“Oh. So, you’re a lesbian?”
“What? No! What is wrong with you?” She lightly smacked my arm with the back of her hand.
“You said I’m a man. What else am I supposed to think?”
“Let me rephrase. A man, whom I dated for three years, broke my heart recently, and I’m not ready to go out with another man yet.”
“I see. How long has it been?”
“Six months.”
I waited for the rest. There had to be a rest. But she didn’t say anything else.
“Six months?” I arched my brow. “And you’re still thinking about it?”
“Deeply. I’m running on fumes and one single working emotion. That emotion is resentment.”
“But it’s been six months.”
“I’m aware of how time works. Thank you,” she sighed.
I couldn’t wrap my head around it. “Samantha, six months is two seasons. Six months ago, I couldn’t tell you the name of a single person I was—” I stopped myself. “My point is that’s a very long time to still be sad about one guy.”
“Oh yeah?” She cocked her head. “How long do you usually grieve?”
“I don’t grieve. That’s the whole?—”
“Seriously. How long, Weston?”
“Well, there’s the drive home. And by the time I’m through the door, I’ve?—”
“The drive home?” She laughed. “You mourn a relationship for the length of a commute?”
“I do not mourn,” I said.
“I think you’re a sociopath,” she said as Ben pulled up to Carbone.
“Sociopath, no. Well-adjusted, yes.” I smirked, opening the door.
I extended my hand. The moment she placed hers in mine, an unfamiliar feeling rose inside my chest.
“Good evening, Mr. Castile, and welcome. Follow me, and I’ll take you to your table.”
“They know you here?” Samantha asked as we headed to our table.
“Everyone knows me.”
“I don’t.”
“You will by the end of the night.” I winked.
The moment we sat down, I ordered a bottle of champagne.
“Order anything on the menu,” I said, picking up mine.
“Trust me. I intend to.” She smiled, reaching for a piece of freshly baked bread from the basket.
After we placed our order, I picked up my drink. “So, about that ex. What did he do to make you swear off men?”
