Disposable dinnerware served a southern inspired meal to a family who, I assumed, ate in some of the finest restaurants in the city. Made me wonder what dinners were like as the boys were growing up? Did Priscilla have a staff to cook and clean for the family? I could only imagine the amount of chaos with three growing boys, all with individual schedules: soccer games, football practice, and sleepovers.
None of this happened in my house. My father always took his dinner in front of the television on a tray my granny Netti picked up at a garage sale. It was rusted and had a multitude of cigarette burns on it, but he would never let my momma fix it up.
“Can I get anybody anything? Sweet tea?” Holding the pitcher up, the question intended for the entire room. All eyes turned to me, a set of aqua blue in particular flashed in my direction.
“Miss Audrey, you can get your behind in a chair and eat something, these boys know how to fend for themselves.” The owner of the blue eyes, muscled chest, and tattoos I’ll never be able to forget, rose from his chair. I assumed he was doing as his momma said and getting more to eat or drink. But his plate remained on the table and a paper napkin was swiped across his chiseled chin before being tossed back to the tabletop. In three strides, with his long legs, he’s behind the only open chair left at the table. With his hands on the back of the chair, he picks it up, turns it to the side and then slaps the back, all while looking at me.
“Miss Audrey, I would advise against any arguing with my momma, she’s been known to bring tears to grown men when they’ve failed to listen to her.” Not wanting to appear rude or ungrateful, I nodded my head and accepted the offered chair. Anticipating he will return to his seat once I’ve sat down, I reached under to grasp the chair and scoot myself in. However, Chase remained behind me, lifting the chair as I tried to move forward. I can count on one hand how many times a man has helped me with my chair. It leaves me with a feeling I know wouldn’t benefit me to explore. Having a man take enough time to see to my needs would mean something more to me than just proper manners. I cannot allow myself to be pulled into any make believe scenarios where Chase feels anything for me. But as he goes to leave, the edges of his thumbs brush against the back of my arms and I feel the warmth and tingle they leave behind. I suck in my breath, clench my back teeth and try to not to let anyone else at the table see what this simple gesture has done to me. Chase has a girlfriend, one I know is wrong for him, but if I want to stay on Lucas’s good side, I will continue to keep my mouth shut and do my job.
Chase leaned forward, positioning himself close enough to my ear, his breath left goose bumps behind as he whispered, “Miss Audrey, forgive my boldness, but by your reaction, it seems your Yankee stomper hasn’t taken proper care of you. Maybe he wasn’t brought up right, but it’s my belief that no matter where a young lady hails from, pulling out her chair is the least of ways she should be appreciated.” Too shocked, stunned—whatever the emotion, it made what happened easier to believe.
Chase Morgan was a gentleman through and through. Standing behind his upbringing, making his parents proud of the man he had become.