Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 80555 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 403(@200wpm)___ 322(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80555 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 403(@200wpm)___ 322(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
“Oh hey, Magnus.” John, the football kid I seldom saw, opened the kitchen door. “Just in time for dinner.”
“I’m looking for my dogs.” The dogs in question darted for the dining room, no doubt in search of falling food scraps. I followed John past the kitchen to find a lively dinner underway with Maren, Diesel, Wren, and Eric.
“And so we should host Thanksgiving,” Maren said forcefully as I entered the room. She speared a piece of broccoli before waving at me. “Magnus! I was telling my dad we need to host Thanksgiving this year. A big one. You, Diesel, all of us, any friends who need a place to go—”
“Or an escape,” Eric added as he greeted me with only his eyes, a nifty trick he was getting quite good at. We’d developed more of an unspoken code since deciding to be exclusive. It made interacting around others easier. “Jonas would likely come here regardless if we host, but Declan might appreciate the excuse not to go to Sean’s parents.”
“Exactly.” Maren gave a firm nod. She gestured for me to sit in the open chair near Eric. “Grab a plate, Magnus. There’s plenty.”
“I don’t want to impose. I only came by for the dogs,” I demurred, but John was already handing me a plate heaped with a Mexican-inspired casserole, broccoli, and a side of refried beans. “Well, I guess I could stay a bit.”
“Good.” Maren beamed at me, even as Eric’s response was more subdued. But our eyes met again, and the subtle warmth there made me settle into my chair and start eating.
“You’re not working the dinner shift?” Eric asked, tone casually conversational as he reached to pet one of my traitorous dogs.
“Nope. Training a new manager for the holiday rush, and she needs more practice closing before the busy season hits.” I’d also known Eric was off tonight, and I’d had a vague plan to go home, shower, and see if he was up for sneaking over or watching something after dinner and homework time, but I wasn’t about to share that reasoning with the table.
“I wonder if Marissa’s family does Thanksgiving,” Maren mused as she reached for more broccoli. She wore a maternity shirt with a pumpkin covering her growing baby bump, and the nausea she’d struggled with all summer had vanished like the heat, replaced by an impressive appetite. “I assume so, but I should ask.”
“You want to invite your midwife to Thanksgiving?” Eric paused with his fork halfway to his mouth. He continued to be skeptical of the home-birth plan, but Maren was full-steam ahead on the idea, including welcoming Marissa as another member of the family.
“Why not?” Maren shrugged, making the cartoon quote on her shirt dance. “And unless you want to miss the dinner, remember to ask off for the day. No volunteering to cover for others.”
“Okay.” Eric huffed out a breath, clearly making an effort to drop the Marissa and midwife discussion. “I’m trying to stockpile some leave for after the baby is here, but I won’t volunteer to work Thanksgiving.”
“Now, let’s talk turkey.” At the far end of the table, Wren rubbed their hands together like they’d been waiting for the opportunity. “I have theories…”
“Please, no cooking experiments.” Groaning, John pointed his fork at Wren. “I want to eat the turkey, not dissect it.”
“Edible would be a priority,” Maren agreed.
“Wren, would you consider letting me help with the turkey?” I asked before anyone else could jump in with complaints about Wren’s kitchen chemistry.
“We do work well together,” Wren continued with their analytical tone. “And you have a proper respect for Maren’s prenatal nutrition. Yes, you can help. But we’re going to need a strategy for the side dishes.”
“Agreed.” I smiled encouragingly, happy to have mitigated some sibling conflict.
“A cohesive menu would be good,” Eric added.
“I’ll make a spreadsheet.” Wren reached down for a pile of books and electronics beside their chair, but Eric made a warning noise.
“No tablets at the table.”
“Okay, okay.” Wren returned their attention to finishing their food, and the table continued discussing various Thanksgiving-related logistics until the meal was finished. Diesel had to leave for a night shift, and I walked him out to get a moment to catch up on his work and baby news.
However, after admiring the ultrasound photos from the twenty-week anatomy scan yet again and commiserating about bosses who wanted overtime as the holidays approached, I went back inside to help with the cleanup efforts.
“I meant to invite you for Thanksgiving, not make you cook it,” Eric grumbled as I joined him in wiping counters.
“I’m already looking forward to it.” I added a little wink because we were alone—
“How do you feel about a bacon-wrapped bird?” And, of course, Wren chose exactly that moment to pop up on the other side of the kitchen island, complete with a scientific-looking cookbook with sticky notes on the pages. “Or trying the flip-the-bird technique? We want as juicy a breast as possible.”