Stuffed: A Thanksgiving Romance Read online

  Contents

  Title Page

  Rights

  Dedication

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  EPILOGUE

  DON'T FORGET

  ALSO BY JESSICA GADZIALA

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  STALK HER

  Stuffed

  A Thanksgiving Romance

  --

  Jessica Gadziala

  Copyright © 2016 Jessica Gadziala

  All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without permission of the publisher is unlawful piracy and theft of the author's intellectual property. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express permission of the author, except for brief quotations used in a book review.

  "This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or ahve been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales, or organizations is entirely coincidental."

  Cover image credit: Shutterstock.com/mythja

  DEDICATION:

  To the mumblers, the bumblers, the blushers, the trip-over-your-own-two-feeters.

  We shy girls, we totally get love too.

  ONE

  Callie

  I haven't been home for Thanksgiving in six years.

  Six.

  It wasn't that I didn't love my family. I did. They were my everything. It started innocently enough. My first year in college had been kicking my butt both with course work and also the fact that my parents were covering half my tuition, but the other half was mine. They didn't believe in handouts, but in hard work. So I had taken a job in an all-night diner right off campus and because I was the lowest man on the totem pole, I got stuck working not only Thanksgiving, but the day before and after. My parents, ever believing being a good, reliable employee was an important moral to uphold, had understood and said they would see me the next year. But the next year was the same drill. The third year had me laid up with the flu. And my final year had me in a somewhat nasty car crash that had me in bed with a concussion and black eye.

  After college, I went to work. And work took me to Washington, D.C. and too far from Massachusetts to do the holiday.

  Because when my family did the holiday, they did it. Meaning it wasn't only the day; it was the day before, then Thanksgiving itself and the Friday and Saturday following it. Also, when schedules allowed, Sunday breakfast as well before everyone hit the road.

  I just couldn't swing it.

  But seeing as I always made it home for Christmas as well as mother's and father's day, they let it slide.

  My family was good at not being overbearing.

  But, for the first time in six years, I had off. I had a sneaking suspicion that I had off because my company was slowly but surely going under and wanted to cut some corners by cutting some hours under the guise of giving us a long holiday.

  See, I had been seeing the signs for months. Which meant I was putting on weight. I mean, not a huge amount. I wasn't at the point where I needed to buy a new wardrobe yet, but my pants were getting tighter. I had just put on some extra padding for the cold season.

  This was thanks to the fact that when I got stressed out, I ate potato chips. And when I ate potato chips, I didn't just eat a handful. Oh, no. I attacked the entire bag like a bear preparing for hibernation. Let me tell you, I have become a real connoisseur too. Plain potato were best for a real binge, when you're double fisting the greasy goodness while rocking in your office cubicle trying not to worry about what would happen to you if you found yourself suddenly unemployed. Sour cream and onion was also good for that too. Barbecue and salt and vinegar varieties were good for a little anxious grazing, but not Defcon One level panic because if you ate too many, they made your tongue hurt.

  And they had to be chips.

  Combos, Fritos, and Bugles need not apply.

  I also think it went without saying that baked and low-fat varieties could take a hike as well.

  "I can hear that bag rustling," my mom said, stopping in the middle of explaining the five-day long event she had planned to do so.

  "Keep going," I urged, sneaking my hand in carefully.

  "Please tell me you at least got them at Whole Foods."

  My mom was a bit of a health freak. I mean, she wasn't ridiculous about it. We would have pies and marshmallows on our sweet potatoes and all that jazz, but they would all be organic ingredients that she paid way too much for at either a local mom and pop market or, as she mentioned, the local Whole Foods. My dad was on the same wavelength as she was about food, something that kept them both svelte and active. It also rubbed off on my brother who spent a lot of time in the gym. That being said, he was a firefighter and being active and healthy was an important part of the job.

  I was the freak who binge ate chips and had very strong opinions about ice cream flavors.

  I did thank the fact that I grew up with her healthy food though, because I think it did some kind of magic to my metabolism that allowed me to binge eat chips for months without gaining more than ten or so pounds.

  "I got them at the convenience store on the corner," I admitted, lying to my parents, even as an adult, being a foreign concept to me.

  My mother clicked her tongue but kept her opinion to herself. "Anyway, what was I saying?"

  "You were just starting to say who was gonna be there," I reminded her, curling the top of my chip bag and tossing them to the side, making Albus, my very black cat, meow at me and move out of the way. I swear the smug little jerk was sent by my mother to give me disapproving looks every time I ate something I shouldn't.

  "Oh, right. Well, myself and your father, of course. Grandpa too. Your cousin Amy will be coming too." I felt my lip curl at that, but said nothing. There was no love between me and Amy, mostly because she didn't give a hoot about family obligation when it came to high school where she and the rest of her popular friends made fun of me whenever they got a chance. I hadn't been the most obvious target, being just a little bookish and just a little shy, with maybe a bad choice in glasses, but I had been an easy target because I had never stood up to them.

  "Cory?" I asked, meaning my big brother who I felt like I hadn't seen in forever.

