Talk Turkey (6 page)

“Let’s get you cleaned up and then I’ll deal with the turkey.” He wrapped Carson’s hand in a dish towel. “Bathroom?”

“That way.” Carson nodded toward the living room. There was only one bathroom, and it opened both onto the living room and Carson’s bedroom. A bit of a thrill ran through him at the thought of Tom seeing his bed, even though it was unmade and rumpled. “How did you do that?” he asked when Tom had turned on the water and unwrapped his hand. Carson flexed it, but it didn’t look much worse for the wear.

“Do what?”

“Cut it off without hurting me. It was tight. I figured you’d have to at least nick me to get it off.”

“I cut the string.” Tom’s thumb ghosted across a bad scrape on Carson’s wrist. “Looks a little swollen and you managed to break the skin here, but on the whole, I’d say you managed to escape unscathed. A little soap and some antiseptic, and you’ll be right as rain.”

Now that the weight of the turkey was off it, feeling was starting to flood back into Carson’s hand. It had never gone completely numb, but he was starting to appreciate how deadened it had been now that it was alive with pins and needles. The scrape hardly hurt at all.

“There was a string?”

“Yeah, they come all bound up. Makes them easier to ship and store,” Tom said. He turned the water off. “Do you have a first aid kit?”

Somewhere, probably. Carson had gotten tired of unpacking a few weeks ago and just started stowing boxes places. There was one under the sink in the bathroom, and it probably had Band-Aids and such in it. Maybe.

“Er,” he said, furrowing his brow as he tried to remember if the bandages had been in the box he’d put in here or one of the ones he’d stowed in the walk-in closet in his bedroom.

“How are you a functioning adult?” Tom asked, shaking his head. “Hold on. I’ve got a small one in my coat.”

Carson’s eyebrows went up. “You carry a first aid kit in your coat?”

“Aren’t you glad I do?” Tom snarked as he came back in with a small zippered pouch. “This is the coat I ski in, and sometimes I fall and I’m pretty far from home. It’s practical.”

Tom bandaged up the scrape with swift, economical movements. Carson was a bit ashamed to admit it was a turn-on. Most guys were ass men or leg men. He appreciated both those attributes, but his main kink was competency. The way Tom’s long fingers moved definitely qualified.

They stood there for a long moment, just staring at each other in Carson’s small bathroom.

Tom finally broke the silence by laughing and raking his hand over his face, sheepish. “So, this is awkward. I feel like I need to introduce myself, even though we’ve been talking on the phone for weeks.” He held his hand out. “Hi, Carson. I’m Tom.”

Carson laughed and held out his unbandaged hand. It was a bad angle, but the brush of Tom’s skin against his own was electric. “Hi, Tom. Thanks for rescuing me.”

“All part of my job,” Tom said. There were tiny wrinkles at the corners of his eyes when he smiled, and his cheeks were still a bit flushed and wind-burned.

“It’s not,” Carson said. “I mean, I thought it was. Not the coming over, because obviously that isn’t. But giving me your number and talking to me—I really did think that was just a hotline thing.”

Tom ducked his head, his red cheeks flushing darker. “I know. I’ve been told I suck at the pick-up game.”

Carson’s hopes fell. “So this is a game?”

Tom’s head shot up. “No! I just meant I’m not good at meeting people. You were interesting on the phone, and fun to talk to. I wanted to meet you, maybe see if you would be interested in dating if we clicked. But like I said, I’m kind of bad at it.”

“You’re doing okay.” It was like being on a roller coaster. One minute he was sure Tom was interested in him, and the next he was sure he wasn’t. Apparently Carson was just as bad at this as Tom was. They were quite a pair.

Tom snorted. “You’re just high on some sort of endorphin rush from being freed from your turkey hostage situation. But thanks.”

Carson followed along behind him as Tom made his way back to the kitchen. Was he leaving? Carson looked over his shoulder. It had started snowing hard again, and it was late. Tom couldn’t ski home now. “Will you stay?”

He cringed when Tom raised a questioning brow. He shouldn’t have just blurted that out. If Tom had no game, then Carson didn’t even have a board. Jesus.

“I mean, it’s bad out and I’d feel terrible if you ended up hurt or frostbitten or something. You should stay. The couch pulls out, and I have plenty of food.”

Tom gave him a speculative look, then nodded. “Yeah, it would be a bad idea to go back out now that the storm has started up again. Thanks.”

