“Nothing.”
I look at her.
She looks at me.
Years of friendship tell me I have about two seconds before the advanced interrogation begins.
“I’m just… working a lot.”
True.
But not the whole truth.
“And you’re not thinking about your client at all,” she adds, not even pretending to be subtle.
My breath catches.
My neck warms.
“I didn’t say that.”
“No, honey, you didn’t say it. You’re screaming it with your aura.”
“I’m not—”
But right then, my phone buzzes.
And I don’t even need to look to know who it is.
I don’t look.
I swear.
I don’t.
Lina does.
She grins like a cat with prey.
“Cohen-pain-in-my-ass,” she reads aloud.
I consider spontaneous combustion.
Sebastian shakes his head. “Anyone texting a woman who is very clearly drinking to forget that same someone… probably doesn’t want to be forgotten.”
“Not everyone is an idiot,” Lina snaps.
I spin on the barstool, searching for air, take another sip, and lean against the counter.
I don’t want to talk about Cohen.
I don’t want to think about Cohen.
I don’t want to… want Cohen.
“No drama tonight,” I announce. “Just us, food, alcohol, and music. No thoughts, no work, no clients.”
Lina lifts her glass. “To forgetting men.”
