“Absolutely! I can’t wait to tell Zara—she’s going to be stoked!”
A thrill rushed through Gigi as this all started to sink in. She’d done it. She’d turned it all around and was making this whole baking thing a success. People wanted to special order her cakes—that was something that she would have laughed at just a month ago, and now…well, now it was a reality. She couldn’t wait to get home and tell Holden.
“What are your Thanksgiving plans?” Audrey asked, plucking Gigi out of her thoughts. “If you don’t have any, you’re more than welcome to come join us.”
The offer made Gigi stop in her tracks. She hadn’t even considered what she would do for the holiday. She and Bradley had always joined their parents at the country club for the day, enjoying the large buffet and mingling with a number of personal and business acquaintances. She knew Audrey had married into a large family and that they lived just outside of town, but the idea of joining the Shipleys made her uneasy. Thinking of all those people who would be curious about her and her story. No, she would prefer a small meal with just her and Holden at the kitchen table.
Holden.
Suddenly an idea struck her, and a different kind of thrill rushed through her. She’d mastered the baking part of it, so how hard could the cooking part of it be?
“Thanks, but I already have plans.”
Now, she just had to pull it off.
Holden
The damn blinking cursor was taunting him again and Holden had no idea how to stop it. He’d spent the better part of the afternoon staring at the open document in front of him but hadn’t typed more than a handful of words—all of which he’d then deleted—since he’d sat down. At this point, he’d give any one of his organs if he could just write something.
Mindlessly, he picked up the last of the crumbs from the Harvey Wallbanger cake that Gigi had made the other night and tossed them into his mouth. This cake had turned out incredible, and he had already told her at least twice that she needed to make it again. Of course, pretty much everything she had made these last couple of weeks had been good, causing him to add an extra mile to his daily run just to make sure it didn’t start to catch up to him.
“Holden! Holden!” Gigi’s sweet southern accent rang out from downstairs, the front door slamming behind her. Glancing down at the clock on his computer, he realized it was a lot later in the day than he thought. Another day wasted on not writing.
“Up in the loft,” he hollered, hoping that his voice would carry down to her.
His life had changed so much since she’d waltzed her way into it—but he wouldn’t change it for a second. Much to his surprise, he was enjoying having her around. He liked having the company inside the house. And not just the company, her company to be specific. Her bright smile and bubbly personality had come out more and more ever since he’d kissed her that day, and he was enjoying every second of getting to know her.
And then there was that kiss.
He knew he shouldn’t have kissed her. But she had been so damn cute sitting on the kitchen floor, covered in whipping cream. The almost dejected look on her face had broken his heart, and the only thing he could think to do in that moment was kiss it off her. He’d been so amped up from all their flirting and innuendos all afternoon that he just couldn’t help it. There hadn’t been any blood left in his head for thinking—it had all rushed to his dick. But it wasn’t fair to her. She’d just lost her husband; she didn’t need another man kissing her. Even if the guy had been the biggest prick on earth—which from the very little Gigi had told Holden about him, he was pretty sure that he had been the biggest prick on earth—he didn’t need to be making moves on her like that. Not to mention, he had his own wife’s memory to be respecting.
But it had been one hell of a fucking kiss.
Footsteps on the stairs to the loft drew his eyes away from the screen in time to see Gigi pop up into the room. She looked as beautiful as always in her skinny jeans and fitted purple knit top. Her long blonde hair was falling loosely around her shoulders. She looked like some kind of angel as she skipped toward him.
“Oh my goodness, Holden! Guess what! Guess what! Guess what!” she squealed, almost jumping up and down as she reached his desk.
“What?” he said, sitting back in his chair. He’d never seen her anywhere near this excited, and he had no idea what could have possibly set her off like this.
“People want my cakes! The Busy Bean is going to be taking orders for cakes and cupcakes for Thanksgiving! Isn’t that amazing?!”
