Page 72 of Christmas in Paradise

I’m eating Thanksgiving dinner with the Sparks and Thomsen families, and I will be bringing the rest of this cake for them to try. And if I have a chance to shine a spotlight on Seb’s talents, I’m going to do it.

Everyone should get to see Seb in the same light I do. He deserves to shine for something more than being good with electricity and women.

That’s not who he really is. At least not the player part. That may have been what attracted him to me when we first met, but it’s the real Seb I’m falling in love with.

Chapter 23

Sebastian

Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday for a couple of very important reasons. Number one, there’s delicious food, like the apple, pecan, and pumpkin pies I’ve baked. Number two, I love sitting around a big table at the Garden of Eatin’—where we always have our Thanksgiving feast—with my Sparks and Thomsen relatives. Ever since my dad’s death, over twenty years ago, the day has been a reminder that I have a lot of people who love me. I appreciate that more every year.

For whatever reason, that fact hits me harder than usual this year when I walk into the Garden and see so many people—Hope and Charly included—who I care about. Including my Grandma and Grandpa Sparks who we were not expecting now that they are snowbirds. They rush to me, Mom, and Stella as soon as we walk into Adam’s restaurant.

“Surprise!” Grandma calls before wrapping me in a hug.

“Why didn’t you tell us you were coming?” Mom asks when Grandpa releases her from his signature don’t-hug-too-long-or-too-close embrace.

“We decided last minute and didn’t want anyone to fuss over us.” Grandma rocks side to side with Stella in her arms. “And you know how much I love surprises!”

Grandpa humphs with reluctant agreement, then points to the bag Mom is carrying. “There pie in there?”

Mom rises on tiptoe and kisses his cheek. “Of course. What would Thanksgiving be without pie?”

The corner of his mouth tics into the closest thing Grandpa has to a smile. “Just another day.” His eyes narrow at her. “They’re your pies? Not store bought from somewhere?”

Mom’s eyes dart to me, and I take the opportunity to re-tie the laces on my boots.

“No they’re not my pies,” she answers, and Grandpa’s face falls. “They’re your pies! Made just for you,” with this, Mom slips her arm through his. “But I hope you’ll share with me.”

Mom leads Grandpa to the table, but not before I see the tips of his ears go pink. No one can flirt like Mom can.

Okay, maybe me. But obviously, I come by my skill honestly.

Grandma follows Mom’s lead and slips her arm through mine, then her other one through Stella’s. “Your mom’s pies remind me so much of Heidi’s. All her desserts do.”

Grandma gives me a pointed look that Stella doesn’t miss, judging by her smirk.

“Uh huh,” I answer. “Speaking of, Heidi should be here soon.”

That’s all they’re getting. I know Grandma suspects I made the pies—just like I do every year. She knows Heidi and I used to bake together, but she’s never come right out and asked me if I’m the one baking these days. This is the first time, though, that she’s dropped such a big hint that she knows it is.

We walk into the dining room and the table Hope told me she’d been assigned to decorate.

All the tables have been moved together to create one very long table to accommodate all of us. There’s a long strip of burlap or something running down the middle of the tables and all kinds of pumpkin and squash decorations on top of it. Plus a bunch of candles in gold candlesticks.

The table is usually decorated, but not this fancy. I don’t have a sense for this kind of thing, but even I can tell it took a lot of work. It’s really pretty. There are plates stacked on top of gold chargers, cloth napkins, and name tag things to assign the seating.

I peek at one tag and see Evie’s name. I wonder if Hope will be sitting next to her. The only kid here is Charly, and there’s no kid table like there used to be when I was little, so she gets to sit at the grown-up table.

I assume she’ll be sitting next to Hope. My mom might be on the other side. Which means, I’m not going to be sitting anywhere near Hope.

Unless I’m across from her.

I can think of worse views.

I scan a few more of the cards, checking the names as Grandma—still on my arm—goes on and on about how beautiful everything is.

She’s not wrong, but then I see Hope. And nothing in this room comes close to touching her beauty. I can’t help but stare as we move closer to her, standing near the end of the too-long table, talking to Uncle Pete.

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