Page 115 of The Last Good Man

Aftermeetings back to back, I left my office late, took a cab, and even had to walk a few blocks because the traffic was horrendous.

On top of that, it's raining again, and my blazer is damp, while my hair is a ridiculous mess.

“Are you all right?” she asks, sliding her glasses off and placing her book next to her on the couch.

The last thing I want is to signal that I have a meltdown.

Running my hand over my hair, I try to tame it. I also clear my throat and speak in a calm voice.

“Yes. Everything’s fine. It’s just that I thought I’d never make it,” I say, placing my purse on the couch across fromherand gingerly removing my blazer. “If you don’t mind, I’ll drape it over here,” I say, placing my blazer over the back of a chair. “It’s raining again,” I say apologetically.

She gestures to me.

“Please, take a seat, and don’t feel bad. We all have bad days.”

While I appreciate how she handles my little crisis, she’s never had one of those herself.

Her gaze dips to the coffee table.

“Okay. Let’s get started,”shesays. “Would you like something to drink? Coffee?”

She moves her eyes to me and studies me briefly.

“I guess not,” she says. “Tea?”

“No, thank you. Maybe a glass of water.”

“Water it is,” she says, relieved. “Make yourself comfortable. I’ll be with you in a moment.”

She walks out while I lean back in my seat anddrag an empty starearound the room before focusing on her desk.

Tucked in the corner next to the window, her desk is extra tidy. It has one computer and a paper plannernext to it.

As much as she admires modern technology, she’s not fond of power outages, computer errors, or those pesky moments when the Internet is down.

‘I can listen to someone at candlelight. I don’t need more than that,’sheonce said tome.

The corner is decorated with shelves stocked with books and luscious plants, but my mindgoes backto that paper planner.

I know she’s booked in advance, so she must have Jax’s appointments in there.

Perhaps she’s scribbled down little notes too, although shenormallyuses a different notebookfor that.

Each client has their own notebook as she keeps records of our conversations.

Hmm.

A thought pops into my head, and I push slightly to the edge of the sofa, tempted to rise and take a few steps toward her desk, when her voice drifts from the waiting area.

I plop back down and lean against the couchas ifI’ve never moved.

A moment later, she steps in.

“So…” she says, smiling and handing me a glass of water. “I’m sorry. My neighbor just popped in.”

“Is everything all right?” I ask while she goes to her desk and, as expected, retrieves a notepad–my notepad–from an unlocked drawer.

“Yeah, yeah… Everything is fine.Theywant to change the lighting in the building. The stairwell is too dark. Someone made a complaint.”

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