“Geez,” he mutters. “Feeling the love at my first Turner family Thanksgiving.”
I return to my attention to my phone.
Noel: They’ll take off by eight. Audra’s going out with Lucien and Talia and some other players.
Jules: Okay, come over. It has to be after nine, though.
Noel: Text me the address. Happy Thanksgiving.
Jules: Happy Thanksgiving. See you tonight.
Jules: This isn’t me angling for sex. I really do need to talk.
I smile at my screen.
Noel: I know.
I put my phone back on the table, wondering what’s going on with her. A day off her usual crazy schedule may have given her the time to think about things and decide middle-of-the-night hookups with a man eighteen years older than her aren’t doing it for her anymore.
If she dumps me, I’ll take it like a man. She’s made me happier than I’ve ever been with a woman, but it’s not a real relationship, like she deserves.
It’s going to hurt like hell if she ends up falling for one of my players. I know we can’t last forever because she’s young and wants different things than I do. She probably wants marriage and kids, like many women her age do.
Could I survive seeing her pregnant with a mini Isaac? Just the thought gives me heartburn.
“Dad, do you want dessert?” Chloe asks me.
I exhale heavily, pushing my worries about Jules aside. “Yeah, but I’ll get it myself.”
Standing, I walk into the kitchen, where the kids are all talking and eating on the five desserts the chef made. It’s the best Thanksgiving I’ve ever had. All my kids are here—even Audra, who plans to file for divorce from Kyle.
And there’s peace. No raging Angie losing her mind over place settings and wine choices. She always seemed to think the more people we had over for holidays, the more of a big deal she was.
I’ve always hosted my players without a place to go on Thanksgiving, but Carter and Suki offered up their home this year. I’m glad I had a year of just me and my kids.
And now I get to see Jules tonight, too. I just hope it’s not the last time I see her outside of work.
When Jules opensher front door that night around nine-thirty, she offers up a sad smile.
“Hey,” she says softly. “The boys are asleep upstairs. We can talk in my room.”
“Your place is great,” I say.
“Thanks.”
She’s wearing pink, silky-looking pajamas, her button-up top and pants matching, and a lightweight gray bathrobe. Her Grinch slippers complete the look and make me smile.
Her home is a beautiful, brick two-story in a nice subdivision right outside the city. The lots in the neighborhood all have immaculate landscaping, even with the trees bare in the cold of November.
The inside of the house feels like her, with touches of her family. In the large family room, a huge gray sectional has textbooks sitting on one cushion, a notebook and laptop next to them, and a few toy cars on an ottoman.
I can smell apple pie, and the decor looks like a Pottery Barn ad. It’s clean and cozy.
She leads me into her bedroom, which is on the main level. The queen bed is made up with a colorful quilt and pillows, the walls painted pale blue. A gold floor lamp with a shade made of white feathers glows from a corner of the room, providing the only light.
In another corner, a vintage record player is playing an Etta James album.
Jules closes the door behind us and gets on the bed, sitting down. She pulls her legs up to her chest, looking thoughtful.
