Smitten Kitten

chapter eleven

   IT'S THREE GLASSES IN QUICK SUCCESSION and enough oysters to feed a small village that I finally admit- Noel is definitely ignoring me.

At first, I could convince myself that maybe, just maybe he didn't actually see me. It's a room that's practically alive with human presence, and I'd been swallowed up by the warmth of bodies and hum of conversation from the moment I stepped in. I'm sure we're both hovering on the right size of a decent buzz, so, the first time I give him the benefit of the doubt.

The fifth time, I do not.

The sixth time, I am pissed off.

I've been circling him for the past twenty minutes, brow arch more condescending every time I step into his peripherals and he, once again, looks away. By now he's staring so aggressively at the ceiling that he might fall in love with it, and he's barely even paying attention to the conversation playing out in front of him. Probably on the off chance I might be in his line of view beyond someone's shoulder, which, I am.

And he's not even smooth about it.

He's already downed two flutes of champagne, the rim of the glass reaching up to meet his lips every two to three seconds, and his mouth keeps twitching as if he's about to say something but never does. He's run his hand through his hair close to a thousand times, that angelic-faced woman still faithfully clasped around his arm.

I have no idea who she is, what relationship they have, but I refuse to play the fool and jump to conclusions. Even if they're practically gallivanting around the room like secret government prototypes for the rich and the famous.

Whatever.

Either way, after everything we've been through- at the most minimal degree, I deserve some sort of acknowledgement from Noel in public. A smile. A nod of the head. Something.

Waving a second time retrieves zero recognition on his part.

A middle finger the third time, strangely enough, gives me nothing.

Pointing to my eyes, and then to him with a look I'm sure lived in the gaze of Bruce Willis in every single Die Hard movie is absolutely useless.

There are a lot of things I am, I'm sure Nikki could write the next great American novel on it, but easily ignored is not one of them.

It's with a mounting frustration that can't be drowned in alcohol that I steal another glass, along with the arm of one of Mark's friends I vaguely recognize- Gerry, Gerard? Regardless, he's a source of conversation, since Nat and Mark are on the other side of the room entertaining Mark's a touch senile grandma, and I need conversation.

Or more realistically, a distraction.

And while I find no interest in basically anything that leaves his mouth, there's aging frat boy written all over him in the worst kind of way, his presence is enough to work with. We're strategically placed in Noel's peripherals, on my part of course, and judging by the way he's adjusting his tie, I know he sees us.

"Blake Bortles is killing my game- he's dragging down the entire team. At this rate, it'll all be over for me. I shouldn't have traded for Cousins. What a stupid fucking move."

I blink. "I'm sorry, what?"

"Fantasy football," Grant clarifies, grinning, as if that's supposed to mean anything.

Out of the corner of my eye, I can see we've temporarily caught Noel's attention, and I'm exploiting George's presence to the fullest extent. I throw my head back and laugh- bellowing and obnoxious, and graze his bicep. All of it is practiced in a way I've done time and time before.