Page 105 of A Little Moore Action
He looks stunned. “I know I have a lot to apologize for, but right now, when you talk like that, I want to do more than have a conniption with you on your momma’s front porch.”
My treacherous nipples perk up at the thought.
“Let’s just see how the apology goes, okay?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You’re not off to a very good start, Mr. Moore.”
THIRTY-ONE
Chase
Her house islike something out of an AMC western special. Like old-time America. I’ve traveled quite a bit in my life, but usually to places like Europe or the tropics. I haven’t been south, except once to Miami, and that just isn’t the same thing.
The chandelier over the breakfast nook in her kitchen is an honest-to-goodness wagon wheel.
I love it.
I’m not the only one. Mike leaps up onto the Formica counter and curls into an empty basket. Taking a fluffy tea towel from out of a drawer, Bell drapes it over him like a blanket.
Bringing the cat was a good move on my part, I think. Much better than the Elvis impersonators.
“Would you like some water?”
“Yes, thank you.” I feel oddly formal with this woman who owns my heart. That’s all my doing.
“We don’t have bottled. Just tap.” She opens a wood-grained upper kitchen cabinet, the kind with scrollwork on the front.
“We?”
Her hand stills on the glass. “Me. I, uh, I meant me.” She plucks the glass off the blue-paper-lined shelf and shuts the door. “I’ve never really had anyone here since my parents died. I guess I tend to forget they’re gone when I’m here.” She runs the water in the kitchen sink for a moment before filling my glass. “Maybe that’s why I never sold it. And why I like it here so much.”
It’s not fair that her parents died and yet my horrible excuse for a father is still alive.
She hands me the glass, and I gulp it down in one go.
She raises her eyebrows and takes the glass from me, placing it in the sink.
We stand awkwardly in the kitchen, lit up by the wagon-wheel chandelier. All around me are hints of Bell’s past, proof of how loved she was. Pictures, school drawings, handmade ceramics probably made by a toddler Bell. They’re everywhere.
“Well, I guess if that’s it, then you should probably be go—”
“I’m sorry I’m such an asshole,” I blurt out.
Wide eyes narrow as Bell crosses her arms. “Oh. You’resorry, are you? That’s all you have to say?”
“No. I mean, yes.” I run a hand through my hair.
“Well?” Her fancy cowboy boot taps the linoleum.
Channeling my mom, I take a deep breath. “How about I start over?”
She gestures to the curved-back dining chairs under the wagon wheel.
I hesitate. “Is it okay if we sit in your dad’s study?”
“My dad’s study?”
