Page 14 of The Last Good Man

He clicks his tongue, shaking his head in warning.

“Tsk, tsk… Stop doing that, babe. Or I’ll smash it against the wall,” he says, still smiling but with a hint of seriousness in his voice, convincing enough to make me believe him.

“Excuse me… How old are you?” I ask, giving up on recovering my phone and focusing on the puzzlein front ofme.

“How old do I look?” he murmurs, studying my neckline and opening my coat with his index finger to get a peek inside. “Nice dress, by the way,” he tosses at me casually.

If I were a dog I’d probably wag my tail justaboutnow.

He lifts his head and looks down his nose at me.

“Huh?” he asks again before rolling his bottom lip under therazor sharpedge of his teeth, andpushing his eyes way down, following a line from the fullness of my lips to the center of my chest, the expansion of my hips and the tips of my stilettos.

Just aspainfully slowly, he drags his gaze up over my entire body and parks it on my lips before searching my eyes for the answer that has failed to come.

“Is it my age…” he drawls, “ the scariest thing about me?”

A lifted brow accompanies his grin.

Between what Aretha had said and what he just hinted at, Ibegin tothink I’m indeed off.

Many things about him are scary.

How he’s taken control of my body, confiscated my phone, and threatened to destroy it just to show me who’s in charge are only a few.

And then there is that wicked grin of his, a mix ofdeepknowledge, dark power, scaring decisiveness, and sheer delight for having me here, unable to react.

The fact that he’s fearless and doesn’t care about society's norms is just another frightening aspect.

The fact that he won’t be mistaken for a gentleman anytime soon is also a bad sign.

Nothing is gentlemanly about his arm locked around my waist, his frame pressed against mine, and his heat creating turbulence in my chest.

And then there is the scariest thing of all.

Resting his hand on me, he takes short trips into my soul with his piercing eyes.

My phone pings in his hand just as I’m about to lie about how scary or not–old–enough–for-me he looks.

He looks like a man.

He also looks like an inmate, and having a rough life in prison usually ages people. Not that he looks old.

That’s why I asked what I asked.

A compact wall of muscles, he is covered in tattoos and wears an outfit I’d never thought I’d see in a historic building on the Upper East Side—especially in front of Dr. Stenson's office.

He could be of any age.

Looks are deceiving these days.

I could pass for someone younger if I put on my sports bra and yoga pants, gathered my hair into a ponytail, and jogged around my neighborhood without makeup on.

He lifts my phone in front of us so we canbothsee the screen, but my cell is still out of reach.

Ispotthe reply I was supposed to send Thomas when Icollided with this man.

‘I’ll see you tomorrow.”

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