“Wow,” he said. He suddenly felt nauseous at the mention of Thanksgiving. Was that already next week?
“It’s gonna mean a bunch of extra hours this weekend, but still. People like my stuff enough to want to have it at their holiday meal!”
“That’s incredible, Gigi. I’m excited for you.”
Holden sucked in a deep breath as the room started to spin around him. He could hear that Gigi was still talking, but he had no idea what she was saying. It was like she was the teacher in a Peanuts cartoon—all he could hear was noise.
Thanksgiving had always been a big deal to Hannah. Holden had never understood exactly where her love of the holiday had come from, but there was no stopping it. She treated Thanksgiving like some people treated Christmas, with wreaths, pumpkins, gourds, and all sorts of other decorations that seemed to cover every inch of their home. If there had been such a thing as Thanksgiving music, Holden was sure she would have listened to it at full blast the second it was socially acceptable—and maybe even a little before. Even after they had moved to London, where traditional American Thanksgiving wasn’t celebrated, she had found a way. She’d called it “friendsgiving” and gathered together a bunch of their neighbors and his teammates for a great big dinner the third weekend in November.
“This year’s theme is Indian,” she had told him as they sat at the breakfast bar in their kitchen, sipping on a glass of wine one night.
“That seems a little inappropriate,” Holden had remarked, knowing full well what she really meant, but unable to stop himself from teasing her. He was also unsure of how she thought she was going to pull it off. She had taken to finding a new theme these last few years for what she started referring to as her “signature event.” While the French food a couple of years prior had been very well received, last year’s choice of Ethiopian had left something to be desired by most guests. Himself included. “Not sure they really condone the holiday.”
“As in the Asian subcontinent, not Native Americans,” she’d corrected him, giving him a look like she couldn’t believe he went there. He laughed at her, taking a sip of his own drink and letting her continue. “I talked with Priti and Jatin from upstairs, and she gave me a bunch of recipes to try! It’s gonna be so much fun!”
True to her word, the event had turned out to be a lot of fun. Holden couldn’t remember the last time he had laughed as hard as that moment when his team captain, Nate Van Ryper, attempted to swallow that first bite of vindaloo. After managing to choke it down and immediately chugging his entire beer, the Dutchman had taken a moment to catch his breath before turning to Hannah.
“Just so I know, is everything on this table going to make me feel as if I’m swallowing fire?” he’d asked. Van Ryper’s wife had smacked him with the back of her hand, as their goalkeeper and a pair of defensemen at the other end of the table started to snicker. “Because if it feels like that going in, I can’t imagine what it’s going to feel like coming out!”
The whole table had erupted into laughter as Hannah’s face paled. Taking a bite of it herself, she’d quickly spit it out and muttered a not-so-quiet “fuck me!”
“I followed Priti’s recipe to the letter!” she’d exclaimed in between gulps of water. “It never occurred to me that it would be this…this…”
“Potent?” Holden offered up.
“Yes!”
The table had erupted again, this time with not just laughter, but Hannah’s profuse apo
logies and jokes about her almost killing half the starting line-up. When Van Ryper suggested that they box it up and send it up to Liverpool, who they believed to be the only team standing between them and the Cup that year, the howls of laughter probably could have been heard from space. After running to the local takeaway joint down the block and getting them something that the group wasn’t afraid to eat, they’d settled in for some of the most fun they’d had since moving overseas.
“That’ll teach me to get adventurous with food ever again,” Hannah said that night as they had climbed into bed. Snuggling into him, she sighed softly, a sweet smile on her face. He pulled her close, kissing the top of her head.
“It was not one of your finer culinary achievements,” he’d told her. “But I think we still had a pretty good night.”
“Next year, I promise, we’ll do that traditional thing,” she’d told him. “And maybe not with so many people. I think I want our first one as a family to be just us.”
“First one as a family?”
