Cinq Rouge, the trendy Southampton restaurant that Mooney had finagled them into, was rather understated in its exterior décor, but the food and interior ambiance were said to rival any of its Manhattan cousins. While they waited for their table, Finley and the rest of the group grabbed a table in the bar area and scanned the crowd for celebrities.
Mooney had asked for a gin and tonic, and Mama and Whitt champagne. Strangely, Finley ordered a single malt. She wasn’t sure why she had wanted one. If she was drinking spirits, it was normally bourbon, neat, that called her name. But tonight, she felt like a single malt. Glenmorangie, specifically. When she inhaled the rich, peaty aroma, she remembered why. It was Max’s drink.
She still missed him. I need to let this go. I can’t keep wearing his cologne and drinking his drink and daydreaming about what he is doing. If he isn’t writing, not even stilted postcards, he has moved on, and I need to as well. She took a deep gulp of the dark brown liquid and let it burn going down. Two more gulps and it was gone—and so was the longing. Almost.
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