Page 52 of A Little Moore Action
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 allmyboxes. 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?”
Chase chokes on a laugh, his fist coming up to cover his mouth.
“No.” Thomas’s disapproval isn’t as polite now.
“Tommy?”
“No.” His nostrils flare, which for some reason, amuses me. And Chase, judging by the smile on his face.
“T-Moore? The Tom-bomb?”
“No.” This said through clenched teeth.
I sigh at his inability to joke, but figure I’ve messed with him enough. I got what I wanted, anyway—Chase smiling. Heck, even Em seems amused.
“He always did insist on Thomas. Even as a child,” she says, as if apologizing for her son.
“Thatismy name.” Thomas bristles.
I bite my lip to keep from laughing, ’cause it’s funny seeing a grown man actually bristle.
“If you’d wanted to call me Tom or Tommy then you should’ve put Tom or Tommy on my birth certificate.”
Thomas’s attitude hasn’t changed, but at least Chase doesn’t look so tense. I grab his hand again under the table, relieved when he doesn’t reestablish his death grip.
“I don’t know, brother,” Chase drags out, his trademark smirk in place. “There’s always T-money. Has a certain ring to it.”
“Here are your drinks.” Stacey places tall glasses garnished with celery, bacon, and blue cheese-stuffed olives in front of Chase and me, then refills everyone’s water.
Chase takes a long pull on his Bloody Mary. “Damn, that’s good.”
“So good,” I say after taking my own sip. Or gulp. Okay, I’d sucked down half the spicy drink, and I’m blinking fast so my watering eyes don’t overflow.
“Best Bloody Marys in Manhattan,” Stacey says with a smile, obviously choosing to ignore the tense atmosphere around our table. “Have you had a moment to look over the menu, or would you like more time?”
“We still need a minute,” Thomas says.
With a nod, Stacey departs.
Great. If we prolong ordering anymore, this brunch is going to take forever. Not that it doesn’t already feel that way. I nibble away on my tall drink’s garnish. Between the bacon, celery, and olives, it hits most of the basic food groups and could maybe amount to brunch in a glass.
