The Thanksgiving Game

SLOANE

By the time Riley pulled into the driveway with my newly resurrected car, Victoria had already turned the kitchen into a full-scale culinary war zone.

Riley leaned out the driver’s window, grinning. “Good news: your car lives. Bad news: Jake says it still smells like your tragic coffee addiction.”

“It smells normal,” Jake called from the back seat.

“It smells like burned ambition,” Priya added.

Leah slid out laughing. “You’re welcome, by the way. Some of us sacrificed our entire Wednesday for this rescue mission.”

Victoria materialized in the doorway before I could answer. “Nobody is leaving without coming inside.”

And just like that, my house went from full of my people to full of family.

Thanksgiving started at eight a.m. with butter, chaos, and Victoria running the operation like a cashmere-clad general.

By nine-thirty every counter was occupied. Bowls of peeled potatoes floated in cloudy water. Three pie crusts stood at attention. Stuffing ingredients lay in precise piles, and there was enough celery to suggest Victoria had trust issues about shortages. The air smelled like onions, sage, cinnamon, and crisp turkey skin.

It should have felt cozy.

Instead I stood at the island chopping herbs with a knife sharper than my emotional judgment while Chase Hartley leaned against the fridge, eating a deviled egg like he hadn’t spent the last fifteen hours looking at me like he wanted to ruin every wholesome tradition in the house.

Relatives started arriving at ten.

Victoria’s older sister Laura hugged like she was trying to fuse bones. Richard’s cousin Mark and his wife Denise brought two unasked-for bottles of wine and immediately critiqued the centerpiece. A pair of teenagers I’d met once at the wedding and instantly forgotten. Great-Aunt Vivian in pearls, calling everyone “darling” with quiet aristocratic disappointment.

The house swelled with noise.

And through all of it, Chase and I performed the same awful, stupid dance.

Nothing obvious. Nothing reckless.

Just enough to make breathing difficult.

His hand brushing the small of my back when he passed me at the stove. My elbow grazing his ribs at the sink because neither of us moved out of the way fast enough. Low comments tossed like dull knives.

“You’re overdicing the parsley,” he murmured once, close enough that only I heard.

“It’s parsley, not surgery.”

“It can be both.”

I chopped three times harder than necessary.

At eleven-fifteen, while everyone else crowded the living room pretending to care about football and baby photos, I escaped upstairs for thirty seconds of uninterrupted air.

My room was quiet. Blissfully, beautifully quiet.

I shut the door, leaned back against it, and exhaled hard.

Then I saw the box on my bed.

Small. Matte black. No tag. No ribbon.

Just sitting dead center on the duvet like a threat.

I crossed the room slowly, every internal alarm already screaming before I even touched it.

Inside the lid, in Chase’s unmistakable handwriting, was a folded card.

*For stress relief. Since you’re one passive-aggressive comment away from stabbing somebody with a carving fork.*

*Happy Thanksgiving.*

*— C*

I stared at the note.

Then at the object nestled in tissue paper beneath it.

Rose-gold. Small. Unmistakably not appropriate for a family holiday.

“Oh my God,” I whispered to the empty room.

I glanced at the door like he might be standing outside, grinning.

No sound. No movement.

Just me and the most deranged gift I’d ever received.

I should have thrown it away. Or at least hidden it somewhere no one would ever find it.

Instead—because I am apparently a person made of very bad instincts—I picked it up and turned it over in my hand. Warm. Smooth. Quietly expensive. The kind of thing designed to look harmless until you knew exactly what it was.

“Are you insane?” I muttered, half to Chase (who wasn’t there) and half to myself (because this was not the kind of object that belonged in a house currently full of relatives and sweet potatoes).

I set it back in the box.

Picked it up again.

Set it down.

Then, because curiosity is just self-destruction in nicer shoes, I slid it inside me and pressed the small power button with my thumb.

A low buzz purred to life.

I jumped so hard I nearly dropped it.

“Jesus Christ.”

I hit the button again. It went quiet.

A knock sounded at my door.

