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  Joan pulled her red SUV into the winding redbrick driveway right behind Donovan, leaving him to wonder if this was a trap. If Joan had figured out what was going on this morning, she hadn’t let on when they’d met her downstairs in the lobby.

  “Hey, Daddy.” British walked across the manicured lawn and maneuvered her way through the already-placed Christmas decorations. “What do you have going on here? I thought the Christmas Council said no decorations are supposed to be put up before Thanksgiving.”

  A twinge of guilt hit Donovan. He kicked the toe of his Timberlands against the bottom of the car to get any dirt off and to distract himself for a moment. He wondered what his brothers were doing right about now. Will said he and Zoe were heading out of town, which seemed like an odd thing to do this time of year but maybe that was marriage and the two wanted to be alone. Donovan understood. He preferred to stay in on the traditional family holiday instead of being pecked with questions from his sisters about Tracy’s absence or worse, whether Donovan had made any headway on finding a new spokesmodel for RC.

  His family gathered every year at his grandmother Naomi’s compound for an old-fashioned, catered Thanksgiving. Given that Naomi had spent her whole life cultivating the company, learning how to cook was never one of her strong suits. No one in his family had learned how... Well, the twins, Dana and Eva, had learned once they married. Maybe later he’d give them a call. The caterers usually left around four in the afternoon. Making a mental note, Donovan took a deep breath.

  “Thanksgiving started at midnight,” said her father, wagging his finger at his daughter. They met at the bottom step and he pulled her into a big bear hug, twirling her around in the air. Like her mother, British’s father was equally tall. “Who’s this?”

  “This is Donovan,” said British.

  At the exact moment British turned to face him, Donovan blew out his held breath. How was she going to describe him? What were they? Why did he care? He didn’t believe in labels. Usually it took him weeks to figure out what category to place women. They never made it to girlfriend status, though the media may have suggested different.

  “Donovan,” British went on, “this is my dad, Levi Woodbury.”

  “I already told you,” Joan told her husband with a huff and a wink at Donovan.

  “Ah, yes, I remember now.” Levi Woodbury stepped forward and extended his beefy hand. “Pleased to meet you, son. Welcome to Thanksgiving at the Woodburys’.”

  “Wait,” a little voice said from the wooden door with the stained glass window, “so we have another member for the football game?”

  British leaned at the waist. “Eli? Is that you or a grown man?”

  A little kid fully emerged onto the porch in a pair of superhero turtle pajamas. In a while, British managed to greet a half dozen or so nieces and nephews, who all surrounded her like she was a celebrity. Their screaming brought out British’s siblings and, one by one, Donovan met her family.

  “Donovan, this is my brother Finn, my sister Cree, and twin sister and brother, Irish and Scots.”

  Donovan tried to remember everyone’s name. They all favored each other and shared a blend of their parents’ looks. The two sisters favored British with their curly hair but their attitudes were completely different. One of them seemed to mother British while the other smothered her. Both ladies fussed over British’s hair to the point where she ended up tying it in a bun at the top of her head, which only got them talking about her denim leggings and green Converse shoes not being representable.

  “Leave my baby alone,” Levi spoke up. “She’s dressed just fine. They were fourteen and fifteen when British came along so as you can see, they like to pretend she’s theirs.”

  “Thanks, Daddy.” The rest of the Woodbury family rolled their eyes.

  “Donovan—” Levi turned his attention from his kids “—you look to be in good shape.”

  “I try, sir.”

  “Great, we’re waiting for the turkey to get done but in the meantime the rest of us are going to play some football,” said Levi. “My crybaby boys have been complaining about being on my team.”

  Scots stepped forward with his hands in the air. “You see that, man?” he said to Donovan. “My pops doesn’t know how to throw yet he insists on playing quarterback. See my hand? See my crooked fingers?” Scots thrust his fingers in Donovan’s face.

  “You’re supposed to catch with your hands like this.” Their father demonstrated the proper way for everyone. “Are you a crier?” Levi asked Donovan.

  “He doesn’t cry.” British’s declaration might have signed Donovan’s death warrant.

  Given the size of Levi, Donovan understood why the man wanted to play. However, the evidence staring him in the face gave him pause. Thankfully, Finn stepped forward. Like his father, he was dressed in a pair of green camouflage overalls. “We’re going huntin’, Pop.”

  Relieved, Donovan’s shoulders dropped. “Aw, man.”

  “Don’t listen to them,” Joan said. “No one is going anywhere.”

  The men and boys, including Levi, all sighed with disappointment, not that Joan seemed to care. She kept walking up the porch steps. “The turkey is not the only thing that’s not ready. I need some help in the kitchen. Donovan?”

  Donovan smiled apologetically at the group. “Sorry, but if the food is going to taste as good as it smells now, I’ve got to go with her.”

  “Smart friend you have here,” Cree said, linking her arm through Donovan’s.

  “Yeah, British,” Irish chimed in. “Where have you been hiding him?”

  “I,” British declared, “haven’t been hiding him anywhere. He’s been hanging out at Magnolia Palace.”