Tom picked Terry up and gave the turkey a good long rinse under cold water, both inside and out. “How long was this stuck on your hand before you called?”

“Uh, I don’t know. A few minutes?”

Tom nodded thoughtfully and looked at the clock on the microwave. “We’re probably okay if we get it back in the fridge soon. Were you doing something with it? Seasoning it or something?”

Carson motioned toward the herbs and butter on the counter. “My mom sent me a recipe.”

Tom hummed. “I’m almost afraid to ask, but do you have any bacon?”

“Yeah, in the fridge.” Carson decided not to tell him about the small fire he’d caused earlier trying to cook bacon in the microwave. His Mom always made BLTs for lunch on Christmas Eve, and he’d been trying to keep up with the tradition. He’d ended up having a PB&J instead.

Tom took out the half package of bacon and got to work, slathering the herbs and butter under the turkey’s skin and then adding the strips of bacon. “It’ll keep it moist while cooking. Tastes pretty amazing too.”

Carson leaned against the table and watched him work. “You’re the expert.”

Tom paused midmotion. “Shit. I just kind of walked in here and took over like it was my kitchen. I’m sorry. I can take the bacon out—”

“No! I meant that. You know what you’re talking about. I’m just cobbling stuff together from the Pinterest board my mom made me.”

Tom looked over his shoulder, amusement all over his face. “Your mom made you a turkey Pinterest board?”

“It’s my first holiday away from home,” Carson said defensively, aware of how much worse that made the whole thing sound.

“Hey, I think it’s cute.” Tom stuck Terry back in the refrigerator and washed his hands. He turned, stopping a few inches away from Carson. “I think
you’re
cute.”

“I bet you say that to all the men you rescue from turkey cavities.”

Tom’s full lips curved into a blinding smile. “Only the recent Cali transplants who worry about misgendering the turkey in question,” he said softly. “I’m going to kiss you. Is that okay?”

God. Add consent to Carson’s growing list of ridiculous kinks. Or maybe he just had a kink for anything related to Tom.

Tom was hovering an inch away, his gaze intent. Carson realized he was waiting for an answer. A shiver ran through him. Tom was killing him with this responsible, competent adult thing.

He licked his lips. “Yes.”

He’d barely gotten the word out before Tom moved in, his chapped lips scratchy and dry and absolutely perfect. Carson stepped forward, bringing his injured hand up to wrap around Tom’s broad shoulders. They were almost the same height, which made it easy to tug Tom closer and deepen the kiss without either of them needing to move much.

Tom pulled away slightly. “Is this okay?” he whispered against Carson’s lips when he slotted a leg between Carson’s, bringing their hips together.

“So okay. You don’t even know,” Carson muttered. He pressed his hips forward, his arousal surging when Tom responded by grinding hard against him.

“I don’t mean to break the mood, but if we’re taking this any further, we should move out of the kitchen,” Tom said between kisses. “It’s not sanitary to do what I want to do to you on a surface where food is prepared.”

A giggle bubbled up out of Carson’s chest. “You are such a dork,” he said, burying his face against Tom’s neck. “Bedroom? I want to hear more about these unsanitary practices.”

C
ARSON
WASN
’
T
sure what was more surreal—that he’d woken up with Tom in his bed this morning or that afterward Tom had gotten up and made them a delicious breakfast, then started putting together Christmas dinner.

He wasn’t sure if he should pinch himself or just enjoy what must be a dream.

Though, he probably didn’t know enough about cooking for this to actually be a dream. Tom had spent the last three hours alternating between whining over Carson’s woefully equipped kitchen and kissing him breathless.

The turkey had turned out beautifully under Tom’s careful eye, and all of the premade side dishes had been doctored in some way. He thought Tom might have cried a little when he opened the tarragon and found that it had never been used, despite it being expired. And now Tom was making gravy and complaining loudly about Carson not having the right kind of whisk or anything else he apparently needed.

“How can you not have a liquid measuring cup? It’s a basic necessity.”

Carson shrugged. “I use the other ones.”

Tom followed his gaze and blanched. “Those are for
dry goods
, Carson. Jesus.”

“Unlike some people, I don’t have a fancy culinary degree. I don’t need all that stuff.”

Tom sighed like he was dying. “Okay, fine. I get that you might not be able to tell a Santoku from a chef’s knife, but pretty much everyone needs liquid measuring cups.”

