“I’m fine. I just had a few late nights.”Fantasizing about your son.
When Mrs. Marshall turns her back, I throw the dishcloth from my hand into Jorgie’s grinning face. Biting the inside of my cheek, I fight hard to keep my laughter at bay when the drenched dishcloth slaps the side of Jorgie’s face before comically drooping down the side of her cheek and plopping into her half-full mug of coffee.
“Still, you don’t look very well. Perhaps you should go sit down and let me finish up here,” Mrs. Marshall suggests, spinning around to face me and removing the spatula out of my hand.
“No, it’s fine,” I reply, snatching the spatula back. “I’ve got this.”
A broad smile stretches across my face when I flip the large blueberry pancake on the skillet and perfect golden coloring emerges. I’ve spent the last two hours making sure I’ve created the perfect batch of pancake batter. I kept the eggs at room temperature and floured each individual blueberry to ensure they didn’t sink to the bottom of the batch. Now, I only have the last few remaining pancakes to fry and the double batch I promised Hugo last week will be ready for him when he arrives…If he arrives.
Mrs. Marshall’s brows furrow, and her vibrant green eyes stare at me with uncertainty. “Okay, dear, but if you change your mind—”
“I’ll let you know,” I interrupt, smiling softly.
When Mrs. Marshall moves to the sink to peel potatoes, Jorgie props her hip onto the counter next to me. “I haven’t seen you this eager to make blueberry pancakes since the day after my sixteenth birthday,” she says, her eyes full of suspicion.
While picking at an invisible piece of lint on her shirt, she adds on, “Hugo hasn’t been to Sunday brunch in years, Ava, not since he went to Afghanistan. I don’t see that changing anytime soon.”
Ignoring the twisting pain in my stomach, I say. “I know. But today might be different.”
“Because you went out with him last week?”
My confused eyes snap to hers.
“He had to get your address from someone,” she explains to my bemused expression.
“Did anything…happen?” she queries, her tone low and crammed with unease.
My pupils widen and my throat dries. “Umm… no… we just went out… umm dancing,” I reply before turning my attention back to the pancakes.
No longer able to ignore Jorgie’s entreating gaze burning a hole in the side of my head, I sweep my eyes to her. The expression on her face has switched from anxious to playful in under two point five seconds.
“Dancing, hey?” she questions with a waggle of her brows. “What type ofdancing?”
Blood rushes to the surface of my skin from the sexual innuendo laced in her voice.
Spotting my blemished cheeks, she squeals. “Ava Westcott, you dirty little hussy!”
“Shh,” I request, panicked.
My eyes dart around the large eat-in kitchen of the Marshall residence. Once I'm satisfied no one is paying any attention to Jorgie and me, I return my eyes to her.
“Not that type ofdancing,” I inform her softly. “Dancing, dancing. Clothes leftondancing.”
She cocks her brow high into the air. “What else happened?” she questions overdramatically. “You can act innocent until you’re blue in the face, Ava, but I know something more happened. I can see it in your eyes. So come on, spill it. I want all theraunchydetails.”
Is it just me or does that seem wrong coming out of the mouth of Hugo’s baby sister?
Seeing my repulsed expression, Jorgie says, “Hugo may be my brother, but you’re my best friend. What kind of friend would I be if I didn’t help my bestie wade her way through all the slimy frogs until she found her prince sitting on the edge of the pond?”
My brows furrow. Jorgie has never been a fairytales and Prince Charming romance-type of girl. Her idea of a true romance story is Romeo and Juliet. Obviously the pregnancy hormones running through her body have made her a little whacky.
“Pregnancy and wedding planning are making your insides all soft and squidgy,” I joke, poking her rounded stomach.
Her mouth gapes open. “They are not!” she chides, her voice sounding mortified.
“Yeah, they are. You’re turning into a marshmallow!”
“Whatever,” she grumbles with a roll of her eyes. She crosses her arms in front of her chest and rests them on her stomach. She tries to fake annoyance, but the smile tugging the corner of her lips high displays her deceit. “You betta watch yourself; I get to choose who I’m friends with, but I’m stuck with Hugo. He’s family.”