  Donovan heard the catty tone between the sisters. He waited for British to claim him...yet he still didn’t know why. He’d known women a lot longer than he had her and cared less what they thought of him.

  The inside of the Woodburys’ home was not as Christmassy as the outside. A bare tree stood in the corner of the living room to the right. Two women were cleaning off the mantel, placing pictures in a box. Donovan wished he’d seen them. What had British looked like as a child? He pegged her as a tomboy wearing overalls, hunting gear and pigtails. The ladies stopped what they were doing to come and greet the two of them. They each hugged British and introduced themselves to Donovan as the wives of Scots and Finn. Jenny and Scots had been married for ten years, Nicole and Finn fifteen. Two gentlemen came downstairs, complaining about being abandoned in the attic, but stopped once they saw their young sister-in-law. British hugged them and introduced Cree’s and Irish’s husbands, Tom and Robert.

  A long table with a fall-themed tablecloth stood in the center of the dining room with a table setting for sixteen.

  Joan led them through the dining room into the kitchen with a long bar. Beyond the bar sat a breakfast nook with a table filled with coloring books and crayons. Covered dishes lined the bar. Pots and pans boiled on the flat-topped stove and when Joan leaned over to open the crowded oven, the savory smell of roasting turkey filled the air. Donovan’s stomach growled.

  “We have been nibbling all morning,” Joan said to him. She pointed at the credenza in the open space of the family room with different levels of brunch foods ranging from a stack of pancakes, sausage and bacon to waffles and eggs under a clear dome.

  The Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade played on the wide-screen television mounted on the wall in front of an L-shaped gray couch. A set of matching gray love seats sat against the half wall that led to a staircase to the second floor. An oversize fir tree stood on the opposite side of the room by the sliding-glass doors.

  “We’re starving,” said British, taking hold of Donovan’s elbow.

  “‘We’?” Cree picked up on her sister’s choice of words.

  British glared at her before grabbing a silver-trimmed plate. “Yes ‘we.�
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  “Donovan...” began Joan. “We know British has been staying at Magnolia Palace with the STEM girls. Have they been bothering your stay in Southwood?”

  Donovan accepted a plate from British. “I wouldn’t say bothering me.”

  “Please, he’s practically a member of the team by now,” British groaned. They stood side by side in front of the food and when she looked up at him, she winked.

  Returning the wink, Donovan bumped her shoulder. “We’re thinking about changing it to Guys Raised in the South, huh?”

  Before laughing, British rolled her eyes. “How many times do I have to tell you, Miami is not the South?”

  “You’re from Miami?” Joan asked him as she straightened the tablecloth.

  “Yes, ma’am,” answered Donovan.

  The other Woodbury men came into the kitchen and began quickly snacking and grabbing cookies from a Christmas-tree-shaped, tiered metal tray by the double-door refrigerator. “Stop it,” said Joan, shaking a crayon at them. “You’ll ruin your meal.”

  “This meal is taking forever,” said Scots. His wife, Jenny, joined his side and took the cookie away from him.

  Donovan fiddled with the plate in his hand and smiled. He missed his family.

  “The new guy gets to eat,” Finn pointed out.

  “His name is Donovan,” Joan clarified, “and he’s a guest in this home. Next Thanksgiving, he won’t get the same treatment.”

  Something about the idea of a return to Southwood filled Donovan with something...good. It wasn’t like he hadn’t been around family before. In fact, British’s family structure resembled Donovan’s, including the constant bantering. When his cousins and siblings joked around, their banter always dealt with the family business. Donovan cocked his head to the side and recalled that most of their exchanges surrounded who did better in their field or who was responsible for sales. British’s family was more relaxed. They teased British about her failed science experiments that had led to the kitchen being remodeled twice. It was clear everyone in British’s family was proud of her. Donovan could get used to this atmosphere.

  “Great, more hands to help decorate at midnight,” Scots said. “I’m ready for a nap.”

  “So we’re not going hunting tonight?” Finn spoke up.

  British slid into her seat at the nook. “If you’re going hunting, does this mean Black Friday shopping is out tomorrow?”

  “Black Friday shopping?” Donovan pierced his sausage link with a fork and perked up. “I want to go.”

  “No,” said British.

  “C’mon.” Joan beamed. “British, mind your manners. Donovan, would you like to go with us tomorrow?”

  “I’d love to. I’ve never been.”

  British bowed her head. The sisters-in-law dropped their tinsel, the sisters wavered in near-faints, and all of the Woodbury men and in-laws wiped their hands down their faces. Donovan chuckled at everyone’s reactions. He felt the need to explain. “With my schedule, I usually shop online for everyone.”

  “You have no idea what you’ve just done,” British said under her breath.

  Donovan shrugged his shoulders. “What? I’m looking forward to this.”

  “We wake up at three,” said Irish. She took a seat across from the two of them and propped her elbows on the table. A few strands of gray stretched through her curly brown hair, which she kept in a side bun. Donovan couldn’t guess her exact age, but she aged beautifully. “What do you do for a living, Donovan?”

  “He works for his family’s company,” British supplied. “He’s in finance.”

