Beck will be here any minute and this turkey is still hard as a rock. I’m starting to panic and that is not a good state to be in when I’m already a rambling, hot mess around that bearded man. Slamming the oven door, I jack up the temperature to 500 degrees, praying for a miracle that this bird will be finished by the time he knocks on the door. Luckily, all the other side dishes, including Beck’s pecan pie, are all finished and taste amazing if I do say so myself. Back in the day, I did all the cooking except for the turkey, that was Uncle Eddie’s job and he obviously didn’t pass that skill down to me.Walking about ten feet, I rearrange the placements on my small kitchen table for the seventh time since I set it this morning. I move the candlesticks between the two place settings, pause then decide to ditch them. I don’t want Beck to think this is a date or anything although I really wouldn’t mind tasting his lips again. Saylor, stop! This is ludacris. No way, shape, or form do I want to be involved with this man.
