It's 1:30pm on Thanksgiving Day, and Sam is freezing. As she opens the door to Jack's Diner, the bell jingles merrily, and a gust of wind slams it shut behind her before she can catch it.

November in Minnesota is no joke, she's starting to realize.

She unbuttons her coat and lets out a breath, looking around at the cozy, cheerful, empty diner. It's warm and inviting, the walls dotted with framed hockey posters and jerseys and photos from the Boundary Waters, but the only other person is a guy sitting behind the counter, reading.

He looks up from his book with a surprised expression, like he wasn't expecting anyone to walk in. "Oh. Hi."

"Hi." She looks around. It is open, isn't it? Nothing else in town seems to have Thanksgiving hours, including the grocery store. She's just about out of options.

"Please, have a seat." He waves a hand at a stool in front of him. "Coffee?"

"Sure."

He walks back to the coffeepot, and Sam takes the opportunity to look him over. He's tall, lean, with silvery hair and lightly tanned skin. A soft dusting of scruff over his jaw. The faded plaid shirt and worn jeans she'd expect from someone in small-town Minnesota.

She tears her eyes away, blushing softly as he turns back towards her. No need to be creepy about it. It's not his fault he's –

- well. Not hard to look at.

"I'm Jack, by the way," he calls over his shoulder.

Makes sense. It's his diner. "I'm Sam."

He sets a cup and saucer in front of her. "Nice to meet you, Sam. You new in town, or just passing through?"

She nods. "I just moved to Minnesota – I'm teaching at the college. Still getting settled."

"Where'd you come from?"

"San Diego."

He winces. "Did anyone warn you about winters?"

"Many times."

"Good. Well, Happy Thanksgiving." He shoves his hands in his pockets, watching her with bright, perceptive brown eyes. "So what can I get you?"

She thinks for a few seconds, looking down at the plastic-covered menu on the counter. Nothing sticks out in particular; she's just hungry. "Surprise me?"

Jack looks at her for a long moment, pursing his lips, before he nods. "You trust me?"

Something turns in her chest, something soft and unbound, and she can't explain the sudden rush of warmth at the gentleness in his brown eyes.

"Sure."

"Okay then." He rubs his hands together. "Let me see what I can do."

She was half-expecting a burger or pasta, but when he sets the plate in front of her, she gapes. Definitely not regular diner fare. "What is this?"

"Steak pizzaiola." He nods at the bread. "And that's my special focaccia recipe. Just baked it this morning. Ultra top secret."

"So if you told me, you'd have to kill me?"

"Exactly."

It smells delicious, and her first bite proves that it tastes even better. The beef is rich, savory, fragrant with oregano and garlic, and it has just the perfect hint of spice. She swallows slowly, shaking her head. "This is incredible."

"Thanks." He folds his arms, clearly aiming for nonchalance, but she can tell he's pleased. "Glad you like it."

He goes back to the oven, poking around, and she's about to ask if he forgot something when he comes back to the counter with another plate of food, sets it down, and sits across from her, pouring himself a glass of water.

"Do you normally eat with your customers?" she asks, amused.

He shrugs. "When I'm hungry."

They eat in strangely companionable silence for a while. Sam steals glances at him, but it's something behind him that catches her attention.

It's a framed photo, tucked half-behind the register where it's hard to see. It shows Jack and a little boy. The kid is maybe six, and his sandy hair and sparkling brown eyes and crinkly smile are such a striking resemblance that she can guess exactly who it is.

She's about to say something, but instinct tells her not to.

Because it's Thanksgiving, but Jack's here, not spending the holiday with what is almost certainly his son.

And judging by how much darker his hair is in the photo, it's not new. It's several years old.

There's a story here she doesn't know. So she doesn't ask.

Eventually, she looks down at her empty plate and sets her fork on it, letting out a sigh. "That was delicious."

He still looks delighted, like he's personally proud that she enjoyed his cooking. "I'm glad you liked it."

"Really." She shakes her head. "I'm a terrible cook. I have no idea how to make something like that."

That makes him grin, but he just shrugs, brushing his hands over his jeans. "So – dessert?" He glances back into the kitchen. "Ah, we ran out of pie yesterday, but I think we've got blue jell-O."

Sam blinks. "Really?"

"Do you like jell-O?"

"Blue's my favorite."

"Well, that's it, then." He nods sagely. "It's destiny."

He takes their plates in the back and returns a minute later with two dishes of quivering, vivid blue jell-O, each carefully topped with a dollop of whipped cream.

"Here we are." He sits across from her. "A gourmet dessert."

Sam takes a bite. "Very good. Maybe not fancy, but it's good."

"Glad to hear that."

He takes his seat across from her. But rather than dig into his, though, Jack tilts his head, looking at her with curiosity. "If you don't mind my asking, how have you ended up in a tiny town in Minnesota?"

The question hits her like a fist.

Everything.

The whole mess with Pete, the cancelled wedding, her father's illness – it's all on the tip of her tongue, and she's been holding it in for so long that she's about to bring it all down on this man she's only just met, and why? Because he has soft eyes? Because he's hot?

Because she feels like she already knows him?

Sam forces a smile. "It's kind of a long story."

He reaches for the coffeepot and refills her cup.

"I'm not going anywhere."