Hannah looked up at him, her eyes full of hope and a glow he’d never seen. The smile tugging on her lips was the one she had whenever she was about to spill a secret, and his heart skipped a beat as he started to process her words.
“I’m pregnant,” she had whispered.
It was as if Holden’s heart had stopped and sped up simultaneously. Pregnant. He was going to be a father.
“Seriously?” he’d asked, shifting to get a better look at her. She nodded slowly, that secret-spilling smile now taking over her entire face. “Then I am the luckiest fucking man on earth, and I already can’t wait for next Thanksgiving.”
A sinking feeling overwhelmed Holden as he thought back on his words that night. Had he known what he did now, he would have done so many things differently. He would never have gone out with the guys that night, never let Hannah convince him that she was fine to go home by herself. If he had just been a little less selfish, then he and Hannah could have had not only that first family Thanksgiving, but a whole bunch more.
“Does that sound like something you might want to do?” he heard Gigi ask through the fog in his head.
“Um, yeah. Sure,” he said, not having any idea what he just agreed to.
“Squeeee!” she shrieked, bounding over to him and throwing her arms around his neck. She smelled of baked goods, and he inhaled deeply, trying to chase away the monsters in his mind. Her warmth surrounded him, and he wanted to get lost in it. No, dumbass, you cannot get lost in her. Not after thinking about your wife. Get it together.
If only he had a way to do that.
11
Holden
The sound of banging from the direction of the kitchen dragged Holden out of his nice, peaceful sleep. It had been a week since Gigi showed up in his office, bouncing up and down about he still didn’t know what, sending him reeling back in time, leaving him in a funk ever since. Gigi had spent most of her time since at the Busy Bean, and while he’d missed their evenings together, he knew he probably would not have been the best of company.
Forcing himself into a half-sitting position, he glanced over at the clock. Nine sixteen, it told him. Why wasn’t Gigi at the café? Had she mentioned a day off in the middle of the week and he’d just missed it? He needed to get his head together and fast. He snuggled back down into the pillows and closed his eyes, hoping that he could easily slip back into his slumber.
A heavy beat followed by the warble of a feminine voice abruptly started up, taking him from a state of still semi-asleep, to full-on awake. Forcing himself out of bed, he figured it was for the best anyway. The funk he’d been in had drained him to the point he hadn’t been on a run in days, and he was starting to feel the effects. He needed to get out there and pound the pavement. Maybe he could even add some distance to his normal route today, giving him more of a chance to clear his head. He quickly found his running gear, changed, and headed down to the kitchen.
Holden hit the bottom stair just as the song changed over to something a little slower, with a little more twang. He didn’t know the details of Taylor Swift’s back catalog, but if he had to guess, this one must have been from back when she still claimed to be a country artist. Either way, watching Gigi’s gorgeous figure dance around to the melody was a sight that he was more than happy to see first thing. She stood up against the countertop, carefully reading a cookbook, dragging her finger across the page while swaying her luscious hips in time to the music. His hands itched to hold on to those curves as she moved, feeling the flow of her body against his.
“Hey, you,” he said, flexing his hands as a reminder to keep them to himself.
“Ahhh!” she shrieked, turning around and clutching her chest. A bright smile spread across her face as she drank him in, making him feel all warm and fuzzy. It seemed impossible to him that she was doing this to him, in a way only one other woman had before, but he couldn’t deny the attraction he felt for her. There was something special about Gigi Hawthorne, and whatever it was, he was damn glad it was being discovered in his kitchen. She reached for her phone and turned down the music before looking back up at him. “Are you just now heading out for your run? I figured you had left already.”
“Got a bit of a late start this morning,” he said. “What are you up to?”
“I chopped all the veggies last night, so I just need to finished prepping the bird and get it into the roasting pan and slide that into the oven. Then I can start on the sides. If all goes as planned, dinner should be around two-ish.”
“Bird? Dinner?” Holden asked, his head starting to spin. She wasn’t…
“It’s Thanksgiving.”
