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  Pumpkin and Spice

  Abby Knox

  Copyright © 2018 by Abby Knox

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

  Edited by Aquila Editing

  Cover Designer: Perfect Pear Cover Creations

  This book is dedicated to everyone going home for the holidays; may you succeed in avoiding the people who gave you that awful childhood nickname.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Epilogue

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Also by Abby Knox

  A sneak peek at the second part of the Windy City Holiday Duet

  By ABBY KNOX

  Maxine “Pumpkin” Novak is coming home to Chicago to do three things: eat turkey with her family; chill with her best friend, Joy; and avoid all the awful people who gave her that childhood nickname. But a run-in with a dreamy old classmate sidetracks her plans in a heartbeat, and gets her heart pounding.

  Bartender Talbot “Stoner” Spice has out-performed his high school epithet and whooped his childhood demons. Dividing all his time between running the neighborhood bar and caring for his widowed mother, he has never seen the need for a serious relationship. That all changes when his high school crush, Max, returns from California and walks into his bar two days before Thanksgiving. She doesn’t know it yet, but she’s not getting away from him again.

  Get ready for a full plate of hot, yummy Thanksgiving goodness that will melt your heart and leave you begging for more. And don’t forget the second installment of this two-part holiday treat, Comfort and Joy, releasing Dec. 21, 2018!

  Prologue

  Max

  1998

  I look out over the crowd while giving my commencement address. It’s a fine, prepared speech.

  And then, I make eye contact with several of the people who nicknamed me “Pumpkin” during freshman year when I was a little bit chubby and had worn an oversized orange sweater on the first cold day of fall.

  Even though I’ve since lost the weight and the sweater, the nickname stuck. Not even the headmaster, Monsignor Roberts, had done jack shit about it.

  I despise these people. Well, most of them.

  I continue, off script.

  “…And so, fellow graduates of the class of 1998, take what you’ve learned here at Saint Emil’s…and throw it out the window because none of it matters.

  “Monsignor Roberts, it’s been real. Real what? I don’t know, because I never once saw a smile on your face.

  “And by the way, speaking of ice-cold shoulders, I’ll never have to see any of you, or suffer through another Chicago winter, again. Tomorrow, I’m going to California and I hope never to return. Buh-bye!”

  My commencement address will go down in history as canon for all who attend Saint Emil’s Catholic High School after this.

  I do indeed have a one-way ticket to San Diego in the morning, where I will spend the summer working before attending SDSU in the fall.

  But before I go home to pack, I toss my cap and gown in the trash, throw on my little black dress, dig out my fake ID and head to Butch’s Bar with my best friend, Joy.

  At the bar, Joy and I want nothing more than to dish on the day’s events.

  “Did you see the look on Roberts’ face?” Joy says, howling after a couple too many Miller Lites.

  But we’re rudely interrupted by a visit from Rick Fullerton, the prom king and captain of Saint Emil’s championship football team.

  “I didn’t know you ladies had connections to get served,” he says. As always, bringing up social status is his conversational go-to.

  I cock my head to the side. “Well, Rick, when one acquires a contraband photo ID, one doesn’t squander it on mediocre nights out.”

  “Too bad,” he says, clearly not getting that I just insulted him. “You might have made some real friendships at Saint Emil’s, instead of…I don’t know, pretending you’re Ally Sheedy or something.” His gaze falls to my black dress, probably also surveying my black eye shadow and withering Morticia Addams stare.

  Joy clears her throat. “Well, you see, Rick, this is grad night, and Max and I are friends. And to top it off, Max and I are going our separate ways after tonight, so we’d appreciate being left alone. Get the message?”

  God, do I love Joy. I hate that I’m leaving her tomorrow.

  Rick huffs and backs away. “Fine. You lesbos have fun. Don’t drink too much, or you’ll get the bar shut down and everything will be chaos. But you do like to go nuclear, don’t you? That speech today…”

  I roll my eyes and toss back my beer. “God, you like to talk when you drink. Those are the most words you’ve ever said to me, and I’ve known you since pre-K Sunday School. Bye, now.”

  I wave off the football hero with one more flick of my wrist.

  Joy laughs and we share an eye roll and another round of beers.

  Stoner

  1998

  I eye my high school crush from my spot at the back corner table of the neighborhood dive bar, wishing I had the nerve to stand up and go speak to her.

  But I’m nothing to her other than the bigh school loner, Talbot “Stoner” Spice. She’s leaving in the morning, for good. And tonight, she looks like she’s getting truly tanked.

  Well, it’s grad night. Let her celebrate.

  On the other hand, her being drunk also means that I have no chance to tell her how I feel.

  Shit.

  What had I been thinking, following her to the bar? There’s no good outcome for this.

  Until there is.

