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Chase’s mother, Emily Moore, straightens her silverware and smooths the white linen tablecloth in front of her. For the third time in as many minutes.
Chase is staring at the salt and pepper shakers like they’ve mortally wounded him somehow and only the sight of their shattered glass remains could appease him. I’ve lost feeling in my fingers, since he’s probably channeling that same determined Jedi-mind-fuck aggression into the death grip he has on my hand. Luckily, no one can see my dead, lifeless fingers as our linked hands remain between us, on the booth seat we’re sharing.
“So…” Thomas clears his throat, finally breaking the silence. The terrible, awkward silence. “You haven’t returned my calls.”
Chase’s fingers pulse harder on mine, then he lets go and shifts his focus to his brother. “I wonder why that is?”
Thomas sighs. It isn’t a nice sigh. It’s like a parent getting frustrated trying to teach a toddler how to use a spoon kind of sigh. “Listen, I know—”
“Hi there. My name is Stacey, and I’ll be your server. Can I get you something to drink while you look over the menu?”
“Bloody Mary.” I realize I’d basically shouted this when Chase’s mother jumps in her seat. I lower my volume. “I’ll have a Bloody Mary, please.”
“Sure thing.” Stacey jots my order down on her notepad. “Anyone else?”
“Water for me,” Mrs. Moore says, her lips stretching into a tight smile.
“Same,” Thomas murmurs.
I’m about to change my order to just water. I mean, if they want to do this whole awkward silence thing sober, I guess I can hang.
Then Chase speaks up. “Just water, Mom? That’s new.”
Mrs. Moore blinks, Thomas squints his eyes, Stacey raises her eyebrows at the whole angry vibe Chase is throwing off, and I just really want that Bloody Mary.
Chase’s anger seems to evaporate when he addresses the waitress. “I’ll have a Bloody Mary as well, Stacey.” He smiles and winks after he says it, Chase Moore charm in full force. Stacey visibly relaxes, jots it down, and spins on her heel back to the kitchen.
“That was uncalled for,” Thomas admonishes. And though I agree with him, I remind myself I’m on Team Chase. I also don’t want to draw too much attention to myself. Chase introduced me as Campbell King but left it at that. I’d rather not have my two-day bubble burst by two shareholders of Moore’s realizing I’m mixing pleasure with their business.
Plus, Thomas is really condescending. I hate that.
More silence. Oh my god. I can’t take it anymore.
“I love your suit,” I blurt out.
Chase stiffens beside me, while Thomas smiles and looks down at what is, admittedly, an immaculately cut suit, but I cut him off before he can speak. “Sorry, I meant your mom.”
Chase coughs, but I know he’s really trying to cover a laugh.
You know how some women have resting bitch face? Thomas has resting flagpole-up-his-ass face. Which is sad, as he’s a good-looking guy. Perfectly styled dark hair, strong jaw, broad shoulders, tall, fit body. All the things women like to see ticked off on their list. In fact, before Chase, he would’ve ticked off all my boxes. But comparing him to Chase? No contest. For the past eight years, I’ve dated nothing but serious, straitlaced men, thinking their lack of charm somehow protected me from being fooled into trusting them too soon. It’s hard to trust a robot. Or fall in love with one.
Shaking off the revelation, my eyes move to Mrs. Moore. “I meant your suit. The color is beautiful on you.” And though I had just been trying to fill the void of awkward silence, the suit does look great on her. Mrs. Moore is one of those classic beauties. High cheekbones in a heart-shaped face, relatively unlined in that way some older, well-kept women have where you wonder if it’s from good genes or a good surgeon. Ash blond hair that looks so natural, if it wasn’t for her age, I’d swear it was the color she’d been born with, pulled back in a timeless French twist. No heavy makeup or garish lipstick, but rather a lovely palette of neutrals and a pale pink gloss.
Surprise flashes on her face before she speaks. “Thank you, Ms. King. That’s very kind of you to say.”
I wave my hand, the feeling of which has been fully restored, in the air. “Please, call me Bell.”
A small smile curls her lips. “Bell. What a lovely nickname.” She opens her mouth, closes it, then opens it again. “I think you should call me Em, then. It’s been a while since anyone called me that, but I always did like it.”
I can envision a younger, more lighthearted version of herself, someone just like her daughter Liz, answering to the name Em with a laugh. The mental picture has me smiling my first real smile since Chase and I joined their table.
“Em it is.”
Thomas manages to look polite and disapproving at the same time. I’m starting to feel bad for the guy. It can’t be that comfortable living with a huge stick up your butt. Chase looks confused, which is a step away from murderous, but still. I’m not going to ponder why Chase being upset makes me uncomfortable. Instead, I’ll chalk my feelings up to me being angry and annoyed that Thomas is horning in on the two days I’ve given myself to simply enjoy being with Chase without shame or guilt.
I’m in marketing, I can spin things however I want. And right now, I want Chase to cheer the heck up.
Playing innocent, I bat my lashes at Thomas. “Are you Tom, then?”
