Page 121 of The Last Good Man

“I think he did.”

She dismisses me with a lifted eyebrow.

“It’s not like you to be so uncertain about these men. What’s so special about this one?”

I won’t bite.

So I just look at her, refusing to speak.

“You’re frustrated because of him,” she says.

That I can’t deny.

“He’s just like the others,” I say deceitfully, but she doesn’t notice.

“Good. See. We’re finally getting somewhere,” she says, returning to the sofa, scooping up her notepad, sliding into her seat, and writing again.

She doesn’t believe an iota of what I just said.

If she does, I shouldprobablyfire her.

“In what way is he the same?” she mutters, her eyeglasses parked on her nose, her gaze pinned on the notepad, her pen waiting to compile a list of Jax London’s flaws.

“He sent me mixed messages.”

“Oh. Thank God. Why was it so hard?”

I’ve never seen someone so irritated with me.

A smile spreads across her lips to conceal her frustration.

“Mixed messages. You liked one type of message but not the other. You had certain expectations when it came to him.”

Usually, I’m talking before she nudges me to draw my own conclusions.

Not tonight, though.

“Please elaborate,” she says.

“He showed me that he liked me.”

She’s writing stuff down.

“How?”

She flicks her gaze up and reads my face.

“Never mind. Just go on,” she says.

“And then he left without a word. He seemed to be pissed.”

‘Like you now,’ I almost say.

A long breath tilts her chest while she removes her glasses and slides her notepad next to her and her pen underneath so that it doesn’t roll over the edge.

“What did you tell him?”

“Nothing.”

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