Page 117 of Already Callin’ You Mine

27

PRESLEY

“Does the man not know what an emoji is?”

“He’s really more of an lol guy, but every now and again I get a smiley face,” Brenna quips, her smile peeking over the paper coffee cup she’s holding on to with both hands in front of her face.

The sharp wind cuts through the tent, both Brenna and me bristling from the shock of cold. Other than the occasional whip of wind, it’s shaping up to be a beautiful morning. Exactly the kind of morning you want for a run. Errr…wobble.

The last time I attended the early Thanksgiving morning traditional event here in Hickory Hills was when I came home for the holiday my sophomore year in college. Back then, it was the Turkey Trot, the name change coming in more recent years. As one of the few actual runners at the event, I do have to agree with the change—there are a lot more people walking this 5K than running it.

“I would have taken a lol on that comment,” I say, taking a sip of my own coffee. “Anything so that it would have seemed like a joke rather than an insult.”

“Are people really taking it that way?” Dolly asks, lifting up a large, insulated beverage dispenser and depositing it on the table.

I move to go help her—the whole reason I’m at this event early—but don’t make it in time. The contraption is on the table in no time, making it clear that Dolly has a system, and the only help she really wants is to be kept company.

That I can do.

“Yeah…” I grab a sleeve of paper cups, holding it up to ask if she needs them. Dolly nods, pointing to a spot on the other side of the container. “Not everyone. But enough. And plenty of those folks are sharing it with their own commentary.”

Dolly and Brenna both grimace. Yeah, couldn’t have said it better myself.

“But…isn’t there that whole thing about no press is bad press?” Brenna asks, perking up in trying to find a silver lining.

Maybe. It certainly means that Southern Brothers is being talked about. That said, I’m not sure that this is what we want people talking about. A single, offhand comment that makes Brandt look like a royal jackass, rather than the down-to-earth, secretly nerdy guy that he is. The last thing I want is to have to combat a dude bro image for their brand.

“Oscar Wilde once said that the only thing worse than being talked about is not being talked about,” Margeaux says, sliding under the tent. “But I don’t buy it. In this day and age, I’ve seen too many companies suffer from bad exposure.”

“Not helping…” Dolly whispers harshly.

Margeaux shrugs, reaching for a cup and turning the spigot to the dispenser that Dolly just filled. The dark brown cocoa fills the cup, the faint smell of chocolate filling the air and tickling my nostrils, distracting me for a second. But only a second.

“Margeaux’s right though.” I sigh, taking another long sip. “Which is why I need to get out in front of this. Figure out how to mitigate it so it doesn’t turn into a thing.”

“We’ve got this.” Margeaux wraps an arm around me, her red hair falling over her shoulder. “Because here’s the thing—the Hayes boys might be impressive, but…the Hayes women?” She waggles her eyebrows, a devious smile taking over. “We’re formidable. And we take care of our own.”

We take care of our own…

A lump forms in my throat, all my feels welling up in that one spot. Her words don’t fully ease the anxiety I’m feeling over this situation, but it means the world to me nonetheless. Because it means I’m not alone. That I belong. That I am a member of this incredible tribe.

It’s more than I could have ever dreamed of.

“Mama!”

I spin around, reacting to the familiar little voice calling my name like a homing beacon. The crowd has picked up in the last couple of minutes—everyone starting to arrive and check in for the event—but I find my boys almost instantly.

Well, I find Jace. And a little turkey.

“Gobba gobba!” Otis says, flapping his arms—err, wings—as he waddles toward me.

I spit out a laugh, his cuteness overloading my senses. I kneel down, looking him in the eyes, my heart happier than it’s ever been.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Turkey, but have you seen my little boy? He’s about your height, has light brown hair…”

“Is me!”

“Oh my word! It is!” I gasp, covering my mouth to look shocked. Otis giggles as I pull him in for a hug, pushing to my feet.