Page 109 of The Last Good Man

Marlowe––I think it’s Marlowe––must’ve jogged around the neighborhood this morning. I can’t blame him.

The sun shines brightly, and spring is in the air.

I should’ve done the same.

I should’ve gone for a jog and worked up a sweat instead of moping around and spending an hour selecting my outfit.

Ormaybehe went to the gym this morning.

The exclusive health club around the corner is pricey but worthwhile if you’re looking for a hookup.

My neighbor is tall and buffed up butnotbiggerthan Jax London.He’d surely tower over Thomas, but that’s beyond the point.

He wears gray sweatpants, and I try hard not to look below his waist. Everybody knows these sweatpants are not very good at keeping their private parts private.

He wears a tank top and a damp towel around his neck, and his skin glistens with sweat.

His eyes express worry that he might not make it to work on time.

So much for making an impression on him.

His gaze briefly grazes me–it’s unclear whether he’s noticed me or not–before he interacts with Myron, who greets him and hesitates to introduce him to me.

They exchange pleasantries while I grow restless.

What the fuck.

“I’m sorry. I don’t want to keep you,” Myron says before realizing he’s keeping meas welland glances at me. “Miss Hill here too.”

Marlowe shoots me one of those impossible-to-read, almost hostile glances I have become accustomed to.

Whether I meet these men in the boardroom or a social setting and dating them is not always out of the question, their attitude is always reserved and cautious, despite being some of the dirtiest motherfuckers around.

Or, so I’ve heard.

He doesn’t make eye contact and seems uninterested in me as a woman.

I bite the bullet and introduce myself, having the same attitude toward him.

I’ve also heard that they sometimes, not always, like spiteful women. The ones that are hard to impress.

His coffee-colored eyes glint with surprise when I say the name of the firm I work for.

“Oh. You arethe‘Melody Hill,’ “ he says, his voice flat, but even so, I consider it a boost for my self-esteem.

I have no idea what made him say that, but it must have been something good—professionally, I mean.

“Yes, that’s me. I’d love to chat some more, but I’m sure you’re in a rush,” I say, taking the lead, dismissing him, and casting a concerned look at my landlord. “Can we talk about this some other time? My driver is waiting.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Marlowe giving me another look, a spark of interest flashing through his gaze.

If nothing else, maybe I’ve made it on his ‘to hit on her maybe once’ list.

He talks before Myron does.

“Sure. We can do that,” he says, prompting me to move my focus back tohim.

He doesn’t waste another second, turning his muscular back to me and showing me his swagger before vanishing.

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