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I shrug, dipping my fry into ketchup. “Nothing since Neal.”
“Neal?”
“Farmers’ market guy. The crunchy guy from Oregon.”
“Ah, guess I never caught his name. Damn, didn’t that end, like, a year ago?”
“Yeah, about.”
“You haven’t gotten laid in a year?”
I nod. “Yeah, some of us aren’t horndogs who can’t keep it in our pants. I consider myself a sexual camel.”
“A sexual camel?” he says with a laugh.
“Yeah, I can go very long periods without it. Like a camel can in the desert without water.”
“Got it.” He nods.
“Besides, let’s be honest, my little magic wand manages to get the job done at a 100% success rate, while men might get me there 10% of the time . . . and that’s being generous.”
“Ten percent?”
“Generous,” I emphasize.
He leans forward, his elbows on the table. “You’re hanging around the wrong men, honey.”
The way his voice lowers when he calls mehoneymakes my stomach do that little flip of excitement.
“Any you suggest I hang around?”
“You don’t need my help, Doll. Don’t sell yourself short.”
“Not all of us have your gift.” I lean back in the booth. “You’ve always had a way with women without even trying.”
“Not all women.” His eyes dart away from mine then back. It’s like there’s something he’s not saying. I open my mouth to ask him what he means, but he reaches for his wallet. “Dinner’s on me,” he says as he pulls out a few bills and tosses them onto the table.
I take that as our cue to leave, grabbing my purse and sliding out of the booth, then following him out of the restaurant. He walks with me silently to my car. He reaches around me, pulling my door open.
“You want to come over for another drink?” I ask as I spin around to face him, with only a few inches between us. I can smell the slight hint of cologne or maybe aftershave.
He looks down at me, his eyes dark beneath the moonlight. He studies my face for a moment, his hand slowly reaching up to pick up a strand of my hair. He rubs it between his fingers, staring at the movement.
“I like your hair grown out.”
“Thanks,” I say softly. “About that drink . . . ?”
His eyes dart back to mine as he drops the lock of my hair. “I don’t think it’s a good idea.”
“Why not?”
Annoyance flashes across his face and I instantly regret asking the question.
“You know why,” he says cryptically.
Do I? Do I really know?
I can’t tell if he’s fighting his attraction toward me like I’m fighting it toward him, or if this is how he really feels: annoyed and obligated to be my friend—to look after his best friend’s widow and her pathetic attempts to make him like her.
