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“Then what am I?” Scarlett interrupts with a joking pout.
“Hmm …” I tap my lips with my fingertip. “How about you can be my favorite chick Porterson and Jaxon can be my favorite dude Porterson?”
“That’s not even remotely accurate.” Blaise rotates a shot glass between his hands, his gaze colliding with mine as I turn my head toward him.
“It completely is,” I assure him haughtily.
He shakes his head, leaning in. “We both know I’m your favorite Porterson.”
“No, we both know that you think my ass and face are beautiful,” I retort, but then bite down on my tongue.
Okay, I really didn’t mean to say that right now. I wanted to chat with him about it when not so many eyes and ears were around, especially Rhyland’s, since it’ll only add fuel to this wager we have going on.
Tension ripples through Blaise’s body. “What’re you talking about?”
“The message you sent me this morning.” I roll my eyes. “Please don’t even try to pretend it wasn’t from you. I have your number programmed into my phone.”
He slants back. “I didn’t … I don’t …” He clears his throat a couple of times then picks up the shot glass and downs half the tequila.
“Hey, that was for the toast,” the old man exclaims, smacking his hand against the table.
Blaise’s face scrunches then his shoulders tremble as he gags. “Sorry. My throat was scratchy. There’s still a little bit left, though.”
“No one tries to get rid of a scratchy throat by drinking tequila.” I pat his hand. “Nice way of trying to divert the subject, though.” As I pull my hand away, he snatches ahold of my fingers.
“Speaking of diverting the subject.” He yanks up the sleeve of my jacket, revealing the bandage underneath. “Where’d this thing come from? Because I know for a fact you didn’t have it wrapped up this morning when you were at my house.”
“Why was Hadley at your house this morning?” Scarlett glances between the two of us questioningly.
“Because I needed to borrow some sugar.” I slip my hand from his and tug down the sleeve.
“If you say so.” Doubt and hurt ring in her tone.
Awkward silence trickles through the air as Scarlett sinks back in the chair and traces the cracks in the table. Poor girl looks as heartbroken as a Muppet baby who just learned puppets aren’t real. Guilt clutches at my chest for causing her to look so sad, but I don’t know her well enough to feel comfortable enough to tell her about my family’s drama, especially in front of a bunch of people I don’t know.
“All right, who’s ready to celebrate?” Hunter announces, raising a shot glass.
“What are we even celebrating?” Scarlett asks, reaching for a shot glass.
Hunter glances at Rhyland, who glances at Blaise, who glances at the old man—I seriously need to find out his name.
I slant to the side and whisper to Rhyland, “Who are these old people anyway?”
Rhyland chuckles and says way too loudly, “Hey Jay, Hadley wants to know who the old people are?”
The old man—Jay—glances around the table then his brows dip. “Old people? I don’t see any old people around here. I think your little lady friend might need to get her eyes checked.”
I may not get embarrassed often, but my cheeks flood with heat. “I didn’t say old,” I lie, discreetly elbowing Rhyland in the side.
“You’re so vicious,” Rhyland muses, tucking his elbow protectively against his side. “That’s okay, though. If you weren’t, we wouldn’t get along.”
“We don’t get along,” I remind him, reclining in the chair.
“Sure we don’t.” Sarcasm oozes from his tone. “Just like Blaise and you don’t flirt when you argue.”
“Wait. What?” Blaise leans forward and catches Rhyland’s eyes. “What’re you doing, man?”
Rhyland flashes him a toothy smile then shifts in the seat, twisting toward the other side of the table as he raises a shot glass in the air. “To new beginnings.”
