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“I’m looking forward to it.” I put my phone away and sigh, staring off into space as I wonder what I've gotten myself into.
Only a few seconds pass before my phone goes off again. I'm quick to answer my father's phone call. “It's been a while, so I figured I'd check in,” he says.
“Hi, Dad. I miss you too,” I say, dropping onto the couch and staring off into space.
“So how’s Moira?”
I told him about her last time we talked because he asked if I'd met anyone amazing. “She's doing okay. She's on her way over to talk shop.” I don't want him getting the wrong idea. Of course, I know he's going to anyway.
“She's coming over to your house this late at night to talk about work?” His tone sounds playfully suspicious.
“Yes, yes, she is. So how are you doing, Dad? Have you met anyone?” I'm teasing and he responds in kind.
“Yes, Betty in my swim class is very, very nice. But then again, Deborah from bingo night seems to have her eye on me, so we shall see what happens.” I absolutely love how active he is and how much he wants to be involved in his community. There's something sweet about him making friends with people his age and enjoying his life to the fullest in his golden years.
“If it comes down to the girl in swim class or the girl on bingo night, I'd have to go with the girl on bingo night.”
“I know you're one of those brains over beauty kind of guys, but I have to tell you that Betty is good looking too.” He chuckles and I smile at his words. “I just want you to know I’m proud of you.”
My heart melts. “I'm proud of you too.” My dad has been through a lot, and the fact that he is so happy and down to earth just leaves my heart feeling good. He’s everything I aspire to be in a man, and I couldn't ask for a better role model.
Chapter Nine
Moira
I ring the doorbell and wait nervously. It had been heartwarming to hear him say that I don't need a reason to stop by and that I'm welcome anytime, but I can't help but wonder if it's a little too soon in our relationship for that.
Still, even as I stand here and wait for him, this feels right. Even if we can't be a couple and we're going very different places in life, at the very least Michael's going to be a good friend and a permanent fixture in my existence. I'm going to make sure of that.
But as far as a relationship goes, I don't know that I can give him what he wants. The thought of commitment is absolutely terrifying, and the thought of children more so. I'm not sure I'm willing to risk tying myself to someone for eighteen years and involving little humans in what could quickly become a toxic mix. Besides, I don't think I want to trust anyone with my heart.
The door swings open and my thoughts scatter. Michael smiles down at me, and I try to gather my composure and act normal.
Michael looks insanely handsome in his blue sweater and dark slacks, his light brown eyes studying my face and the corners of those sensual lips curving just slightly at the edges. “It's good to see you, Moira.” His low, throaty growl has my heartbeat thumping double-time.
“It's a little late for coffee, so I thought we could make some cocoa.” With that, he leads me into the kitchen, and I close and lock the door behind myself, feeling oddly at ease and at home in his space. Hurrying after him to the kitchen, I watch as he opens the coffee cabinet and he glances down at me. “Of course, you're an adult and my guest, so if you'd like to drink coffee this late, you're welcome to.”
He seems so much more relaxed than usual. “I'll get mugs out of the cabinet,” I say, making a beeline for the cups.
“Coffee or cocoa?” he asks.
“Cocoa, I don’t need the caffeine,” I say over my shoulder without taking my eyes off the mugs, trying to decide which ones to use this time around.
“You know, there's always decaf coffee.” There’s a chuckle in his voice as he speaks.
“No, there's not.” I say the words with the finality I feel in my soul, because decaf coffee is not coffee. Decaf coffee is simply brown sadness water, and nobody actually drinks that mud and enjoys the beverage. And if they say they do, they're lying.
He sets the machine up to steam the milk in a little stainless-steel carafe and grabs a pack of chocolate coca bombs. “I have milk chocolate, dark chocolate, and pumpkin spice.”
I pick a dark blue mug covered in white speckles like a starry sky and a white one with minimalist birds flying in the distance. Offering him the birds, I watch him slide the containers of cocoa toward me. I take out a dark chocolate cocoa bomb and unwrap the foil from the ball before dropping it into my mug.
I reach for his mug and our hands touch, leaving my heart pounding and my mouth dry as I look up at him. “Sorry,” I say softly as I look into those light brown eyes of his. The color reminds me almost of milky hot chocolate if someone went too heavy on the milk.
“Don't be sorry,” he says as his gaze lowers to trace my lips. He seems to snap out of whatever thoughts he's having as he makes his way to the fridge and grabs a canister of whipped cream. The milk finishes steaming and he offers to pour the milk in my mug first. I nod my head and say my thanks as I watch the ball of chocolate disappear under the hot milk.
He pours the remaining hot milk into his mug, then reaches for the canister of whipped cream at the same time I do. Again, our hands touch and again, that surge of warmth races through my whole body.
“Go ahead,” I say, pulling my hand back awkwardly. He picks up the whip cream and shakes the canister before popping the lid off onto the counter. I watch a bit of Plastic dance for a second as he upends the container over my cocoa, arching an eyebrow at me, as if asking my permission.
