Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 85535 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 428(@200wpm)___ 342(@250wpm)___ 285(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 85535 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 428(@200wpm)___ 342(@250wpm)___ 285(@300wpm)
“Oh yummm!” Mrs. Whitaker makes the appropriate noises. “I remember those days, but back then we ate more junk food than you kids do now. So health conscious!”
She’s not wrong. I would choose a bottle of water over a bottle of wine or soda any day of the week.
“Alright, well, I just had a few questions for Rome about Thanksgiving—don’t want to be a party crasher.” I can clearly see a spiral notebook set in front of her on the kitchen counter, and she’s holding a pencil in her right hand. “You must be excited to go home for the holiday. What’s your favorite item on the menu?”
“Well…” I speak slowly, feelings still fresh in my heart. “My, um, parents are going on vacation this year so I’m not going home. But my favorite thi—”
“Not going home!” Roman’s mother’s voice has risen ten decibels. “I insist you come here with Roman. And what about his roommates? Jack and Eliza, what are you doing for Thanksgiving?”
Jack doesn’t miss a beat, sliding toward the phone on his stockinged feet and hamming for the camera. “I’m from the UK, ma’am, and Eliza lives three hours north of here, so we were planning on going to a restaurant for dinner.”
Roman’s mom is shaking her head so vigorously I’m surprised her reading glasses haven’t fallen off her nose. “Absolutely not. You are coming here—we have plenty of room at the table and a huge living room. You can watch the Turkey Bowl after dinner or whatever that college football game is called.”
Not only do we not have a game on Thanksgiving this year, our team isn’t in any bowl games, either, which means I get the week off.
“That would be brilliant!” Jack is nodding and clapping his hands. “I love a home-cooked meal. My mum doesn’t cook, and obviously we don’t have the holiday in Britain—this will be my first!”
“Your first Thanksgiving in America!” Mrs. Whitaker could not look more thrilled at the news. “And you’re going to spend it here! I am honored.” She scribbles on her paper. “That settles it then—the four of you are coming for the holiday.”
And that is how I wind up seated at the Whitaker family table, next to Roman and across from Great Aunt Myrtle, wearing a soft sweater vest in a deep burgundy color. Gold necklace around my neck, tweed skirt beneath the table.
Jack sits next to Roman, Eliza next to him, the four of us taking up one entire side of the table.
I adjust the napkin across my lap, the aroma from the gravy boat making my mouth water. I love stuffing and mashed potatoes, but I love fresh bread even more, helping myself to another serving—after all, it’s Thanksgiving, and I’ve been working my tail off.
To say the ride here was awkward is an understatement.
Both Eliza and Jack claimed the back seat of Roman’s car before I could protest sitting in the front seat with him, though their truck has way more passenger space.
Dammit!
I’ll have to be craftier for the ride home…
“Why don’t you play any sports?” Alex Whitaker is asking Jack as I steal another dinner roll—my third. “You’re huge.”
Mrs. Whitaker gasps. “Alex, where are your manners?”
“Yeah,” their dad says. “You can’t just call someone huge.” He winks at his younger son as he spoons green beans onto his plate.
“Sorry. I meant, you look like an athlete. Why don’t you play?”
“I played rugby for a bit. Do you know what that is?”
Alex rolls his eyes rudely and gets another scolding—he is the perfect human being to have around. He diverts all attention from me and Roman, whose family corralled us into the formal living room when we first arrived so his mom could take photos of the two of us sitting on her fireplace hearth.
“You’re all dressed up, I don’t want to miss an opportunity.” She flutters around, messing with the camera on her cell phone before insisting Roman put his hand on my shoulder, positioning him beside me. “You look so good together!” she fusses.
“Do not put this picture in the Christmas card,” he warns, hand hovering above my waist but not actually making contact with it.
Mrs. Whitaker trills her tongue, excited, clicking away. She then invites Jack and Eliza into the photo for a small group picture, Alex wedging himself in beside Jack—his new hero.
“Yes, I know what rugby is,” Alex is saying in a less sarcastic tone, pushing his mashed potatoes around his plate with a fork creating a gravy river. He gets scolded for that, too. “I don’t understand the rules though.”
“Neither do I, mate.” Jack laughs. “It’s why I quit.”
“You quit?”
“I was getting pummeled. Wasn’t at all fun.” He’s eating and talking at the same time, and with a smile on his face, too, as if remembering rugby fondly.
I heard he was terrible at it, remember Kaylee coming back to the house, embarrassed that the “hot guy” she was “in love with” was so bad at his sport, actually pitied herself about it.