“Something to put on my list for Santa next year, then.”

Tom went back to mumbling to himself like he had been most of the afternoon. Carson found it kind of endearing, which was a bit alarming. He was further gone on Tom than he’d realized.

He heard his Skype ring from across the room and shot a panicked look at Tom. “My family,” he said, wincing.

Tom waved him away. “Go talk to them. It’s not like you’re helping in here, anyway. The gravy’s coming together and the turkey is cooling.”

Carson bit his lip. “Well, see, the thing is, I told them I’d be having someone over for dinner.”

“Who?”

“Well, I didn’t specify, exactly.”

Tom turned and raised a questioning eyebrow without stopping his frantic stirring. He’d rolled his sleeves up, and the muscles on his forearm were bunching with the motion, and the casual domesticity of it was enough to make Carson’s knees weak.

“But I may have led them to believe it was… ah, hell.” Carson wrinkled his nose in embarrassment. “You. I told them it was you. But that was before I knew
you
you. If that makes sense.”

The computer went silent, and a second later, Carson’s cell phone began to ring.

“Actually, it kind of scares me that it does make sense. So you told them you were having Christmas dinner with me because….”

“Because I was crushing on you and it was easy,” Carson said. He picked up his phone, which had just stopped ringing. “Is that okay? I mean, I can take my laptop into the other room and talk to them. They don’t have to know you’re here.”

“Doesn’t that defeat the purpose of lying to them in the first place?”

Carson’s shoulders slumped. “I guess?”

The phone started ringing again, and Tom laughed. “They’re persistent. Mine would have given up by now. Go ahead and answer. I can play along, if you want. I mean—do you want?”

God, did he.

“Yeah, if you don’t mind? It’s just, they worry. And we
are
having Christmas dinner together, just maybe not the way they’re thinking.”

“How are they thinking?”

“Uh, together?”

“As opposed to….”

Tom’s eyes were sparkling, so Carson knew he had intuited exactly what he’d meant. Bastard was making him work for it and enjoying it.

“I mean, I’d like it if—”

Carson’s Skype started ringing too, and he shook his head in defeat.

“You can tell them that we’re having Christmas dinner together. You can even tell them that I stayed over, if you want.” He leaned in and pressed a quick kiss to the edge of Carson’s mouth. “I’d like it too.”

Carson’s cheeks ached with the size of his grin. He answered his phone. “Hey, Mom. Yeah, no, I was just doing something I couldn’t step away from in the kitchen. But it’s all good now. I’m hanging up and I’ll go pick up on Skype.” He darted back and gave Tom a proper kiss before clicking Answer on his laptop.

His parents’ faces filled the screen and he could see their Christmas tree behind them. “Carson! Merry Christmas, sweetie.”

“Merry Christmas, Mom. Everyone else gone?”

She made a face. “It wasn’t even light out when the kids got up. They tore through their presents and were on the road by nine, I think.”

It was the first year that all his nieces and nephews were deemed old enough for a ski trip, and his parents had rented a cabin outside of Tahoe for everyone. They’d be driving over in a day or two, after his brothers and sister had settled in and the kids had calmed down a bit.

“Hopefully they’ve got at least as much snow there as we do here,” Carson said. He panned the camera around and showed them the ledge outside his window, which was piled high with snow.

“I’ve been watching the news for updates on Chicago. I heard all the airports were closed. All those poor people who have to spend Christmas in O’Hare,” his mom said.

Carson looked over at Tom, who had pulled the pan with the gravy off the heat and walked up just out of range of the camera. He held his hand out and pulled Tom in closer. “Mom, Dad, this is Tom.”

He was almost offended by how shocked they looked, but he couldn’t really fault them. Tom was handsome, even with stubble and a bit of flour on his cheek. Carson reached up and wiped it away.

“Merry Christmas, Mr. and Mrs. Saxton,” Tom said. He looked almost painfully earnest, and damned if that didn’t tick another box off the turn-ons Carson didn’t know he had list.

“It’s nice to meet you, Tom. We’ve heard a lot about you.”

Carson groaned. His dad was sizing Tom up like he was getting ready to give him some sort of boyfriend speech, and that was more humiliation than anyone should have to endure on a national holiday. “Hey, so I told you we’d show you the turkey,” Carson said in a rush.