Page 128 of The Last Good Man

I expect him to move away, yet he lingers, hesitant.

I know that kind of hesitation. It’s about the only time men hesitate. When they are not sure whether they want you or not, whether to ask you out or not.

At least, that’s the case with him.

“I don’t know how your schedule looks, but would you like to have drinks with me next week? We can chat more,” he says seriously before checking the time on his watch.

It’s a clever move.

He doesn’t ask me out, yet he’s offered me a weekday time slot, perhaps to talk about work.

I ponder for a moment.

Do I want to know more about Marlowe, who seems to be another Thomas, although less courteous?

“Do you have a place in mind?” I murmur, convinced he’s talking about drinks at a bar or a restaurant.

“My place,” he says. “Wednesday at seven. See you then?” he tosses at me, pivoting toward his apartment.

“Uh. Okay. Sure,” I say, unsure of anything, especially walking into this man’s apartment.

23

MELODY

Thursday evening

“What’s the occasion?” Aretha asks, glancing at me from behind her desk.

“I could ask you the same thing,” I toss at her, smiling and perusing her two-piece skirt suit that sets off her body.

Her hair is all brushed back, and statement earrings emphasize her earlobes andherneck.

“I had a business dinner,” she says while I drop my designer bag on the coffee table.

“What’s your excuse?” she asks, rising to her feet but not before grabbing the notepad bearing my name and a pen from the drawer.

“I’m celebrating the new season,” I say facetiously.

“It was nice today, wasn’t it?” she agrees, her question rhetorical.

Moving toward my favorite couch, I remove my short white trench, revealing a red skintight dress accessorized with a narrow belt.

I place the coat next to my bag and take a seat across from where she usually sits.

She gives me a double take.

My hair is all lazy rings, gathered in a complicated bun at the top of my head, some stray strands touching my neck.

“You wore that to work?”

“Uh-huh,” I say, holding her gaze.

A knowing smile touches her lips.

“It’s not against our dress code,” I say.

“That’s not what I had in mind,” she murmurs, setting everything on the coffee table and returning to her desk to collect her eyeglasses.

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