Page 5 of Stuff My Turkey
Not just any ex. Honey March. The woman who'd made me take notice the moment I saw her at Knox's real estate license celebration two years ago. She'd worn a simple green dress that lit up her eyes, and when she laughed, the sound cut through the stuffy air like a breeze through tall grass.
The second time I saw her, at some gallery opening Knox had dragged me to, she'd been talking about environmental conservation with such passion that I couldn't take my eyes off her. Her hands moved as she spoke, hazel eyes flashing with conviction that made everyone else in the room seem half-asleep.
That's when I knew she was too good for my brother. And I'd been right—Knox had cheated on her with Bitsy, the Instagram influencer he was now engaged to.
None of which explained why I'd gotten myself into this mess.
A crash from the kitchen yanked me from my thoughts. I threw on jeans and a t-shirt and headed down the hall, the old pine floorboards cool under my bare feet.
The scene in my kitchen had me pausing at the doorway. Honey stood at my ancient coffee maker, drowning in the burnt orange sweatshirt and matching sweatpants I'd loaned her. She'd rolled the sleeves up several times, exposing slender wrists as she fumbled with the coffee basket. Her chestnut hair was piled in a messy knot, and without makeup, freckles scattered across her nose. Morning sun through the window caught reddish tints in her hair I hadn't noticed in last night's darkness.
She looked both completely out of place and strangely right, like a painting hanging in the wrong room but somehow making the space better.
"What are you doing to my coffee maker?" I asked, leaning against the doorframe.
She jumped, coffee scoop flying from her hand. "Jesus! Warn a person when you're about to materialize out of nowhere!"
"Sorry," I said, not feeling particularly sorry. "Most folks hear my boots."
Her gaze dropped to my sock-covered feet, then back up with narrowed eyes. "Well, most folks aren't trying to operateprehistoric kitchen equipment after nearly becoming a felon for turkey rustling."
I bit back a smile. "How's that coffee coming?"
"It's not," she admitted, gesturing to the machine like it had personally insulted her. "I've tried three times. It keeps making sad gurgling noises and producing what I can only describe as warm dishwater."
I crossed the kitchen and inspected her handiwork. She'd somehow managed to put the grounds in the water reservoir and water in the filter basket.
"That's impressive," I murmured, dumping out her concoction. "I've never seen anyone get it quite this wrong before."
"Oh, I'm sorry, Mr. Turkey Whisperer. I didn't realize coffee makers required an advanced degree." She hopped up to sit on the counter, watching me start fresh. "My machine at home has one button. This thing has more parts than my car engine."
Her knee brushed my arm as I measured grounds. The contact sent a jolt through me, and I nearly dropped the scoop. Her skin carried my soap's clean scent, but it mingled with something distinctly hers that made my pulse kick up a notch.
Outside, a rooster crowed from the distant chicken coop, and the rumble of Jake's truck pulling up to the barn drifted through the open window. Normal morning on the ranch—except for the city lawyer perched on my counter wearing my clothes.
I focused on the task at hand. "There are giant muffins in that basket by the toaster. Picked them up fresh from the Dough & Arrow yesterday when I was in town."
"Thank God," she sighed, reaching for the biggest blueberry one. "I was afraid you'd make me collect eggs or milk a cow for breakfast."
"That would be later," I said flatly. "Can't start real ranch chores until after caffeine."
She froze with the muffin halfway to her mouth, eyes widening before she caught my half-smile. "You're messing with me."
I lifted one shoulder. "Only partly."
"You know, for someone who speaks in single syllables, you're surprisingly good at sarcasm."
The coffee maker started its morning chorus of gurgles and hisses. I reached past her for mugs, trying to ignore the warmth radiating from her.
"We need to talk about the plan," I said, pouring two mugs of dark brew. "The Vickerys are coming tonight."
"The plan where I pretend to be head-over-boots for you to impress potential investors?" She bit into her pastry, sending crumbs tumbling onto my sweatshirt. "Sure, let's discuss that stretch of the imagination."
I handed her a mug. "The Vickerys aren't just investors. They're old-school Texas ranching royalty with deep pockets and deeper opinions about how things should be done."
"Ah yes, the fowl empire." She blew on her coffee. "Sorry—heritage turkey preservation initiative."
"These birds represent genetic lines that go back centuries," I said, leaning against the opposite counter. "Factory farms like Jessup's pump out identical birds with weak immune systems that can't reproduce without artificial insemination. I've spent the last five years building one of the few conservation breeding programs in the state. If I lose the Vickerys' funding, half of what I've worked for disappears."
