Jorgie nods. “Hugo will meet you in his truck out front.”
My eyes snap to Jorgie. She has a vast grin stretched across her face and is rocking on her heels, pleased at giving Ava and me one final push.
My eyes float to Ava when she asks, “Do you mind, Hugo?”
A grand smile stretches across my face when I shake my head, advising I have no objection to driving her home.
When Ava leaves the kitchen to gather her belongings, Jorgie turns to face me. “Grab her, Hugo, and don’t let go.”
The beaming smile on her face intensifies when I nod my head.
Fourteen
Hugo
“Did you want to play a game?”
I turn my gaze from the road to Ava, sitting quietly in the passenger seat of my truck. “What type of game?” I question.
Her grin stretches wider as she adjusts her position to face me. “Twenty questions.”
I cringe. I’ve never been a guy who’s had a problem stringing sentences together. I’ll happily admit I'm a communicator, preferring to talk things out rather than let them sit and stew. But if I want to know something, I'll ask. If I want you to know something, I’ll tell you. Being forced to share information – that makes me uncomfortable.
Ava’s shoulders slump and she picks at the polish on her nail.
“You go first,” I suggest.
I’ll be subjected to any torture she wants to dish out if it swipes the frown off her beautiful face. My grip on the steering wheel tightens when a dimpled smile creeps across her face. Her lips twist as she considers a question.
“Sweet or sour?” she asks a short time later.
“Drrr, sweet.”Although I don’t think I’ll ever find anything sweeter than her lips.
“You can’t have one without the other,” Ava replies, snagging her handbag from the floor of my truck and throwing a packet of sour Skittles at my chest.
She tucks her legs under her bottom and twists her torso to me. “Your turn” she says, popping a handful of Skittles into her mouth.
I arch my brow and stare into her eyes, pretending I’m stumped on finding an appropriate question. She cocks her brow, mimicking my expression. I snicker, loving that she can still read me so easily. She is the only woman who sees through my bullshit.
“Do you know how many fights I got into the night of my eighteenth birthday party, after I threw you into the pool?” I ask.
Ava coughs, splattering the cream leather dash of my truck with rainbow spit. Her hand clutches her throat as she works hard to swallow the remaining Skittle juice left in her mouth.
“Are you alright?” I query, shifting my eyes between the road and her.
The faintest flush of color sneaks across her cheeks as she nods her head. Once she has recovered from a mini coughing fit, she turns to face me.
“How many?” she squeaks out.
“Three,” I inform her.
“Who?” she asks, her voice croaky.
“Richie Santo, Robert Parker, and Bryson Trapper.”
She slants her head to the side and glances into my eyes. “Because you were protecting me like you always did with Jorgie?”
I shake my head. “No,” I reply, truthfully. “I just hated the idea of any guy touching you.”
