes half-closed, contemplating.

“This is a cute place,” he said, looking around. Pans dangled from a rack over the range, and there was an antique china cabinet along one wall filled with mismatched plates and plant pots. “Did you come straight back to Sweetbriar after art school?”

She nodded. “I always knew this was home. I had this picture of a little gallery, right off the square. It took a few years, selling at farmers’ markets and gift shops, but I finally made it happen.”

Mackenzie looked proud, and she had every right to be. Jake knew she’d done all this on her own. Her parents had always been supportive—in an absent-minded way—but Mackenzie was the stubborn one. When she wanted something, she didn’t quit.

“What about you?” she asked, leaning back against the counter. “How was your appointment in Boston? Or, do you not want to talk about it?” she added quickly, looking concerned. “Because we can do that, too.”

Jake gave her a rueful smile. “It’s fine. She said pretty much what everyone else has been telling me. Healing takes time.” He said it casually and shrugged, like he hadn’t been agonizing over those words all night.

But Mackenzie could always see through him. “I’m sorry,” she said quietly, reaching over to touch his arm. “I know you must be frustrated with the recovery.”

“I’ll get there.” Jake said it with determination. He had to believe it was true.

“I worried about you,” she said quietly, turning back to the stove.

“You did?” Jake stared at her, surprised. “When?”

She shrugged, stirring a pot. “Always. All those reports about injuries . . . concussions . . . Even back in high school you’d take the worst hits.”

“You never said.” He frowned.

“Yeah, well you would never have listened.” Mackenzie gave him a look. “You all thought you were invincible.”

“We were.” He chuckled, remembering the old team.

“Not anymore.” Mackenzie seemed to realize what she’d said. She flushed. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“No, it’s OK.” He stopped her. “You’re right. I’m not. If this year taught me anything . . .” He trailed off, forcing a smile. “But come on, if I’m not a player anymore, then who am I? It’s not like I know how to do anything else.”

“Sure you do!” Mackenzie protested.

“Like what?”

“Well, you’re pretty great at bar trivia,” she said. “Your pool game could use some work—”

“Hey!”

“—but you make a mean martini,” she finished, and he smiled.

“So basically, I should go work for Riley at the pub then,” Jake said.

“You could figure it out,” she reassured him. “You know you can do anything you set your mind to and make it look easy. It’s actually pretty irritating.”

“Oh yeah?” Jake teased, smiling.

“Yup. If you weren’t my best friend, I’d pretty much hate you.” Mackenzie grinned back.

Jake’s chest tightened. “Best friend?” he echoed.

She turned away to grab some dishes down. “Maybe. The spot’s been open for a while, we’ll see if you’ve got the goods.”

He swallowed. Mackenzie had always been his closest friend, the one person he could share everything with, and even after all this time, that hadn’t changed.

But the way he was looking at her had.

Friends didn’t notice the way her tank top clung to her curves, or the purple bra straps peeping out beneath. Friends wouldn’t imagine gently tugging the rest of her hair down, loose around her shoulders. Or licking the sauce off the edge of her lips. Lifting her up on that countertop, and tasting her mouth again, kissing her slow, and hard until—

“It’s ready.” Mackenzie’s voice broke through his fevered thoughts. She tipped the spaghetti into a serving bowl, and ladled the rich meat sauce on top. “Grab the plates, will you?” she asked, flushed from the steam and totally oblivious to his cravings. “And since you’re the guest, I’ll even let you choose: Casablanca or High Society.”

“The last one,” he said, reining himself in. The last thing he needed was slow-burn passion, on the screen or anywhere else.

He didn’t need anything giving him ideas. Not when he already had so many of his own.