Thanksgiving.
It was like a switch flipped inside him. Holden clutched onto the counter as he looked around him, taking in everything she had laid out. He’d been so busy staring at her ass when he walked into the room, he hadn’t noticed what she was surrounded by. Sure enough, a small turkey sat resting in a roasting pan on the butcher block. It looked like it had been slathered in butter mixed with herbs. Three distinct kitchen bowls sat next to the pan, filled with chopped carrots and celery, potatoes, and onion. Over on the counter by the cookbook she’d been reading was a bag of what appeared to be stale bread chunks for stuffing and a handful of sweet potatoes. He bet that if he looked in the fridge, he’d find she’d made a cake for dessert.
He could feel his blood start to boil as his eyes flicked between the items. Gigi was making Thanksgiving. What the fuck had given her that idea? Clenching his fists, he told himself to calm down. But the waves of rage that were rising inside were coming faster, and it didn’t matter the reason. This was not happening in his house. How could she do this? How could she disrespect him in such a way and flaunt this holiday in his face? Nothing good came from this day, from this meal.
“Thanksgiving,” he repeated, his teeth gritted. The word tasted vile in his mouth, leaving an aftertaste he was almost afraid he’d never get out. He swallowed hard, trying to replace that taste with something—anything—else, but he couldn’t. The more he looked at the items on the counter, the angrier he got. They were just potatoes, for God’s sake, but they taunted him just the same.
“I have all the traditional fixins. Roast turkey, stuffing, sweet potatoes, rolls, cranberry sauce, and of course, green bean casserole!”
Her voice was sweet, and the glow on her face was something that moments ago he would have done almost anything to see, but now, it only served to set him off more. He could feel something inside him snap, and all that rage he was trying to tamp down erupted from his veins.
“What the actual fuck.” His palms came down hard on the butcher block. The pan and bowls rattled, their contents shifting from the disturbance.
“What?” she asked, a terrified look in her eyes.
“Are you kidding me?”
“I just…I just thought…” she squeaked, her voice trembling. He could see the fear in her as she cowered away from him, but there was no stopping him now.
“You just thought what?”
Gigi
“Holden, I…” Gigi trailed off, too afraid to finish the sentence.
The look in his eye was one she knew all too well. Nothing good ever came from that look.
“It’s just Thanksgiving,” she began again, fighting back the tears she could feel coming. She had no idea what she had done to upset him like this. But the man standing before her was not the Holden she had come to know. “I asked you last week if you’d want to celebrate, and you said yes.”
“I said no such thing! I don’t do Thanksgiving!” he hollered in response. His face was hard as he glowered at her.
“But…but…last week, we were up in the loft, I asked you—”
“You did not ask me about this. I would not have told you this was okay.”
“Holden, I swear. I would not have done this if you hadn’t agreed. If you changed your mind, then we don’t have to—”
BANG!
Holden slammed his fist down on the butcher block, making it rattle again. Some of the chopped vegetables tumbled out of their bowls onto the floor, but Gigi didn’t dare try to pick them up. She was too afraid to move. Too afraid of where that fist was going to be aimed next.
A deep growl from Holden made the hair on Gigi’s arms stand on edge, her gaze returning to his face. His hands were now fisted in his hair, as if he were considering ripping it from his scalp. A vein bulged over his left eye, making her wonder if at any moment he would turn green and quadruple in size.
“I can’t…I can’t believe this,” he growled, letting go of his hair and throwing his arms out to the sides. Gigi flinched at the motion, looking around her trying to figure out the best way out of the kitchen.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t think it would be a problem,” she responded, the tears finally letting loose. She tried as hard as she could to stop them, but she couldn’t. Every inch of her wanted to believe that Holden wasn’t like Bradley, that he was just mad and that this wasn’t going to escalate further. But she’d also believed that Bradley would never hurt her, and she’d been very, very wrong about that. So how could she trust that this was any different?
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