Talk Turkey by Bru Baker Page A

googling.
    In fact, it definitely was. He should do that. He hesitated, his finger over the browser icon. Or he could call. The Internet was full of misinformation. And it had nothing to do with the fact that Carson hadn’t spoken to anyone since he’d left the office on Friday.
    Not a bit.
    He sighed and called the number.
    “Thanks for calling the Talk Turkey hotline. This is Tom.”
    The voice was like velvet. Deep and soothing. Carson’s frazzled nerves instantly calmed, and his tense shoulders released a bit. Did they train the hotline operators to talk like that? Surely anyone who was desperate enough to call a turkey hotline was in a bad way. And really, Tom?
    “Tom,” he said, disbelieving. “Like Tom Turkey? Is that what they call every guy who works there?”
    The husky chuckle that came across the line gave Carson goosebumps. “One, I’m the only guy who works here. And two, my name really is Tom. Thomas Alexander Stockton. But, yes, I do get my fair share of Tom Turkey jokes.”
    It was Carson’s turn to laugh. “Maybe you should go by Thomas instead. It makes it less obvious.”
    Tom hummed thoughtfully. “The only people who call me Thomas are my mom and my grandma, and even then it’s only when I’m about to be smacked. I don’t think I could shake the association.”
    “Well, I suppose the jokes are inevitable, then.”
    That earned him another throaty chuckle. Carson swallowed hard, his chest tingling.
    “I’ve gotten used to them,” Tom said dismissively. “Can I get your name and a brief description of your turkey problem so I can give you a better customer service experience?” The silky, easy cadence of his voice had taken on a bit of stilted hesitation.
    Carson wondered if he was reading off a script now. How starved for human contact was he that he’d melted because the person who’d answered a turkey hotline sounded hot and interested?
    Goddamn it.
    He cleared his throat. “It’s not so much a problem as a question. Uh, and my name is Carson Saxton.”
    There was a beat of silence on the other end punctuated by the sound of typing. “Thanks, Mr. Saxton. We don’t record our calls here at the Talk Turkey hotline, but we do keep a customer profile so we can help you easier in the future if you call with further questions. Do you mind if I get some basic information from you?”
    Seriously? That seemed like overkill for a turkey producer’s troubleshooting hotline. Whatever.
    “Call me Carson, please. Go ahead.”
    Tom’s voice warmed back up, and even though he didn’t know how he could be so sure, Carson was positive he was smiling. “Great. Carson, can I ask where you are located?”
    “Chicago. Do you need an address?”
    “If you don’t mind giving it to us. Some people don’t, and we don’t strictly need it. But I can send a turkey prep booklet and some recipes to you if you do.” He lowered his voice conspiratorially. “And a few coupons. Not everyone gets those. Rude callers only get the turkey prep book.”
    Carson laughed. This guy was unreal. It didn’t say good things about his own social life or mental state that this call with Tom was the most fun he’d had in a month or two. He really needed to put more effort into getting out there and making some friends.
    He gave Tom his address without peeking at the reminder he’d jotted on the edge of his desk calendar, feeling proud at finally getting it down. He’d had to give it to half a dozen other customer service operators since he’d moved, but this was the first time it felt natural coming off his tongue.
    “Is this nine one six number the best way to reach you?”
    Carson startled a bit at that, but of course the Talk Turkey hotline would have caller ID. He relaxed back into the chair he’d splurged on last week during his mammoth IKEA outing. It was as far out into the suburbs as he’d ventured since he’d gotten here, and it had been what his father would call two trips in one—first and