  “Oh, you must love math,” Irish said, sitting back. “The two of you must have a lot in common.”

  Cree came over and joined them with two glass mason jars of tea. Like her sister, the only way Donovan could tell she was of a certain age was by the gray in her hair and the slight crinkles at the corners of her eyes when she smiled, which she did every time she looked at her baby sister.

  “Donovan,” Cree said, “do you recall your first words, or at least what your parents said?”

  British dropped her fork. “Seriously, Cree? Mom,” she whined.

  “Cree, leave your sister to her friend.”

  Ignoring the warning, Cree, thankfully, continued. “We all knew British was going to be smart because her first words weren’t anything like ‘mama’ or ‘daddy.’”

  “Or ‘sister,’” Irish interjected, “as in the sister who stayed up with her so the old no-business-having-kids-after-forty could get rest.”

  A deep belly laugh filled the kitchen. Levi wrapped his arms around his wife’s waist and dipped her back for a kiss—but not before making a statement to make all of the other adults groan. “We’re still trying.”

  “Every single night,” Joan gloated.

  British was the first to recuperate. Her eyes were still wide and cheeks beet red. “You see why I didn’t want you to meet my parents?”

  “They’re cute,” said Donovan. They certainly were different from his parents, Mark and Evelyn Ravens. It wasn’t like Donovan grew up in a strict household, just a busy, business-oriented one. The company came first. Yes, the family spent time together but most of it was at the corporate office in Miami. Donovan’s parents provided the best for their children and he appreciated the things he was given. It was just different here, warmer almost. His parents touched when they posed for cameras at functions. British’s parents touched each other, a lot, whether with a pat on the back, a brush against each other’s shoulders or even a flat-out kiss. This was better. “I want to be like that one day.”

  “Married?” British’s eyebrows went up. She bumped his shoulder again, seemingly intent on teasing him.

  The notion suddenly didn’t seem so frightening. “Yes,” he responded honestly.

  “On behalf of my brothers and sisters, I apologize for our parents’ behavior,” said Cree.

  “Whatever,” groaned Irish. “We only have to worry when Daddy starts talking in his accents.”

  Everyone started to laugh and even though Donovan had no idea what was going on, he laughed, too. The rest of the morning melted into the noon hour. Donovan helped in the kitchen for a while. He sliced through hard-boiled eggs, whipped up the cream for the dessert later and stirred the greens several times. While the turkey finished up in the oven, Levi wanted to get out in the yard with his new partner. The football game consisted of Donovan, the brothers-in-law and Levi on one team versus the other Woodburys. Donovan’s team won but Cree’s husband, Tom, got hurt in a tackle...by his wife.

  Joan declared the home football game over and invited everyone inside for dinner. Once the meal was blessed, dishes began being passed around. Donovan stuffed himself on dressing, collard greens, sweet potato soufflé for dessert, turkey and ham. He paced himself to make room for the baked goods. All types of desserts sat on the credenza where breakfast had been served and included apple pie, sweet potato pie, dark chocolate cake and a yellow cake slathered in chocolate icing by British’s four nieces. Since Cree lived up north with her husband, someone had made a pumpkin pie and sat it down next to the sweet potato one. Donovan impressed the family with his knowledge of the difference between the orange pies.

  Once they loaded the dishwasher after the meal, everyone settled down into the family room to watch football. Cree and her husband went upstairs. The half dozen nieces wanted British to read them a bedtime story and Donovan did not mind hanging out with the rest of the Woodburys. He sat on the edge of the couch and rooted for the Dallas Cowboys; they had recorded the Dallas game earlier so they could finish watching the Detroit one after the family football match. Donovan was in his element. It felt great to relax around these people he just met today. They brought him into the fold and Donovan felt like one of the Woodburys and couldn’t wait to do this for the next holiday. The thought made him sit up.


  “Hey, Donovan,” Irish whispered from her seat in one of the chairs by the stairs.

  Donovan turned his gaze away from the television. Irish thumbed through one of the boxes with Christmas items at the side of the chair. “Hi, Irish.”

  “In case you haven’t realized, we’re all happy to have you here this evening.”

  “I’m grateful for you all inviting me into your home and taking me under your wing,” Donovan replied. Their maternal grandmother, who had arrived just before the meal, seemed to approve, as well. At least, he thought so, if there was any indication coming from the way Joan’s mother clung to his arm the entire meal. British had found it embarrassing but Donovan had not. She was pushing one hundred, but Donovan saw clearly that Joan’s genes had started with her. Impressive to sit at a table with four generations of beauty.

  Robert, Irish’s husband, cleared his throat when he came into the family room with a plate of apple pie. “It took having our third child before I was allowed to help with dinner.”

  “And after that you were banned,” Finn stated.

  Levi snorted in his sleep.

  “Well, I am glad to see British happy,” said Irish.

  “I am not sure it’s my doing,” Donovan replied. “But I do know she’s fun to be around.”

  Scots stretched his legs across his wife’s in the love seat. “Exactly how much time are you planning on spending with our little sister? Ouch,” he cried out when his hair was pulled. “What?”