Page 28 of Wild Claim

I spun around, brandishing my sauce-covered spoon like a weapon. “Oh, really? Because you shifting into a turkey every Thanksgiving is such a time-honored tradition. Remind me again how that started?”

“It’s not just any turkey shift. I’m the baddest bird on the fucking block.”

I flicked a bit of cranberry at him. “Yeah, real intimidating. Especially when you’re strutting around, all puffed up like an offended peacock. Face it, you’re more ‘gobble’ than ‘grr.”

“Does anyone else sport my battle scars?” He leaned back against the counter. “You try waddling away from TikTok-crazed hikers and raccoons with a death wish. Trust me, it’s not all gobble-gobble and strutting.”

“Oh, what a brave turkey. Saving the forest one acorn at a time.”

He growled. “Keep talking and I’ll show you just how fearless I can be.”

I knew that look in his gaze all too well. “Is that supposed to scare me off? Because it’s doing the opposite.”

Rory pushed off the counter slowly. His steps were slow, deliberate as he crossed the space between us. “You really want to test me, sunshine?”

My breath hitched when he tugged the spoon from my hand and set it on the counter behind me. His hands came down on either side of me, caging me in against the kitchen island.

“Because you’re looking an awful lot like someone who thinks she can dish it out but might not take it.”

I tilted my chin up at him, refusing to back down even if my ladybits were screaming to do the opposite. “What are you going to do? Turn into a turkey and fluff aggressively at me?”

He smirked as he leaned down. Close enough that I could see the faint etch of laugh lines at the corners of his eyes and smell the cedarwood scent clinging to his flannel shirt. Thanksgivingdinner? What about dinner? My brain short-circuited as he brushed his lips against my ear.

“If you’re looking to ruffle some feathers, I’ve got a few ideas that don’t involve shifting. But fair warning, they might makeyougobble.”

A sharp knock at the front door interrupted whatever delicious threat Rory was about to act upon. We both froze, our eyes locked in a heated gaze.

“Ignore it,” Rory growled, his fingers tightening on the counter’s edge.

The knocking came again, more insistent this time. I sighed, reluctantly ducking under Rory’s arm. “It could be important.”

Rory grumbled something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like “fucking cockblocker” as I made my way to the front door. I smoothed down my hair and took a deep breath before opening it.

On our porch stood a young man in a courier’s uniform, holding a large box wrapped in brown paper. The courier smiled brightly, seemingly oblivious to Rory’s intimidating presence.

“Ms. Rossi?” he asked, looking at me.

“That’s me,” I said, stepping forward.

“Great! I have a package for you. If you could just sign here.” He held out a digital pad and stylus. I signed the digital pad quickly, eager to get back to Rory and our interrupted moment. The courier handed me the box with a cheerful, “Happy Thanksgiving!” before bouncing back down the porch steps.

I closed the door. Rory strode up behind me, his large frame filling the entryway. He eyed the package suspiciously. “What’s that?”

“I’m not sure.” I turned the box over in my hands. It was heavier than I expected, and a faint, nutty scent wafted from it. “But I think I might have an idea.”

We made our way back to the kitchen, where I set the box on the counter. With Rory peering over my shoulder, I carefully unwrapped the brown paper. Inside was an elegant note card nestled atop a circular tin.

“It’s from Gladys,” I said, recognizing the neat handwriting. I read the note aloud:

“Dearest Mina and Rory, wishing you a Thanksgiving filled with love and laughter. May this humble offering from my kitchen find a place at your table. With warmest regards, Gladys.”

I looked up at Rory. “Aw, that’s sweet of her.”

His jaw clenched, eyes narrowing at the tin. “Yeah, sweet like arsenic. Chuck it in the bin and torch it.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” I said, setting the pie down and turning back to the pot. “Maybe I’ll turn you into a tofurkey and serve you up with quinoa salad instead.”

Rory’s laughter rumbled through the kitchen. He eyed the sauce pot skeptically. “While we’re on about sketchy food, what’s the deal with that sauce you’re brewing? Should I be worried about spending Thanksgiving in the ER again?”

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