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He can’t just wave or acknowledge my presence with a nod and move on, like he’s done our whole lives. No. The bastard has to get up, take the time to place his napkin on his chair, push said chair in, then murmur a polite “excuse me” to our mother and walk over.
It’s like he’s doing a play-by-play of how to be a smarmy, obnoxious douche-hat.
“How are you?” His hand is out, and if I don’t shake it, I’ll look like the douche-hat.
Reluctantly, I release my hold on Campbell to shake his hand.
Brothers. Shaking hands. We are so damaged.
“Fine.”
He glances at Campbell, then back to me. Internally, I sigh. Externally, I smile and make introductions.
“Campbell, this is Thomas Moore.”
She glances back and forth, as if trying to figure out the dynamic. “Your brother,” she states, like she’s unsure given our demeanor. When I nod, she extends her hand in greeting. “I recognize you from the photo in Chase’s office.”
He shoots me a quizzical look. “Photo?”
Great. Don’t want the bastard thinking I’m sentimental or anything. “Just leftover stuff from Stan.”
“Oh.”
He looks disappointed. Probably hoping to sniff out some weakness so he can convince me to sell the company.
“Mr. Moore?”
Thomas and I both turn to the hostess desk where a young woman holds two menus.
“Mr. Chase Moore?”
I take a slight step forward, making sure to grab Bell’s hand.
The young woman smiles. “Your table is ready.” She tilts her head in the opposite direction of Thomas’s table, thank god. “If you’ll just follow me.”
“Sure—”
“That’s not necessary,” Thomas says, shifting his eyes to Campbell. “Sit with Mother and me. We just sat down ourselves. We’d be happy to dine with you both.”
“That’s okay, bro,” I grind out. “Wouldn’t want to interrupt family time.”
This time Campbell is the one throwing me the questioning look.
“Chase,” a familiar, feminine voice says.
Sighing, I face the lady. “Hello, Mother.” I wrap my arm around Bell, tucking her close, not sure if the close contact is for her comfort or mine.
Please. We all know it’s mine. I’m afraid of a woman in a classic Chanel baby blue tweed suit. It’s so stereotypical, it shouldn’t still be fashionable, but it’s Chanel and it’s on my mother, so it is. She glances at Campbell, arching a thin brow. “Come. Join us.” Then she turns on her expensive nude pumps and walks back to the table.
Awesome.
* * *
Bell
Awkward.
The word plays on repeat in my head. This is nothing like drinks with Liz. Drinks with Liz make this feel like a funeral for someone’s secret baby daddy.