  The bar is getting ready to close up, and Max and Joy are still enjoying their evening, laughing it up. Fullerton and his cronies are also standing around, casting smirks toward Max and Joy’s table.

  Rick and his buddies are not nearly as drunk as Max and Joy. I watch those douche-nozzles put their heads together, and I can tell they’re up to no good.

  And then I see it. It’s last call, and somebody orders up glasses of beer. Another one of them stirs something into the amber liquid.

  I act quickly. I approach the girls’ table.

  “Ladies, hi. I just wanted to let you know I overheard somebody calling the police. They’re gonna be here any minute to raid the place for serving minors. Why don’t you come with me and I’ll make sure you get home safe?”

  “Nice try,” Max says with a wink that cranks up my infatuation to another level. Holy shit. This woman has no idea of the effect she has on me.

  I’m going to have to come right out with it. “Look,” I say. “Rick and his buddies just bought you drinks and roofied ’em.”

  I leave them sitting there stunned as I go to the bar to tell the bartender what’s going on.

  I don’t wait to see how anything plays out, but the girls follow me to my car.

  “But I’m not ready to go home,” Joy says as I pile he
r and Max into the back seat.

  Max laughs, and it’s the most beautiful sound I’ve ever heard.

  “Joy, come on. I have an early flight,” I hear her say as I close her passenger door and run to the other side.

  The girls chat drowsily on the way up Milwaukee Avenue.

  “Excuse me, where do you live, Joy?” I ask, regretting having to interrupt the most heart-clenchingly beautiful sounds that’s ever fallen on my ears: Max, happy.

  Joy manages to give me directions and I wind my way around the neighborhood until I find the place. I park the car and step out. I wait on the curb for a few moments, giving the girls some privacy to say their tearful, drunk goodbyes and declarations of who loves who more.

  Finally, I help Joy out of the car and hand her off to her brother, who’s outside, about to hop in his car to look for her.

  When I get back to the car, Max has jumped into the front seat and is fiddling with the stereo. She squeals about a song that pops up on WXRT and opens my sunroof.

  I don’t bother asking her where she lives. I already know.

  She sings, car-dances, and howls at the moon all the way to her parents’ house, just a few blocks away.

  When I park the car, I let the song finish before cutting the engine.

  “Thank you, Stoner.”

  “You’re welcome,” I say, smirking over at her. She’s so beautiful with her dark hair and red lips and rhinestone choker. I would give anything to kiss those lips right now, but it wouldn’t be right.

  “Stoner?”

  “Yeah?”

  She laughs. “Why do people call you that?”

  I chuckle. “Long story. I’ll tell you sometime when you’re sober.”

  She gasps and pats my arm. “Stoner? Stoner. Stoner. You should totally email me when I get to California.”

  “OK.”

  I have her email address too. I committed it to memory when she and I and some other students had been assigned to a group project together in school junior year. But what would be the point of emailing her after she’s gone?

  “I mean it, Stoner.”

  I love hearing the sound of my name—even my stupid nickname—on her lips.

  “I know you do,” I say. “We should get you inside and to bed.”

  “I’m gonna miss this, Stoner.”

  “What’re you going to miss, Max?” On the one hand, I hate that she’s drunk because I want to kiss her so damn hard. On the other hand, it’s a good thing she’s drunk, because she’s not registering how intensely I’m studying her. Memorizing her heart-shaped face and full lips.

  She doesn’t know it, and it’s too late to tell her this now, but she’s my constant. Max is the face I think about when I’m happy. Hers is the face that pulls me out of the darkness when I’m in the bad place. I don’t know if this is love; I might not ever know.

  “Well, I’ll tell you what I’m not gonna miss,” Max slurs, backtracking on whatever she was going to say at first. “I’m not gonna miss these jerks calling me Pumpkin. I’m definitely not going to miss dirty snow everywhere you look in January, February, March, sometimes even in April.”

  “That is ugly,” I agree.

  “And,” she adds, pointing a finger vaguely in the direction of south, where the school is by the way of the crow’s flight, “I’m not gonna miss that creepo priest. Monsignor Roberts. Ugh. What a phony. I don’t know why, but he always gave me the willies.”

  A burning knot of bile creeps up in my throat and I swallow it down. Keep it light. Don’t engage in this topic with a drunk girl. Especially not a drunk girl you like who is leaving town.

  “And, I am gonna miss WXRT. I mean, do they even have good radio in San Diego?”

  I laugh. “I’m sure they do. Probably even better.”

  She leans in and points a finger at me. “I’m gonna hold you to that, Spice. Splice. Spruce. Spice.” She laughs at herself mispronouncing my name.

  “OK, time for bed.”

  I go around to her side of the car and help her out. We walk together up the stoop, where I help her open the door to the tall, narrow house.

