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“Why are you looking at me like that?” she asks, hushed.
“Because I can. Now tell me.”
She blinks a few times and clears her throat. “You only date women like Paris Hilton. Tall. Blonde. Blue eyes. Rich. It’s your four requirements. Everyone knows this.”
Carlee looks at me likeI’mmisunderstanding. I’m not. I want to tell her to stop being ridiculous.
“Hmm. I thought you were smarter than that,” I quip.
“Huh?” She quiets like she’s scrolling through her memories, searching for clues.
“Your assessment is the bare minimum. But is it true? You can’t believe everything you read online concerning me, especially when the stories are sensationalized with a specific narrative about the character the media has created. Sometimes, I feed into it because it makes me feel like I have some control over what’s being said.”
The smile fades from her face, and her pretty red lips part. “They’re decoys.”
I take a sip of my drink. “Ah. There’s my smart girl.”
“You’re an actual genius.” Her eyes widen as she searches my face.
Laughter escapes me. “Now you’re flirting.”
“I’m shook. All this time,” she says, her pulse quickening.
“Years,” I confirm.
“How did I not notice before?”
“Because you choose to turn a blind eye to a lot,” I explain. “One day, you’ll see everything with eyes wide open. I’m just waiting for you to catch up.”
She tilts her head, not fully understanding thatherdenial keeps us apart because she’s not ready for a committed relationship. Not yet. I don’t know if I am either.
I’m tempted to wave my hand in front of her face as she zones out. “Still with me?”
“Yes. How do you explain the Weston Calloway effect?”
“Are you taking notes so you can add this to yourHow to Date Weston Callowaymanual?”
She snickers. “Genuinely curious. You know I’dnevershare any of this.”
Another bourbon is set on the table, and my empty glass is taken.
When we’re alone again, I speak. “When things are on the rocks with whoever I’m dating, they always dye their hair as a last-ditcheffort to keep me, believing our relationship won’t last because they’re not blonde. It perpetuates the tall tale. I don’t preferanyhair color. Brains over beauty. Some women have both. Most just want to fuck me,” I say to her.
“Wow. I’d never dye my hair to make a man happy. That’sridiculous.”
“You shouldn’t. You’re flawless,” I say, tilting my head, capturing her in memory.
She places her hands on her cheeks. “You’re making me blush.”
“I know, but it’s also the gin at work.” I smirk, watching her, loving that I can cause this reaction.
Being with her is too easy. The way it should be.
Carlee licks her lips before taking another sip of her martini. “So, you’re aware of the effect you have on people?”
“Is this an interview?” I ask.
She chuckles. “A business meeting.”