  "Of course," she said, sounding a bit distracted all of a sudden. "And he'll be bringing Adam with him as always."

  "Adam Gallagher?" I shrieked, not meaning to, but totally unable to keep it in.

  My mother paused. "Yes, honey. We don't know any other Adams."

  Okay.

  Alright.

  It was okay.

  Sure, I had maybe had a big, giant, life-altering crush on the guy my entire awkward adolescence, but that was a long time ago. I was a grown woman. I had convinced myself I had buried that nonsense along with my maybe a bit too embarrassing pig figurine collection when I had left for college. I had even convinced myself that I barely remembered the guy. And I pretty much had.

  Until my mother said his name.

  Then it all came crashing back.

  The way I used to discreetly watch him, usually from behind one of the books I always had my nose buried in. Quite often while sitting beside the pool while he and Cory swam with friends, wrapped in my cover-up with huge, dark, prescription sunglasses, so no one could t
ell I was ogling him.

  What can I say?

  He was gorgeous.

  And he was older.

  He was eighteen to my fourteen and I knew that even if my breasts were more than a wish and a prayer, he still wouldn't have looked twice at me. You know, being over six feet, muscled, dark-haired, light-green-eyed, chiseled-faced, and charming and all that jazz.

  I was just the little sister annoyance he put up with because he was best friends with my brother.

  So I watched in all my unrequited hopelessness from afar until, well, I went to college and didn't happen to see him anymore.

  I guess it made sense that he would be at Thanksgiving. In his first year of college, his parents had both met with early graves due to a car wreck and a bout with cancer. My family and his had always been really tight and we were all he had left for things like Thanksgiving.

  "Callie, hellooooo," my mother called and I realized I had spaced out.

  "Sorry, Mom. What was that?"

  "I asked when we could be expecting you?"

  "Oh, um... well I can leave Wednesday morning. So I should be there by that evening, depending on traffic and how many stops I have to make."

  "Honey, fly in," she said, like she always did.

  "I have Albus."

  "And the airline has a place for pets."

  She did have a point. If there was anything I hated more than flying, it was driving long distances. "Alright. I will look at the flights and let you know."

  "Okay, honey. Text your father. He will be there to pick you up."

  "Alrighty. Need me to bring anything?" I asked, knowing she would tell me no.

  "Just your appetite," she said and I smiled. That wouldn't be a problem. Especially seeing as being at my parents' house meant my chip supply would be limited to whatever I could stash in my luggage. Which, well, wouldn't be nearly enough. Especially with the added stress of Adam Gallagher to eat about.

  "Can do. I'll see you Wednesday."

  "See you Wednesday. Love you."

  "Love you too," I said, hanging up, and turning to Albus. "So, we have to have a talk about the travel carrier..." As if he understood me, he gave me a hard look, and ran underneath the couch. "I figured that would be your feeling on the matter."

  On that thought, I got off of my couch and moved into my bathroom, closing the door and checking myself out in the full-length mirror attached to it. I pulled off my giant sweater, leaving me in yoga pants and a lightweight tank, my usual bum-around outfit.

  "Not that bad," I told myself, turning to the side and putting my hands to my belly. It really wasn't that bad. If I didn't have such unforgiving eyes, it probably wasn't even noticeable. I hadn't been exactly a stunner to begin with, being average in most ways, including my build. I wasn't fat, but not thin or overly curvy in the right spots either. I wasn't tall, or short. My hair was long, but a kind of messy mass of wavy medium-golden brown. Nothing exceptional, and it was usually piled at the top of my head in a messy bun. My face was pure my mother, which made me view it more kindly than the rest of me. I had her pale, milky skin, her naturally arched brows, her slightly oversize mouth, her understated nose, and her cheekbones. The only thing I got from my father, aside from my love of books, was his very light gray eyes.

  I turned, looking over my shoulder at my butt, then back around to fully face myself.

  Not bad.

  And maybe if I could cut the chip compulsion out for the next couple days, it could be even more not-bad.

  But, really, what were the chances of that?

  Especially with the knowledge of Adam Gallagher sitting across the dining room table from me and going to the football game with us and picking late season apples with us.

  He would probably be doing it in a three-piece suit, being a big time lawyer and all.

  And then an image of Adam, older, probably a hell of a lot more handsome with a little age, something it seemed only men were capable of. The bastards. Adam Gallagher with maybe a little stubble on his face that got a little more chiseled with age? Oh, yeah.

  I sighed, shaking my head at my reflection.

  Yeah, the Adam-thoughts were definitely not going to help the anxiety thing.

  I moved out of my bathroom into my bedroom that I had a sudden surge of insecurity about. As if he would see me and somehow magically know that my bedroom had seen more literary action than physical action in a long time. This was shown in the fact that the right side of my bed was piled with at least six books and the sheets were pink and the comforter had little pink and purple flowers on the cover. I was no nun. I had shared my bed with a man or two. Okay, literally only two. And then there was a boyfriend in college along with one God-awful one-night stand I was still trying to forget. That being said, the last man who warmed my bed was...

  "Jesus," I said, stopping dead in my tracks on the way to my closet.