“Sloane?” Riley’s voice. “Why are you hiding? And why did I just hear you say ‘Jesus Christ’ like the ghost of bad decisions past showed up?”

I froze.

Then moved all at once. Box shut. Drawer open. Box shoved inside. Drawer slammed.

“Coming!”

I opened the door wearing what I hoped was complete innocence.

Riley stood there in a green sweater and boots, one brow already raised. “You look guilty.”

“I look busy.”

“You look like you just buried evidence.”

I laughed too fast. “You’re dramatic.”

She leaned against the doorframe and glanced past me. “Your house is feral downstairs. Jake is losing a one-man war against your aunt’s cheese board, Priya is helping your dad label Tupperware like she’s on payroll, and Leah is somehow flirting with one of your second cousins.”

“That tracks.”

Riley narrowed her eyes. “And you are definitely hiding something.”

Before I could answer, Chase’s voice floated up the hallway.

“Riley, if you’re interrogating her, at least make it useful. Ask her why she nearly salted the cranberry sauce to death.”

He appeared at the top of the stairs in a dark sweater and those stupidly good slacks that made him look less like a college hockey player and more like the man women in holiday movies made terrible choices about.

His eyes found mine.

Then flicked once to the closed nightstand drawer.

Heat flooded my face.

Riley missed it entirely because she was rolling her eyes at him. “Please. I’m doing God’s work.”

“You’d need a better résumé,” he said.

“Still prettier than yours.”

He smiled lazily. “Debatable.”

I hated both of them for acting normal when my nightstand now contained a vibrating felony.

Riley pushed off the frame. “Come downstairs before Laura starts assigning pie-serving rotations.”

I followed because staying would look suspicious and because if I stayed alone with Chase for ten seconds I was going to say something homicidal.

As we passed him in the hall, he stepped aside—just not far enough.

His hand brushed my wrist.

“You opened it,” he said, so quietly only I could hear.

I didn’t look at him.

I just kept walking and said through clenched teeth, “I’m going to kill you.”

His soft laugh followed me down the stairs.

Dinner happened in stages because there were too many people for one table and too much food for human dignity.

Victoria had added an extension leaf and a smaller card table by the bay window. Candles. Linen napkins. Place cards in her annoyingly elegant handwriting. The kind of spread that belonged in a magazine—except for Jake nearly dropping gravy on Aunt Vivian before the meal even started.

I ended up at the main table, of course. Between Riley and Denise, directly across from Chase, with Victoria at one end and Dad at the other playing happy patriarch like this whole meal wasn’t one bad joke away from ending me.

The table glittered with serving dishes: turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, green beans, honey-glazed carrots, and the cranberry sauce I had not, despite Chase’s slander, murdered with salt.

Through grace and passing dishes and Laura asking if I had “any nice young men” at school, the knowledge of the box upstairs sat in the back of my brain like a lit fuse.

Chase was infuriatingly composed. He carved turkey for Aunt Vivian. Passed the stuffing. Answered questions about Dalton and hockey and classes with easy charm. He looked every inch the dutiful almost-son.

And every time someone else looked away, his gaze returned to me.

Not soft. Not kind.

Just knowing.

Like he’d left a bomb under my skin and was waiting to see what I’d do with it.

“You’re being weird,” Riley murmured out of the side of her mouth while Denise told a story about a Pilates instructor with boundary issues.

“I’m at a family holiday.”

“No, this is different weird. This is internal-screaming weird.”

“I’m fine.”

Riley snorted. “That answer should be retired by force.”

Across the table, Chase bit into a roll without breaking eye contact.

I looked away first.

Bad choice.

My phone buzzed in my lap.

Not a text.

A vibration.

Different.

My whole body went rigid.

For one stupid second I thought it was nerves. Then it happened again—a soft, low thrum deep inside me. I nearly dropped my fork.

Across the table Chase lifted his water glass and took a slow sip, expression unchanged.

That motherfucker.

The vibration cut off.

I looked at him again.

He had one hand under the table.

And he smiled.

