“Hopefully before the big celebration party.”
“There S#82217;s a celebration party?”
Jules sat back. “The cup celebration at the Four Seasons next month. The twenty-fourth maybe? It’s been put together in the past week, but I’m sure Bressler got an invitation. Or will shortly.”
Of course he hadn’t mentioned it.
“If you don’t get an invite, everyone is allowed one guest. You can go with Bo.”
Speaking of her sister, Bo moaned long and loud as she moved down the hall toward them.
“Damn you, Chelsea,” she croaked. “I haven’t been this hungover since the last time I visited you in L.A.” She shuffled to the table and sat down. “Did you make coffee?”
Chelsea shook her head and handed her sister the Coke.
“I did.” Jules got up and poured Bo a cup.
“We’re getting too old for this,” Bo said as she laid her head on the table.
Chelsea secretly agreed. They were both thirty, and at some point in anyone’s life, partying to excess lost its appeal. It just got pathetic, and before a girl knew it, she was one of those women who lived life on a bar stool. She tried another bite of her cereal and chewed carefully. Chelsea didn’t want to become one of those women with gravelly voices and overly processed hair. She didn’t want bad teeth and leathery skin. She didn’t want a boyfriend named Cooter who was doing ten to twenty for armed robbery.
Jules set the coffee in front of Bo, then returned to his place across the table. “You girls smell like the old Rainier brewery before they shut it down.”
Bo raised the coffee to her lips. “You’re not allowed to talk about beer for two days.”
“Okay.” Jules laughed. “Mini Pit.”
Last night, when Chelsea had told Bo that the hockey players called her Mini Pit, Jules had laughed until he’d choked. Neither twin had found it quite that funny, but to make Bo feel better, Chelsea had confessed that they called her Short Boss.
“Not today, Jules.” Bo set the coffee down. “Where’s your shirt?”
Jules grinned, raised his arms, and flexed like he was in a body-builder competition. “I thought you girls might enjoy the gun show.”
“Please,” Chelsea moaned. “We’re already sick.”
“I just vomited in my mouth,” her sister added.
Jules laughed and lowered his arm. “I’ll put the guns away until later.”
“God, I hate it when you’re all cheerful. Why aren’t you hungover?” Bo wanted to know.
“Because I was your designated driver. You don’t remember?”
“Barely.”
Chelsea wondered if her sister remembered making out with Jules. She wondered now if maybe she shouldn’t bring it up. Ever. There were times when not remembering was best. Like the time several years Ssevago when she’d streaked at a party in the Hollywood Hills. Chelsea had never been one to run like a gazelle, and it hadn’t been pretty. Too bad she hadn’t remembered that until the next morning. Sheesh, now that she thought of it, maybe she was impulsive. Especially when she drank.
“Do you remember singing ‘Kiss’?”
“The Prince song?” Chelsea asked. She didn’t recall singing Prince. Madonna and Celine Dion had been bad enough.
“Yeah. And you girls really got into ‘I Will Survive.’”
Apparently they’d had quite the song list. Why hadn’t anyone stopped them? They’d undoubtedly been horrid. Chelsea turned and looked at her sister. “Do you remember ‘I Will Survive’?”
“No. I hate that song. Why would I sing it?”
“You really got into it.” Jules added to their misery. “You two belted out that song like it was your own personal anthem or something.”