I hear the rumbling patter of Tyler's feet announcing his arrival. He rockets into the kitchen, a blur of dark curls and red Chicago Blades pajamas—a miniature version of his father.
"Mama! Is it turkey time yet?" He crashes into my legs, arms wrapping around my thighs like he might never let go.
My heart swells at the word "Mama." It started three months ago—as an alternative to Jessica’s ‘Mommy.’ Now it's just who I am to him, a title I wear with more pride than any other.
"Not yet, sweetie." I ruffle his hair, still amazed that I get to love this little person. "The turkey needs to cook all day. But how about some special Thanksgiving pancakes for breakfast?"
"With chocolate chips?" His eyes widen with hope, and I laugh at his transparent attempt to score forbidden morning chocolate.
"Just blueberries today. You’ll get plenty of yummy stuff after dinner. Deal?" I counter, already reaching for the mixing bowl.
"Deal!" He pumps his fist in triumph, then scrambles onto one of the barstools at our kitchen island, knees tucked under him to boost his height.
Logan appears in the doorway, sleep-rumpled and stupid handsome in flannel pajama bottoms and a worn v-neck t-shirt. His hair sticks up on one side, and I can’t wait to feel that sexy stubble when he kisses me. I’m smitten.
"Morning, beautiful," he murmurs, crossing to where I stand. His arms slide around my waist from behind, lips brushing the sensitive spot just below my ear. "Happy Thanksgiving."
I lean back into his warm chest. "Happy Thanksgiving."
He reaches around me for his coffee mug, his other arm remaining firmly anchored around my waist. It's a dance we've perfected—moving together, anticipating each other's needs.
"Daddy! Mama said we can have blueberry pancakes!" Tyler announces, bouncing on his stool with barely contained excitement.
"Did she now?"
Logan’s hand holds my hip, his thumb tracing circles that give me shivers on the exposed skin between the top of my PJ’s and my t-shirt. I wonder how long it will be until he notices the subtle changes in my body—the slight fullness to my breasts, the tenderness when he touches me. The doctor says I'm about eight weeks along.
"Can we have a dinosaur pancake?" Tyler asks, leaning precariously over the counter to watch me work. "A T-Rex with blueberry eyes!"
"Tyler, sit down on your butt," Logan warns him. Tyler immediately plops his bottom back onto the stool with exaggerated care.
I pour the first pancake onto the mold on the griddle, adding a blueberry for an eye. "One T-Rex pancake coming right up for my favorite little paleontologist."
“Maybe today you’re a pancake-ologist,” Logan teases him and moves to the refrigerator, pulling out eggs and bacon. "We need protein too, buddy. Growing boys need more than pancakes."
"Growing hockey players," Tyler corrects him seriously. "I'm gonna play for the Blades like you, Daddy."
I touch my stomach again when Logan's back is turned, hiding a smile. By tonight, this perfect life of ours will know it has one more blessing to be thankful for. One more piece of the family.
"Hey," Logan says, catching me in this reflective moment of joy. His eyes search mine with soft curiosity. "What’s going on in that pretty head? You, OK?"
"Never better," I tell him, and it's the absolute truth. "Just thinking about how thankful I am. For you. For all of this."
His expression softens, and he leans in for a kiss. He takes my face in his hands as he does, and says, "Me too, Reese. Me too."
By three o'clock, our place has transformed from our morning lived-in mess to holiday-ready. The dining table stretches its full length, dressed in the cream-colored tablecloth that was my mom’s, set with the china Logan's grandmother gave him. Candles flicker in polished silver holders, and a centerpiece of autumn leaves sits in the table's center. The turkey is in the oven, filling the apartment with smells that always make me think about my childhood. I adjust a napkin, then readjust it, then adjust it again.
The concierge calls up to announce our first guests’ arrival.
"They're here! They're here!" Tyler shrieks.
Logan emerges from our bedroom in dark jeans and a soft deep gray sweater that somehow makes his eyes look sexier. "I got it, buddy," he says, catching Tyler before he runs into the elevator. "Remember what we talked about with the elevator?"
"Wait for a grown-up," Tyler recites, bouncing on his toes.
The door opens to reveal Elena and Nate, their cheeks flushed from the November cold. Elena holds a bottle of champagne and a foil-covered dish, while Nate balances a massive bouquet of flowers.
"Happy Thanksgiving!" Elena sweeps in, passing the dishes to Logan so she can scoop Tyler into a hug. "Where's my favorite guy?"
