Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 62643 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 313(@200wpm)___ 251(@250wpm)___ 209(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 62643 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 313(@200wpm)___ 251(@250wpm)___ 209(@300wpm)
“Turkey rancher, Dunn. Jesus,” I corrected without thinking. It was shameful for a Thicket boy not to know the difference between a farm and a ranch. The man was a dairy farmer, for God’s sake… Wait.
“But the following year, you had a crisis of conscience and changed your mind,” Dunn went on. “That’s when you changed your 4-H focus to agriculture and entered your zinnias.”
I could feel Charlie creeping closer again, so I barked over my shoulder, “Gobble louder, turkey! Gobble like you mean it!”
When I turned back to Dunn, I could see he was trying not to laugh. “Shut up,” I mumbled.
“Those zinnias won every prize at the fair that year,” he continued. “You got written up in the paper, and somebody posted it on a flower blog, and that lady from Maine found out and tried to order the whole kit and caboodle of ’em for her Box Day event, whatever the hell that is.” He snorted. “I swear, Northerners have the weirdest names for shit.”
“How do you remember all this?” I demanded. Of all the people in the town to have an encyclopedic memory for details, I would not have picked easygoing, fun-loving Dunn.
“’Cause I remember thinking at the time how that Nutter did you a favor.” He nodded at Charlie over my head. “If he hadn’t done what he did, would you have ended up where you are, running the nicest plant farm in Middle Tennessee?”
“Well. I don’t know.” I blinked. “But…”
“You don’t give a shit about that turkey anymore, Hunter. Not really. So what are you doing making this poor man spend one of his vacation days strutting around in a turkey catsuit when he should be enjoying his time in the Thicket?”
I peeked over my shoulder at the large, arm-flapping nuisance behind me. He’d paused his marching and was now gobbling to the tune of “Stayin’ Alive,” complete with hip-thrusting disco moves. A bunch of kids and their parents cheered him on, enjoying the free entertainment.
I gritted my teeth. “He left the Thicket,” I told Dunn. “He deserves to suffer.”
Dunn squeezed my arm almost sympathetically. “He deserves to be welcomed back to the Thicket in a way that doesn’t make him terrified to return,” he said gently. “Do you have any idea how long Amos planned and schemed to get Junior here? He reached a low point when he spelled out his prayers in cows. Remember the WE LOVE YOU JUNIOR, COME BACK debacle?”
I nodded, remembering the fateful day when I headed to the tractor supply store and saw how the herd in Amos Nutter’s pasture had rearranged themselves. “I still say Joanie Brightly was overreacting. A grown woman, running into a muddy field and flapping her arms, trying to make the cows scatter?”
“You might, too, if the cows were spelling JOANIE COCK LOVER,” Dunn said reasonably.
Dunn had a point, and not just about Joanie Brightly. Charlie had already despised the Thicket so much he’d barely been home in fifteen years. After today, there was no way he’d show his turkey-thieving face in the Thicket again.
And for some reason, that thought made my stomach twist with discomfort.
For Amos’s sake, naturally.
“Okay,” I grumbled. “You win.” I turned and yanked on one of Charlie’s tail feathers until he stopped. “Show’s over, turkey. You’re done.”
“Hey! Let the bird dance!” Monster, the aptly nicknamed vice president of the Devoted Dogs MC, called, shooting me a glower. He draped an arm over Jenn Shipley’s shoulders. “My old lady’s loving it.”
“The rest of us are too,” Wade Petersen piped up. He blushed deeply and gestured toward his toddler daughter. “I-I mean… the kids are.”
I narrowed my eyes. I knew Wade because he was friends with Diesel and Parrish Partridge, and I’d been under the impression he was straight, but I was starting to wonder, given the way he was ogling my turkey—which was to say, the man wearing the turkey costume I’d provided, I mentally corrected. Not that I was feeling possessive over Charlie Nutter and his drumsticks in any way.
Christ.
“I was just about to show them my turkey twerk,” Charlie said with a grin. In a lower voice, he added, “I haven’t been ogled this much since I wore a mesh tank and booty shorts to Chicago Pride. And here I thought the Thicket was a Grindr dead zone.” He winked at me, and the uncomfortable twist in my stomach turned into a fiery cavalcade of restless stallions.
“Nobody wants…” I waved my hand in an air circle, indicating his entire turkey-fied being. “Any of this. Believe me.”
Charlie looked me up and down. “Hm. Should I believe you? Not sure.”
Dunn shoved me to one side. “Definitely don’t believe him. When he was watching you shake your tail feathers, Hunter was practically vibrating with repressed—mmpfh!”
I smacked a hand over Dunn’s mouth. “Rage,” I told Charlie. “Repressed rage.” I shoved Dunn as far from Charlie as possible. “Nice to see you, Dunn,” I said in a fake cheerful voice. “Always a pleasure. Now, go find someone else to harass. Happy holidays.”