The vibration returned, stronger. A sharp, humming pulse that locked my spine and curled my toes inside my boots. I bit the inside of my cheek so hard I tasted blood.

The cranberry sauce spoon slipped. An indecent amount plopped onto my plate.

Denise laughed. “Somebody likes cranberries.”

Riley glanced at my plate, then my face, then narrowed her eyes. “You are definitely on something.”

I kept my smile plastered in place. “Holiday spirit.”

Chase reached for the green beans. “She gets mean when she’s hungry.”

I kicked him under the table. Hard.

He didn’t flinch.

The pulse dragged on, steady and impossible to ignore. Every shift of my legs made it worse. Breathing felt dangerous.

And the bastard across from me looked like the portrait of clean family values.

Aunt Vivian was explaining the decline of formal dinner parties. Mark was on his second glass of wine. Priya was politely correcting Denise on Brussels-sprout seasoning from the kids’ table.

I was being quietly tormented by a rose-gold vibrator while Chase discussed stuffing texture with my father.

“Too much sage ruins it,” he said, reaching for more green beans.

I actually hated him.

The vibration cut off suddenly. Relief nearly made me sag.

Then my phone lit up under the napkin.

**CHASE:** You’re clenching.

My face went nuclear.

I typed back with one hand, keeping my expression neutral through an aunt’s story about a church raffle gone wrong.

**ME:** I’m going to stab you with the turkey fork.

He read it. Smiled into his mashed potatoes.

**CHASE:** That’s not very thankful.

The vibration came back—shorter pulses, faster, meaner. Quick bursts against my clit that made my body jolt. My wineglass clicked against my plate.

Every conversation paused for one horrifying second.

“You sure you’re okay?” Victoria asked, eyes soft with concern.

“Yes,” I said far too fast.

Chase reached for the rolls. “She’s probably cold. She never dresses for weather.”

I glared. He handed the basket to Aunt Vivian like a gentleman.

Riley leaned in. “What is happening?”

“Nothing.”

“Your voice just went up half an octave.”

“I’m emotional about carbohydrates.”

She stared for two full seconds. Then her gaze drifted to my lap. To Chase. Back to me.

Her expression sharpened into something delighted and dangerous.

Oh no.

Please no.

Please do not let my best friend figure out I am being remotely fingered at Thanksgiving dinner by the man everyone thinks I barely tolerate.

I picked up my water glass with both hands.

Big mistake.

The next pulse hit harder. I nearly spilled it down my top.

Jake looked over from the smaller table and grinned. “Sloane, you okay? You look like you just saw the ghost of bad decisions.”

Riley made a strangled sound that might have been a laugh trying to escape as a cough.

Chase, without missing a beat: “That’s just her face when she realizes somebody else got the last dinner roll.”

The table laughed. Even my father.

I hated this family.

I hated him most.

Under the table I typed with violent precision.

**ME:** Turn it off.

His reply was instant.

**CHASE:** Say please.

I looked up.

He lifted one brow slowly.

The vibration shifted—slower now, deep rolling pulses that hummed through my whole body. Less sharp. More consuming. Heat spread low in my pelvis, up my stomach, down my thighs. I pressed my knees together.

Chase watched that happen and took another sip of water like he hadn’t just watched me unravel.

Denise asked, “So, Chase, what’s your major?”

“Economics.”

I nearly laughed from pure hysteria.

“And do you like it?” she pressed.

“Not especially.” He cut into his turkey. “But I’m good at pretending.”

His eyes stayed on mine.

I dropped my fork. It clattered against the china.

Aunt Vivian patted my wrist. “You poor thing. You are pale. Richard, maybe she should lie down.”

“No!” I said, too loud.

Silence. Every face turned.

I forced a smile so bright it hurt. “I mean, no, I’m okay. Just stood up too fast earlier. I’m fine.”

“Again with ‘fine,’” Riley muttered.

My father studied me, brow furrowed.

Chase finally turned the vibrator off.