  Eleven months.

  I hadn't been laid in eleven months.

  I went into my closet and dragged down the big, rolling purple suitcase my parents had bought me when I went off to college, in hopes that I would return frequently. I had an almost overwhelming urge to rip off the TARDIS patch I had sewn on the week I got it, wanting to give it a little personality.

  Like it mattered if Adam thought I was a nerd.

  I had always been.

  Things like that never changed.

  I opened it up and piled in leggings and jeans, some tees, autumnal sweaters, one dress, and pajamas. I paused as I went into my underwear drawer, shaking my head at the selections. Was there anything more telling of (almost) a year of celibacy like a underthings drawer full of beige, white, and black?

  On a sigh, I went back into my bathroom to get my sweater, slipped into shoes, grabbed my purse, and went out the door.

  To buy new underwear.

  And another bag of chips.

  Plain potato. It was a Defcon One kind of night.

  TWO

  Callie

  I was trying to ignore the pain on my arm under my sweater from where Albus had scratched me as I walked through the airport, pulling my purple bag behind me, holding Albus' carrier in the other, with a messenger bag full of books (okay, and some chips. Not a lot, I swear) worn cross-body in my funky fall-leaf printed leggings and giant (literally four sizes too big) gray sweater that almost came down to my knees and a pair of knock-around flat-heeled brown boots. My hair was in a messy bun on top of my head and my somewhat big hipster-ish black-rimmed glasses on my nose and pillow marks from my nap on the plane on my cheek.

  It was a look.

  But my father was never the type of person to notice things like that, being a retired school teacher and current guest professor, far too studious to care about fashion trends. It was perhaps what I loved best about him. And when I stepped outside and found my father waiting for me in a giant brown sweater with elbow patches that he had literally owned (and worn) since I was in elementary school, with his horn-rimmed glasses and sturdy oxfords on his feet with a book tucked under his arm, yeah, he was a real sight for sore eyes.

  He gave me a one-armed hug, as was customary for him, and a kiss to the temple as he reached for my suitcase. We started walking toward the car and he nodded down to my messenger bag. "What'd you bring?"

  I felt myself smile, never having found anything more comforting than a fellow bibliophile. "A little Hardy and some new paperbacks I found on the new release table."

  "And?" he prompted with a knowing smile.

  "Okay so I brought some Austen too. And maybe a collection of Poe. That's it, I swear."

  To that, he smiled warmly. "You do remember that I have all of those in the library at home."

  "My copies are prettier," I insisted. And they were. I was a sucker for new cover editions of classics. The Austens I had were in vibrant pink and purple and had matching edges to the pages.

  He tisk-tisked me as he put my suitcase in the trunk and opened the backseat for me to deposit Albus and his carrier.
"Since when have looks ever mattered?" he asked as I got into my seat and shivered a little, waiting for the heat to warm up.

  "Oh, since about middle school. But I love that you never saw it that way," I said honestly. "So is Mom in a tizzy already?"

  "Your mother?" he asked with a head shake as he turned us into traffic. "You know, I don't believe that woman even knows what a tizzy is."

  That was true enough. My mother, for all her perfect micromanaging, was never left scrambling. Everything went to schedule. I guess that was what made her an amazing project manager.

  "How's work been, Cal?"

  I felt my stomach clench hard at that, not wanting to lie, but also not wanting to worry them over the holiday either. "They recently joined up with another start-up," I said truthfully, leaving out the fact that the new start-up and the owners of said start-up were the reasons the company was going to go belly up in less than a year. The greedy jerks had a good thing going before then. Now everyone was going to be out of a job because they thought they could get bigger and better and richer.

  "Seems a little soon for that," my father said, biting on the inside of his cheek, a habit I inherited when I was mulling something over.

  "Yeah. Who knows. Let's not talk about work when that's what has kept me away for Thanksgiving for six years."

  "Fair enough."

  "Did Cory make it in yet?"

  "You know your brother," he said with a nod. Meaning, Cory never missed an opportunity for a home-cooked meal, even though he was closer to thirty than twenty.

  I nodded and let the silence fall between us, resisting the urge to ask about Adam. Partly because I didn't want to know and partly because I really did want to know and didn't want anyone else to know that I really wanted to know.

  We pulled into the drive about an hour later, the sound of some education CD in the radio keeping us companionably occupied.

  My parents had a lovely home. Really, even as an adult, I marveled at it. My father, bless him, never had any need for something quite as large and sprawling as their house. And he also never made the kind of money that would afford one. But my mother, for all her drive, did make that kind of money and did want the three story Colonial in a pretty light green color with crisp white trim. Really, it was two full floors with a dormer, three of those windows sticking out of the brown roof. I had a soft spot for that very top floor where I had insisted they move me when I was ten years old. Each of the windows had a built-in window seat with comfortable cushions so I could sit and read while looking out at the kids in the neighborhood playing. I loved the low ceilings and the way there were nooks and crannies everywhere. My room took up half the floor; the rest was made into a sitting room that my mother occasionally used when she wanted to get away from everyone and get some extra work done.