“Sam. I never ask you for anything. Please.”
I stared at the wine glass on the counter. I didn’t know if drinking alone was going to make me feel better or worse. He didn’t seem to be taking no for an answer. If it involved a subway or cab ride, there was no way. But he was basically asking me to cross the street. I could bail as soon as I dropped him off with his friends.
“Okay, fine. But justonedrink.”
He waited in the hall while I threw on black jeans and a burnt-orange sweater. I ran a brush through my hair, dabbed on concealer and light mascara, and grabbed a pair of ankle boots from the back of my closet.
“This is as good as it gets,” I said, locking the door behind me.
Connor smirked. “The Divorcée takes Manhattan.”
“Save that detail for yourself, please.” I dug around my bag for lip gloss. “Who are these friends again? Did I ever meet them at Georgetown?”
“I went to boarding school with Stefan, who was childhood friends with George, who I’m loosely calling an ex because we dated for a summer when I was in college. Whilst working on a vineyard in Bordeaux.”
“Romantic.”
“The French are romantic for a summer. Then the narcissism sets in.”
“So it’s Stefan and George?”
“And their friend Christophe, who just moved from Paris. He’s the one they’re visiting.”
“Would Gillian be jealous if she knew you were seeing George?”
“I wouldn’t know because I didn’t mention it. She’s at a yoga retreat.”
“Remind me not to take relationship advice from you.”
We walked into Art Bar as an intimidatingly well-dressed group of guys converged on Connor.
He wrapped his arm protectively around my shoulder. “Boys, this is Samantha. An old friend from law school.”
“What would you two like to drink?” one of them asked.
“Ketel and soda for me,” Connor said.
“Same for me, thanks,” I said.
I leaned over and whispered, “Which one is George?”
He shot me a look then whispered back, “On the right.”
George struck me as the male equivalent of Gillian, only much taller.
“You have a type,” I murmured as Stefan returned with our drinks.
Stefan raised a martini glass. “Aux vieux amis et nouveaux amis. To old and new friends.” He squeezed Connor’s shoulder. “Very old friends, in some cases. You look tired, man. What’s this city doing to you?”
Connor pretended to be wounded. “I’ll always be younger than you, lad.”
Stefan chuckled. “You’re working too hard.”
“Not as hard as this one,” Connor said, with an affectionate light pinch of my cheek.
I thanked him for the drink. “Working hard is old news in New York.”
Christophe gave a small wave. “I’m the New York virgin. I just arrived last week from Paris. But I can keep the Parisian lifestyle, non?”
