Thanksgiving Rules
The pies were the problem. Two of them, balanced one on top of the other in her arms, the bottom one pumpkin and the top one pecan, both still warm enough to fog the plastic wrap she'd stretched over their crusts. Rosie had exactly one free finger left to knock with, and she was doing the math on how to manage it—elbow the door, maybe, or just stand there like an idiot and wait for someone to notice her through the frosted glass panel—when the door swung open before her knuckles ever made contact.
Luke.
Of course it was Luke.
He filled the doorway the way he always did now, which was a fact she still hadn't forgiven her body for noticing. Six-foot-something of him in a charcoal sweater that had no business fitting him that well, one hand braced against the frame, dark hair still damp like he'd showered twenty minutes ago and hadn't bothered to dry it properly. There was a time—she remembered it specifically, painfully, the way you remember a scar—when he'd been all elbows and acne and a voice that cracked at the worst possible moments. That boy would have been easy to hate. This version of him was inconvenient.
"You're early," he said, by way of hello. "Should I be worried?"…