When he stops in front of me, he stares at me, wide-eyed and confused. The look of anxiousness in his eyes somehow calms me. The type of concern they are reflecting isn’t something that can be manufactured on a whim. It is genuine and honest, making me realize, even if Hugo only ever classes me as a friend, it will be enough.
“Are you ready?” he queries. The smooth rasps of his voice smother any leftover unease jittering my stomach.
“Yes,” I reply, nodding.
When he laces his fingers with mine, a jolt of energy surges up my arm. There is no way my brain is making this stuff up. That was electrifying! A gust of wind whips my hair off my neck and into my face when we exit the double doors of the club. Gathering my hair, I spot the limousine from earlier idling at the curb. The gentleman with the thick silver mustache greets me with a smile as he opens the back passenger door for me to enter.
“Thank you,” I say graciously.
The skin on my thighs clings to the coolness of the leather material as I slide across the bench seat. On the drive back to my apartment, I catch sight of Hugo’s impassive face in the tinted windows, but for the majority of the drive, his thoughts remain elsewhere.
“I could have taken a taxi if you wanted to stay,” I say, no longer able to stand the frustrating silence between us.
His eyes turn from the darkened night to me. “It’s fine, Ava; I want to make sure you get home safely.”
“You can drop me off and head straight back out,” I say with a shrug of my shoulders. “If you want to?”
My suggestion is greeted with silence. I cross my arms in front of my chest and sink deeper into the leather seat. With Hugo’s grim mood, anyone would swear it was his ego that copped a beating in the washroom – not mine.
Unable to comprehend the tension suffocating the air, I mumble, “Or you could just sit there and continue sulking like a five-year-old.”
The flash of a smirk freezes my heart. “Really? I’m sulking like a five-year-old?”
“Uh huh,” I say with a nod of my head. “You have the same pouty-face look you had when the waiter wouldn’t let you order blueberry pancakes as your main course at Jorgie’s sixteenth birthday celebration.”
He scoffs. “Name one restaurant that stops serving breakfast at 11 AM!”
“That one,” I retort with a roll of my eyes.
My lips twitch as I try to hold in my smile from Hugo’s shocked expression. Hugo has a fascination with breakfast foods. His love is so strong, he tried to order pancakes for dinner when we went to a fancy restaurant for Jorgie’s sixteenth birthday.
He threw a tantrum like a kindergarten student when the male waiter told him the breakfast menu closed at eleven AM. The only thing that stopped his immature gripe was my suggestion that I could make him his own double batch of pancakes the following Sunday. When he agreed, I did exactly that – for the next two years.
During my high school days, every Sunday morning, my father begrudgingly dropped me off at the Marshall residence on our way home from church. Because we attended the dawn service, most of the Marshall family members were still sleeping when I arrived at eight AM. Everyone except Mrs. Marshall.
For the first few weeks, our talks were based on school and what happened at church that morning, but as the weeks went on, our conversations grew to a wide variety of topics, including Hugo’s fascination with anything relating to breakfast. It was Mrs. Marshall who taught me how to make blueberry pancakes, homemade hash browns and Eggs Benedict. Although I’ve never told her, Sundays morning was the highlight of my week.
I turn my gaze to Hugo. The surly mood fettering his face has vanished and sparks of the old beloved Hugo have fired in his eyes.
“How long has it been since you’ve been home for Sunday brunch?” I query.
He runs his hand down the side of his face. “Not since my first tour in Afghanistan.” His voice comes out super scratchy and hoarse.
“If you’re not busy, you should come next weekend?” I suggest. “Then you can test out Helen’s rendition of scrambled eggs.”
A chuckle escapes my lips when Hugo grimaces. Helen, Hugo’s older sister, is brilliant at anything she does, except cooking. She is the spitting image of Hugo’s mother with cascading blonde hair and vibrant green eyes, but that’s as far as the similarities go. She didn’t get Mrs. Marshall’s cooking skills or nurturing nature.
“Are you going to be there?” Hugo questions.
Smiling, I nod. “Yes. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
My heart flips when he says, “Alright. If you promise to make me a double batch of your famous blueberry pancakes, I’ll be there bright and early next Sunday.”
Nodding, I bite the inside of my cheek, battling to keep my excitement from bursting out the seams. My eagerness intensifies when the limo pulls into the front of my building and Hugo rushes around the vehicle to open the door for me. I can’t wipe the excitement off my face when he intertwines his fingers with mine and walks into my apartment building.
Patty, the seventy-three-year-old part-time night watchman of my building greets me with a dip of his hat and a broad grin. “Good morning, Ms. Westcott. No goodies today?”
I smile. “Morning, Patty. I think 3 AM is a little early for biscuits and gravy.”
