“Oh, look,” she says, acting surprised while pointing her long index finger to the chalkboard. “That next person is me.”
The tone of her voice fuels my annoyance. A condescending smirk etches on her mouth as she lurks towards Hugo and me. I grit my teeth when she snatches the cue stick out of my hand and paces to stand next to Hugo. Jorgie’s mouth opens, preparing to reply to Victoria’s cattiness, but I stop any words spilling from her lips with a brief shake of my head.
“It’s okay; I was thirsty anyway,” I say, smiling to reassure Jorgie and Hugo that it wasn’t a quiver they heard in my voice.
I hear Hugo’s deep voice whispering, but I can’t make out any words he is saying as I pace to a makeshift bar set up under the stairwell. Jorgie’s pale light blue dress swishes against my wobbly thighs with every step I take.
A genuine smile curls on my mouth when Chase says, “I’m glad you decided to stay, Ava, but no more accepting drinks from anyone but Hugo and me.”
He props his elbows on the bar, exposing the dancing gypsy tattoo on his arm when his short-sleeve shirt rides up high on his thick biceps. “We wouldn’t want Hugo’s feathers getting ruffled again,” he adds on with a brash wink.
My brows hit my hairline. Chase mumbles incoherently under his breath as he pours orange juice into a champagne flute and hands it to me. I plop my backside onto the barstool and lift the glass to my mouth. My nose screws up when I take a sip of the grim-tasting beverage.
“I think your orange juice is out of date,” I say, repressing a gag.
Chase chuckles and shakes his head. “So innocent,” he mumbles.
“It’s a mimosa,” informs a cavernous voice to my side.
“A what?” I query, turning to Hugo.
“Mimosa. It’s champagne and orange juice. The perfect drink to accompany the hearty breakfast you’re making me tomorrow.”
He removes the glass from my grasp and downs the generous serving in one large gulp. Luckily, I was only using my thirst as an excuse to evade an awkward situation. When Hugo’s tongue delves out to lick a smidgen of orange pulp from his top lip, the need to quench my thirst becomes dire.
“Can I grab another?” I ask, shifting my gaze to Chase.
His eyes shoot down to the bar fridge under the counter. “Looks like you’re shit out of luck,” he replies after returning his eyes to me. “If you don’t mind running to the kitchen, there is some more orange juice in the fridge upstairs.”
“Alright,” I reply, jumping off the barstool. “I’ll be back in a minute.”
Chase’s devious eyes shift between Hugo and me. “Go and give her a hand, Hugo,” he suggests, throwing a dishcloth at Hugo and gesturing his head to the stairs.
“It’s okay. I know where to find everything,” I inform him, my tone confident. “And Hugo is partnered in a game of pool with Vicky.” I surprise myself when I manage to keep my tone friendly while saying Victoria’s name because my thoughts are anything but.
I inhale a quick, sharp breath when I pivot on my heels and discover two new opponents versing the current tournament leaders, Jorgie and Rhys. Jorgie’s lips are pressed together and her head occasionally nods at whatever strategy Rhys is whispering in her ear. Jorgie is highly competitive. It wouldn’t matter if it was a game of pool or she was climbing Mount Everest. If there is a possibility of her winning, she gives it her all.
My skin prickles with bumps when Hugo mutters, “I guess you’re not the only one colorblind,” into my ear.
My jaw falls open. “Did you sink the black ball?” I ask, gliding my eyes to his.
I giggle when he nods his head.
“It wasn’t as impressive as your stellar performance, though. I at least had two turns before the black ball found a home in the right corner pocket,” he jests, following me into the hallway.
“Don’t worry, you’ll eventually get there. Being this perfect takes practice,” I respond, smiling brightly.
A brief moment of silence stretches between us before he mutters, “That it does. That it does.”
He remains quiet as we walk through the Marshall residence. Numerous partygoers stop dancing to greet Hugo when he strides by. The boys pat him on the back, and girls kiss him on the cheek. By the time we reach the kitchen, jealousy is hitting me fair in the guts, and Hugo’s cheek is covered with lipstick smears. Ignoring the twisted pain in my heart, I move to the fridge. Hugo props his hip on the kitchen counter and swigs out of a bottle of beer I didn’t realize he was holding until now.
A cool blast of air hits my face and chest when I open the double door fridge to hunt for the orange juice. Mrs. Marshall’s fridge has always been well-stocked with two young adults and two teens living under her roof, and today is no exception. When I fail to locate the OJ in the monstrous-sized fridge, I tilt my torso out and peer at Hugo.
“Does your mom keep the orange juice in the fridge or the pantry?” I ask with pursed lips.
He doesn’t reply. His gaze remains arrested on something lower than my face. My pulse quickens when his hand scrapes along the edge of his jaw. My eyes dart down to his mouth when his tongue delves out to replenish the dryness impinging his top lip.
Once his lip is moistened, and his tongue is returned to his mouth, my eyes shoot down, eager to discover what he is staring at. A thin sheet of sweat beads my body when I spot the budded peaks of my nipples standing erect in my thin cotton dress. Is that what has attracted his attention?