The sudden absence was almost worse. My body kept waiting for the next pulse and got nothing. I flattened both hands on my thighs under the table to steady myself.

Victoria softened. “Do you want ginger ale?”

“I’m okay.”

Laura was already half-rising. “I can get ginger ale.”

“No, really. I’m fine.”

The table slowly resumed breathing. Conversations restarted in fragments. Forks scraped plates. Jake started arguing with Leah about whether pie counted as breakfast food tomorrow.

I should have been grateful.

Instead humiliation and desire burned in my bloodstream like a chemical spill.

Because Chase had stopped.

Which meant he could start again whenever he wanted.

My phone lit up.

**CHASE:** Good girl.

The words hit deeper than the toy had.

I didn’t answer.

Dinner dragged on. Second helpings. The overfull lull where people leaned back making theatrical suffering noises while still eyeing the pie.

I survived by not looking at Chase more than necessary.

He survived by being offensively normal. He asked Aunt Vivian if she wanted more gravy. Helped Mark open the second bottle of wine. Refilled Victoria’s water and brushed the back of my chair on the way past just enough to make me tense like a pulled wire.

At one point Denise said, “It’s actually so nice, you two getting along better.”

I almost laughed wine out my nose.

Chase tilted his head. “Define better.”

Riley made a choking noise into her napkin.

Denise smiled serenely. “Less sharp around each other. More settled.”

If she only knew.

“Oh, I don’t know about settled,” Chase said, glancing at me with just enough edge to make my pulse spike again. “She still looks at me like she’s planning a felony.”

“That’s because he deserves one,” I said sweetly.

The table laughed.

Riley did not.

Riley was watching us now like she was assembling a crime board in real time.

No. Absolutely not.

I kicked her under the table.

She kicked me back.

Then my phone buzzed.

**CHASE:** Dessert in ten.

I stared at the message.

Then at him.

He was splitting a dinner roll and listening to my father tell a story about rookie hazing from his Flyers days.

Like he had not just issued a command.

I typed back.

**ME:** No.

He read it. Looked up. Smiled.

Then he turned the vibrator back on.

Not high. Not for long.

Just three sharp pulses.

Enough to make my breath catch and my thighs press together so suddenly the chair legs squeaked on the hardwood.

Riley’s head snapped toward me.

“Oh my God,” she whispered.

I dropped my napkin into my lap and reached for my water.

Too late.

She was already halfway there.

Her gaze flicked from my face to Chase’s to the way my hand shook on the glass.

Then she leaned in until her hair brushed my cheek and murmured, horrified and thrilled all at once:

“No.”

I kept my eyes on the turkey platter. “No what?”

“No.” She sounded like she was speaking directly to God. “Absolutely not.”

Across the table Chase was talking to Aunt Vivian about dorm food.

He looked perfectly composed.

I wanted to throw a yam at his head.

Riley grabbed my forearm under the table. “Sloane.”

I smiled at Denise while my soul tried to exit my body. “What?”

Her fingers tightened. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

I didn’t answer.

Her eyes widened so far I thought she might levitate.

“Oh my God,” she repeated, strangled. “You are insane. He is insane. This is a federal offense.”

A laugh almost escaped on pure panic.

“Keep your voice down.”

“My voice?” Riley hissed. “My voice is not the problem.”

“Sweetheart,” Laura called, “could you pass the cranberry sauce?”

Riley passed it automatically without ever taking her eyes off me.

Then she did the worst possible thing.

She looked at Chase.

He looked back.

And the tiniest flicker of smug acknowledgment crossed his face.

Riley’s mouth fell open.

“OH, I hate both of you,” she whispered. “I hate you so much.”

I stared straight ahead and prayed for pie.

Because dinner was not over.

And apparently neither was I.

The first dessert plates landed.

Pumpkin pie. Pecan pie. Whipped cream. Coffee.

Across from me, Chase picked up his fork, met my eyes, and tapped the remote once against his thigh where only I could see it.

A promise.

A threat.

A continuation.

Thanksgiving was nowhere near over.

And neither was whatever the hell this was.