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“Thanks.” I set the bag on the counter. “For the costume and for, you know, getting on board with my plan.”
“Your plan, in which you’re not actually going out on a romantic-type date with the handsome Nutter you bid on but instead forcing him to dress up like a turkey in front of the whole town as vengeance, which may or may not make Mom so disappointed she’ll poison our Thanksgiving dinner?” Alana grinned, unconcerned, and inspected her manicure. “Anything for you, Hunter. But I’m planning to avoid the giblet gravy tomorrow, just in case.”
Shit. When she put it that way…
I hesitated. “I should probably be having second thoughts about this, right?”
She glanced up in surprise. “Second thoughts? Heck no. I think you’re doing the right thing. This’ll be the apology you’ve wanted for fifteen years. You’ll get it over with once and for all, then the two of you can move on. End your little feud.”
I squinted at her in confusion. “What makes you think we’ll be moving on?”
“Hunter, come on. He took your turkey a million years ago—”
“My prize turkey,” I corrected.
Alana pinched the bridge of her nose. “Dolly never won a prize since he wasn’t present for the competition, remember? That was the whole point. Junior took the bird, then brought him back after the competition was already finished. Anyway, once you parade Junior around dressed up in this, you’ll have to admit the score will be even.”
I didn’t have to admit it. I didn’t have to admit anything. I didn’t have to forgive him at all. Ever. And I wouldn’t.
I took a deliberate sip of coffee so none of that would come out of my mouth. “You gonna be in town to see the show?”
“Obviously. You know how the Jackson family feels about the Stuffin’, Hunter.” She rolled her eyes. “There are so many of us attending this year that we have to take it in shifts so we don’t overwhelm everyone. I told Caroline Pickett I’d stand at her table and help her hand out her cranberry sauce.”
I thought of the gourmet-flavored sauces Caroline liked to make every year and winced. “Has she not realized no one wants that stuff? It’s tasty, but real cranberry sauce is can-shaped and jiggles. Everyone knows this.”
She shrugged. “Try telling that to someone who went to the Culinary Institute.”
“She went to the Louisiana Culinary Institute,” I said. “She seems to always leave that detail out.”
“Doesn’t matter. Anyway, I’ll see you there. Don’t get murdered before I have a chance to see that man dressed up like a turkey.”
“Pfft. I’m not scared of Junior Nutter,” I assured her.
But when I made my way over to the barn and informed Junior that my plan for him had changed, the anger in his dark eyes almost made me want to run and hide.
Almost.
“You want me to what?”
“You heard me,” I said. My heart was beating a mile a minute, but I’d be damned if I let him see that. “You’re going to put on this turkey outfit and sit your ass down at the Stuffin’ while holding a sign confessing to your crimes.”
“My crimes?”
I began ticking them off on each finger. “Unlawful Seizure of a Domestic Fowl. Nefarious Interference in the Fair and Proper Execution of a 4-H Competition. Criminal Trespass. Disorderly Conduct. Public Indecency.”
The edge of one of his lips turned up. “Public indecency?”
“You think stealing someone’s prize bird isn’t indecent? Well, it was. Is.”
“Public indecency generally involves nudity.”
I shot him a look. “For all I know, you were naked during the commission of the crime, Junior!”
He gritted his teeth. “My name isn’t Junior. It’s Charlton. Occasionally Charlie. Okay?”
That caught me off guard. “Is this one of your big-city airs? You’ve always been called Junior—”
“No. I haven’t. My family called me Junior because my father is also Charlton Nutter, and the whole town followed along, but I was never okay with it. I tried to correct every teacher and coach for years. It wasn’t until I left the Thicket that I actually got to be called by my own name.”
I opened my mouth to mock him, but his fierce expression stopped me. “Fine, then. Charlton.”
He rolled his eyes. “And I didn’t commit any crimes—”
“You stole Dolly Parton!” I yelled just a little too loud.
He blinked at me. “Pardon?”
“My turkey, Dolly Parton,” I said with a huff. “Did you, or did you not, bird-nap him out of his turkey habitat right before the 4-H Thanksgiving Turkey Showmanship Competition, when you knew I’d spent five months raising him from a tiny poult?”
He looked away guiltily. “Would you believe I, um… borrowed him?”
“No.” I pointed at the duffle bag on the floor between us angrily. “Turkey costume. Now.”
“I brought Dolly back!” he insisted.
“Four hours in the town square while you gobble for forgiveness. That’s our date, Nutter. Make it happen.” I strode off across the wide expanse of unfinished barn floor to the storeroom, where I’d stashed the sign I’d made.
