a softer stare and the most subtle smirk. “I like my kitchen. It’s the heart of any home.” He makes sure there’s isn’t room for follow up questions or jokes by immediately proceeding with, “What can I get you in it this morning?”
An exhausted shrug creeps out of me. “I don’t know. Maybe something with apple?”
His expression instantly shifts to worry. “That’s your comfort food.”
“You know his comfort food?” Gillette less than quietly questions in the background.
“You only want that in something when you’re upset.”
His other best friend quickly inquires, “Do you know my comfort food?”
Hugo plants his large palms on his countertop and leans forward, still ignoring his teammate. “What’s wrong?”
I unconsciously touch the spot I can feel a bruise forming, silently praying it hasn’t already started to appear.
His stare instantly hones in on the action causing him to growl, “What. Happened?”
“Nothing.”
My quiet denial is immediately met by a disapproving glare and a ticking jaw.
For Cripes Sake, he looks absolutely irresistible when his cut jaw throbs to the same rhythm I imagine his pulse is and those tree trunks he calls arms bulge in anger. Outwardly, I’ve built up a strong, unaffected façade to his whole strong, sexy, silent, do what I say routine, but inwardly? Inwardly it makes me look and feel exactly like the health shake he’s about to mix me in his extremely expensive blender.
His blender that is probably the most expensive thing in this apartment, next to his California King bed.
“Crash…”
“It’s…nothing.”
“Crash.”
“I mean it. It’s nothing that one of your magic potions can’t fix, boo.”
The playful reference I’ve always used for his concoctions receives a slightly bashful grin.
He’s been making smoothies, shakes, and shots since his parents deemed him responsible enough to use the blender unsupervised.
And, he’s been using me to test out his new recipes ever since the summer after sixth grade when he shot up an entire foot but didn’t want the world to know. He spent those three months hiding in his house’s basement. We watched a lot of The Food Network during that time and both developed an older man, celebrity crush on the late great, Anthony Bourdain.
“Can you two still see me or is my super-secret CIA invisibility tech I know is going to make an appearance in a future Fast and Furious spinoff finally working?”
Gillette’s invasion into an unintentional intimate moment causes Hugo to shoot him a displeased stare that’s accompanied by a sneer. Afterwards, I’m tossed another friendly expression as well as a follow up question. “Hungover?”
“A bit.”
I rarely bother outright lying to him.
Now, circumventing shit on the other hand…
Well, that’s as common as these daily pop ins.
Pretty sure it’s not lying if you’re just not volunteering information or finding a clever way not to provide said information.
I don’t need him knowing the true extent of my shit taste in men.
I damn sure don’t need him knowing my shit taste includes getting my ass beat before returning to said ass beater because he bought me something shiny.
Hugo slowly nods at the answer and offers me an undeniably sweet smile. “I’ll take care of you.”
Gillette promptly hops on another chance to poke the situation. “You?”
“It.”
“I heard you.”
“I meant it.” He clears his throat and aggressively corrects, “I’ll take care of it.”
“No yeah, but did you really mean it or you?” Gillette persistently mocks. “Because it’s rare the wise old weeping willow ever says something he didn’t mean.”
“I will pound you into the pancake you wish you were eating this morning instead of the smoothie I plan on making you.”
“See?”
“Sit,” Hugo commands prior to spinning around to retrieve ingredients from his fridge.
The moment he parks himself at one of the counter barstools I seize the opportunity to return the tormenting, “Aw, what a good boy you are.”
He leans into the teasing, still showcasing a good-natured grin. “I’m housebroken now, too.”
“Barely,” our friend grumbles while dropping fruits and veggies into the open blender.
Laughter flows from all three of us before Gillette loudly observes, “Those do not look like the ingredients for my protein shake.”
Hugo sprinkles a good-sized pinch of brown sugar over the food. “They’re not.”
“But, I was here first.”
Water is added to the mixture instead of a retort.
Gillette doesn’t refrain from whining. “You’re fucking serious with this shit?!”
He shoves the lid on, tilts his head defiantly to the side, and stabs the button to start the blending.
Their exchange effortlessly pulls more snickers out of me that only amplify when Gillette tosses me an overdramatic look of shock.
There’s no actual surprise here.
Hugo