  It’s nice letting her lean on me. Once inside, we climb the stairs to the second floor. She smells like beer but I also smell her perfume underneath it. It reminds me of the beach. We make our way together down the hall. I stop when she points to her bedroom door, and she manages to shuffle over to the bed. With her permission I help her take off her high heels and cover her with a chenille blanket.

  “You were one of the nice ones, Stoner,” she says with a sigh, snuggling down into her bed. I fetch a glass of water from the hallway bathroom, being extra careful not to wake any other family members. I even find some Tylenol in the medicine cabinet and place it on her nightstand. She’s going to need both in the morning.

  Her voice is muffled in the pillow, but I can still make out the words. “How come you never asked me out, Stoner?”

  I creep out of the house and back down to my car.

  There are three things I know for sure. One: Someday, I’m going to buy Butch’s and the priest’s residence next door. Two: I’m going to take a sledgehammer to the latter. I don’t know how I’m going to make this happen, but it’s going to happen.

  And three: I know I’m never going to see Max “Pumpkin” Novak again.

  Chapter 1

  Max

  2018

  Two days before Thanksgiving

  As soon as the plane arrives at the gate at O’Hare, I check my messages. There are dozens from my staff and friends in San Diego, mostly wishing me a safe trip home to Chicago.

  Unexpectedly, a call comes through.

  “Hi, Paula,” I say, grinning as I answer.

  “Hey, girl. I know you need this vacation time to think about it, but I just wanted to reiterate to you that Green Wave really, really wants to buy your company. I’ve spoken to the partners and they’ve doubled my offer.”

  My heart floats up into my throat. “Doubled? OK…”

  Paula squeals on the other end. “OK as in, you’ll think about it over this week? Or OK as in, yes, email me the paperwork today and I’ll sign the Crunchy Agency over to you right this minute?”

  I laugh. “I mean OK as in, I’m not even off the plane yet and I’m starving. I’ll talk to you in a few days, after I’ve had all the pumpkin pie my hips can handle. I just need to step away for a bit and put things in perspective.”

  Paula understands. Green Wave is the biggest advertising agency in the world, marketing products to environmentally conscious consumers. And I know that my own brand, Crunchy, caught Green Wave’s attention for a good reason.

  A number of Crunchy’s humorous ad campaigns about green products had gone viral on YouTube, and I had a direct hand in every creative choice.

  “I think Crunchy will bring a much-needed boost of energy to this giant machine of a company, and we’ll pay top dollar,” Paula reminds me. “OK, I’ll leave you alone now.”

  Paula gave me the pitch last week. The pitch came with an offer with so many zeros behind it that I would never have to work again, if I took it. Neither would anyone in my family, for that matter.

  I say goodbye to Paula and then dial up my dad, who’s waiting in the cell phone parking lot. Despite my success and my ability to rent and drive a car on my own, my father insisted the whole family drive to O’Hare to pick me up.

  They do this every time I visit, which is usually only on Christmas.

  When my dad, Ed, answers the phone, I get a jolt of unexpected happiness from down deep in my stomach. “Hey Daddy. My plane just landed. Should be outside the terminal in about ten minutes.”

  “Roger that, Maximus. I’m leaving the cell phone lot right now. Aren’t these things amazing?”

  I smile as I hang up. Yes, mobile phones are so amazing that I can summon a Lyft with the touch of button. But my daddy is so proud to be able to do “Dad” things like pick me up from the airport, I’m not going to take that away from him.r />
  “Where’s Mom and Sam?” I ask when my dad’s Suburban pulls up to the curb outside of arrivals. The SUV is empty except for him.

  My dad hugs me and kisses me, ignoring the Chicago traffic cop who is blowing her whistle and urging us to quickly load up the car and go.

  My dad shrugs. “Oh, you know.”

  I give him a sympathetic look. “Samantha stuff?”

  He nods, but then his spirits pick up as he happily helps me load my bags, commenting on the sturdiness of my fancy new luggage and chattering about my flight and whatnot, continuing to ignore the urging of the whistle. Ed Novak takes his time.

  On the way back to the house, the same house I grew up in, he asks all about my flight. He’s always highly impressed with my anecdotes about mimosas and warm cookies.

  “You know, you and Mom could fly first class on your trips to see me,” I say as I stare out the window as we pass the outer northwest suburbs of the city.

  “Ah, that’s not for us, we’re not fancy people.”

  “If you sold the house and moved into a retirement community in the suburbs, you’d have enough cash to do whatever you want. You know that, right?”

  He waves me off.

  I know my parents would never sell the house; it’s been in the family more than a century. They’re not rich people. But they’re definitely not poor, by any stretch. My parents have money because they barely ever spend money. That’s their generation, the children of immigrants, and I love them for it.

  “Hey, is Mom making kolaczki cookies this year? I am dying for some.” My mouth is already watering thinking about those little folded, buttery confections, filled with jam and dusted with powdered sugar.