The Bluff (Graham Brothers, #2)(87)

A part of me can see it, a future with all my hopes bundled together like a present tied up with a ribbon. But at the moment, it feels a little like my perfectly wrapped present has been mistakenly dropped off at a toddler’s birthday party and grubby hands are going to rip into it—or maybe rip it apart. I shove away the dark thoughts and turn to press a kiss to James’s stubbly chin.

“You did good, temp,” he says.

I glow under his praise, preening. I almost toss my hair. “So did you.”

His expression tightens. “I didn’t do anything.”

“You opened up your sacred space to a bunch of strangers—that’s something, especially for you. And you earned your badge for helping elderly ladies while being ogled.”

“Is that an official badge now?”

“Yep. I’ll help sew the patch on your vest later.”

Eula Martin rings one of those old timey dinner triangles and there’s a loud gong—because someone also brought a full-sized gong. As one does.

But as people start to push chairs back, another sound rises over the crowd. A much, much worse sound.

First, there’s something like a yowl/howl. Then a chorus of snarls, a loud crash. That’s when the screaming starts.

I whip my head toward the building just in time to see an unfortunately familiar orange blur bolting from the table—an orange blur with a whole turkey leg in its mouth. That stupid, one-eyed orange cyclops just stole a turkey.

The cat streaks outside with two dogs in hot pursuit. It leaps on the nearest table, which happens to be ours, knocking a pitcher of water all over Chase and Molly. The dogs must hit the legs of the table just right because one side gives out and everything from pitchers of water to glasses of moonshine slide down into a heap of plastic picnicware and shattered glass.

People are jumping up, chairs tipping over as the cat plays a mean game of Frogger across the tables. Another crash sounds from inside the building and I look in time to see two dogs I don’t even recognize ravaging the food table. A pug mix is literally ON the table while a German Shepherd wrestles the whole brisket from the platter to the ground. Tank gasps as a yellow lab grabs the other end of the brisket.

“The dogs have gone wild!” someone shouts, and then there is only chaos.

Stormy, Harper’s dog, runs by carrying a whole fried turkey by the leg. Another small dog I don’t recognize is hot on his heels, and right as they pass our table, the second dog makes a grab for the bird. The two of them wrestle, taking out a second table, even as Chase jumps into the fray.

Stormy ends up with just the leg, leaving Chase holding the bird aloft—with the little dog holding on to the breast by its teeth, legs pedaling in the air. While I watch, a big golden retriever jumps up, paws landing right near Chase’s shoulders. The dog rips the bird right out of Chase’s hands, sending the smaller dog flying into Eula Martin’s lap. The retriever takes off out of the gate, the whole bird dragging along the ground.

Big Mo is waving a set of serving spoons at the remaining dog pack, trying to herd them outside of the building, but it’s like they’ve all gone mad. Ducking between Mo’s legs, two medium-sized mutts jump up and the whole main food table goes down with a crash. A splatter of sweet potatoes hits Mo on the face, a bright orange spot on his cheek.

But how are there SO MANY DOGS?

King gets spooked, and, though he doesn’t fly well, he takes a hop and a flying leap, landing right on one of the few tables still standing. Mort Hammecher swings a cane at the bird but knocks over a pitcher of water instead, soaking Lynn Louise, who calmly pulls a hanky from her coif of hair.

King gobbles his way down the table, a terrified turkey version of Godzilla, stepping right on a stick of butter and knocking over glasses and pitchers. People jump up as rivers of water and wine and moonshine flow over the edges of the plastic tablecloths. Before Burt can chase King off, the bird leaves a fresh deposit of turkey droppings right on Judge Judie’s plate.

There are people chasing dogs, dogs still tearing apart the food from the floor, and in the chaos, the Bobs somehow decide now is the perfect time to start playing a bluegrass version of “America the Beautiful.”

This is beyond the worst-case scenario for the day. There isn’t a defcon level for this kind of disaster.

“Protect the pies!” someone shouts, and I realize the only table untouched is the dessert table.

Tank jogs over to help Big Mo dispel the pack of dogs, but as I watch, both men slip in a butter-slick pile of mashed potatoes and go down hard.

I haven’t glanced at James even once, but as I do so now, I wish I hadn’t. His jaw is working, and I can practically hear the sound of his molars grinding even over all the shouting and the growling and the ridiculous music.

“James—” I start but am interrupted as a siren starts to drown out the noise.

A fire engine roars up to the front gate, and my stomach sinks. I can’t look at James. I can feel the frustration crackling like electricity from him.

Gamble Briggs, the fire marshal, climbs down from the passenger side of the truck, followed by a few other guys in uniform. The fire marshal is wearing a navy suit and has a cloth napkin tucked into the front of his shirt, like he just came from his Thanksgiving table. He probably did.

And based on his deep frown, he is NOT happy about it.

No one pays him any mind as he tries to shout over the din because King the turkey has taken up residence in June Elliot’s lap and the Bobs have inexplicably moved on to play what sounds an awful lot like Lady Gaga’s “Poker Face.”