Page 143 of Ewan

“I’m glad you’re alive and well,” she says before sliding the last bite of her food into her mouth.

For a few moments, she looks down while I have flashes in front of my eyes from what happened at the club.

“I don’t know if I want to do this again,” I say, and she shifts her eyes to me.

“Sorry,” she says, distracted and smiling. “He texted me and said he would miss me terribly if I left. Isn’t he sweet?” she murmurs, typing a reply.

“Yes, he is.”

She finishes typing and sending the message.

“I’m sorry. What were you saying?”

“It was about––”

“Not dancing over there again,” she continues, gesturing in understanding. “I know. I don’t blame you. I’ll probably stop working there as well. Especially, if this guy I’m talking to turns out to be something serious. Not serious as in getting married, but you know, seeing each other for a little while.”

I listen to her with a soft smile on my lips. It takes us so little to start thinking about the serious stuff. And I know why. These things are always flying off the rails before we know it.

My mind goes back to my ex.

If anyone had told me I’d be fucking in motel rooms, and feel good about it, while talking it from behind not so far into the future after I said I do, I would’ve laughed my ass off.

And look at me now.

“You’ll find someone,” Sammy says in response to my thoughtful expression.

I swiftly bring a smile to my lips.

“I’m not in a hurry.”

“I know. I’m not, either. But like I said, it feels good tofinally look forward to having some good sex, if nothing else."

I stay mum.

Hooray to that.

I feel the same.

A few seconds pass before I take a sip of coffee, and she speaks again.

“I apologize for being so abrupt about that man.”

“What man?” I ask swiftly, my heart galloping in my chest.

I suddenly know exactly what man she's talking about.

“The guy you went home with. Or whatever you were doing with him.”

“Yeah. No biggie. I told you it was nothing.”

“Yes, yes. I understand. It’s good if you two have nothing to do with each other. This type of man can be problematic.”

“I’m sure it could be,” I say, looking at my mug again, tempted to overdose on coffee.

“You said you didn’t know his last name…” I probe. “He never formally introduced himself to me either.”

“What first name did he give you?” she asks.

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