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Diego snorts, and I roll my eyes. "You're too much of a romantic," he says. "Talk to me. Let it go."
I exhale a deep breath, shaking my head. "I guess I'm just...well, it's been months now," I say. "Just trying to keep my head above water, I guess."
Diego raises an eyebrow. "That's right—it's been months, my friend," he says. "You can't spend the rest of your life mourning the loss of a relationship."
I frown. "I know that," I say. "I'm trying to move on, but...it's just hard, you know? I thought she was the one."
He nods sympathetically. "I know," he says. "But sometimes you just need a little push to get going."
Trip returns with our drinks, placing them in front of us with a flourish. "Enjoy, gentlemen," he says, then departs once again.
I take a sip, relishing the sweet taste of the bourbon and how the cherry lands on my tongue. I think about Sophia again—maybe because of how Diego is talking about her and because I'm so damn dissatisfied with my life in New York—and I try to drown those thoughts in whiskey.
Diego and I chat for a while, catching up on what business is like and how we've been doing. Diego always has excellent stories. He's in adventure tourism, so he's constantly traveling all over the world and doing exciting things. I spend a hell of a lot of time listening and absorbing, wishing I were anywhere but here. Usually, I would let myself relax into the comfortable furniture of the White Oak, listen to Diego, and maybe meet up with Gavin Sterling or Quinn Young...
...but not tonight.
Business winds down as the evening goes on, and my mind—and eyes—keep wandering to Sophia. To the way her red hair falls on her shoulders, the curve of her hips. I can't help but think about what it would be like to run my hands over her smooth skin, to feel her lips on mine. She's chatting at the bar with the bartender, Bryn, laughing about something.
Then she looks right at me.
Shit.
"You could speak to her," Diego says suddenly, breaking me out of my reverie. "That would be a start."
"Excuse me?" I ask.
"Sophia," he says. "You're not supposed to harass the waitresses, but she's technically not a waitress—and talking to her isn't harassment."
"What about her?"
"You need a distraction; she's right there..." Diego says, shrugging. "I'm just saying it couldn't hurt."
I gape at him. "You do realize I'm forty-five, right?"
"And she's a grown woman," Diego chuckles.
I shake my head, taking another sip of my drink. "I don't know, man. It just feels wrong to use her like that."
Diego rolls his eyes. "You're not using her," he says. "You're just talking to her. Maybe she could be a friend, you know?"
"Why do I feel like you and I have a different definition of 'friend'?" I mutter.
"Perhaps because my bed is always warm, while yours is definitively cold," Diego snorts. "You could take my advice sometime. They say I'm a smart man."
"Who says?"
"They do."
"Who's they?"
I'm interrupted when I see Sophia heading over to our table, and my cheeks flush bright red as I avert my eyes. She's already basically here, though—definitely onto me—and Diego grins at her as she comes to our corner.
"Well, look at us…graced by the company of beautiful Sophia," Diego says. "I didn't think you bothered with the rabble anymore."
I try to tune out their conversation, steadfastly ignoring her until she looks right at me to get my attention. "I thought I caught Mr. Wright's eye a moment ago," she says. "I wanted to make sure you two didn't need anything?"
"No, ma'am," I blurt out. "We're all set here."
