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He stared at me, but it was hard to tell if it was in relief or consternation. “Explain.”
Instead of explaining or spending any more moments closed inside the small truck cab that now smelled like sexy man on turkey steroids, I opened the door and hopped out. “We’re good,” I called over my shoulder before slamming the door behind me. “Fly free, little bird.”
Charlie climbed out his side and came around to face me. When he put his hands on his hips, the orange feather fans jutted out to each side. “What, so you can complain fifteen years from now that I stole an extra hour from you or that I’m lazy?” He jutted his chin out. “No way. You paid for four hours, you get four hours.”
I clutched my keys in tense fingers and strode past him toward the barn. “Time off for good behavior. Turkeys get pardoned the day before Thanksgiving. Go be with your family. Eat some of your gross cranberry sauce.”
But the crunch of his booted turkey feet followed me into the cavernous space.
“Wow, this looks amazing,” he said, completely ignoring my call for his immediate departure. “You said Alana’s turning it into an event space? A wedding here would be beautiful.”
I looked around, trying to see the old space through new eyes while unobtrusively moving as far away from Charlie as I could. “Yeah. Alana actually got the idea after hearing that Marissa Drakes had a hard time finding a nice place to get married in the Thicket. Plus, the community center barn is the only large indoor gathering space in town, and you can imagine that’s booked up most of the time, what with all the town celebrations, so there’s a real need for a second venue to host non-wedding events too.” I was babbling but couldn’t stop myself. “When Alana was at school in Memphis, she had a job working events at a hotel downtown, and later, she worked as a waitress here in town, so she knows lots about planning functions. Just seemed like a natural fit.”
Charlie walked around, peering into doorways and checking out the built-in bars along one side. I couldn’t help but chart exactly how many paces separated us at any given moment. “Have you talked to Quinn Taffet about your plans? He’d be all over this.” Charlie glanced over at me. “I met him last night at the auction. Seems like a sweetheart.”
“He’s taken,” I blurted. “And his husband is a big guy. The biggest. Ex-military type named Percy Champion. You don’t want to mess with Champ.”
“Uh.” Charlie’s eyes went wide with surprise. “I was talking to Quinn for like… a minute? I wasn’t propositioning him. It was mostly small talk about Chicago weddings while we waited to be presented onstage.”
My cheeks felt like molten lava. “No, I’m sure. I just meant…”
He lifted an eyebrow at me. “Meant…?”
I waved a hand vaguely through the air. “Meant that, yes, Quinn knows about Alana’s plans.”
“Right.” Charlie studied me, which only made the lava on my cheeks hotter. “Are you okay? You seem jumpy.”
“Jumpy? Me? Pfft. I’m the opposite of jumpy. I’m… I’m still.” I bent my knees a little to make my feet even more like cement blocks than they already were and pointed down to my feet. “See?”
The turkey twisted his tongue in his mouth like he was trying not to laugh.
I glared at him. “You can go now.”
“No. You challenged my work ethic last night, and I won’t back down from a challenge. I think I’m going to take a turn with this puppy.” He nodded toward the industrial sander before wandering over to it and plugging it into the nearest outlet. He made such a ridiculous picture—a turkey-man preparing to work a large metal power sander—that I couldn’t even bring myself to tell him that we didn’t need the machine for the work we were doing today. Instead, I pulled out my phone and snapped a few quick pictures before I could think better of it.
“What are you doing?” he asked, catching me mid-snap.
“I… nothing.”
Charlie looked down at the costume he still wore. “Oh. Right. I guess I should probably take this off.” He let go of the sander and yanked at the tie that held his headpiece in place, then knelt to remove his turkey feet. When he straightened, his muscles flexed against the fabric of his costume, making it clear that he wasn’t wearing anything beneath.
“No! No. That’s… not necessary,” I said as the stallion stampede galloped around my gut. “Truly. In fact, if you’re determined to stay and work, I think it makes sense to keep the costume on. For, you know… protection.”
But even as I said the words, other parts of my anatomy were sending up their own silent plea. Please, baby Moses in all of your slave-based wisdom, let this man sand my floors in his turkey costume.
