She kneaded the dough. I needed her.
Thanksgiving was my jam… and my pie, and my rolls. My obsession.
When my Christmas obsessed sister asked to host MY holiday, I was more than a little grumpy. But something in my gut told me to let her have it. Turns out, there had never been a better time to trust my instincts.
She’d invited a French guy she worked with, and once I got sight of Kellen, I wasn’t hungry for Thanksgiving dinner anymore. After one taste of his dough, I was certain we were the perfect combination. But his work visa said otherwise.
Was I a fling to keep him entertained until he left the country?
Gorging myself on Thanksgiving dinner wasn’t my ideal way to spend my extra day off, but Betsy had insisted I not ‘celebrate’ alone. I didn’t bother to explain that the French didn’t celebrate American Thanksgiving. In Betsy’s world, everything was celebrated.