Page 154 of The Last Good Man

I love this dress, not only because it flatters my body, but because it still smells like Jax.

His scent is buried in the fabric, a tender reminder of how alive he makes me feel.

After deciding to wear the same dress, I went a step further and pulled out a hair color kit from inside a bathroom cabinet.

Mina always advised me to get a more intense shade than hers. She said it would go better with the color of my eyes, and she was right.

I’m not very handy when it comes to things I dotomyself, but I got it right, and what a beautiful color it is.

A deep, dense red flutters down my shoulders in big waves. The contrast to my black eyeliner and complexion makes my blue-gray eyes look haunting.

I tried so hard to find a lipstick that matched my hair, but I ended up with a scarlet shade, like my dress.

My shoes, bag, and jacket are black, while diamonds glint at the root of my neck and my earlobes.

I move closer and give him a wave.

He’s still unsure that the woman before him is me. I end the call, and it registers with him that he was on the phone with me.

Oh, the look on his face is priceless.

“Melody? Is that you,cherie? I can’t believe my eyes. What happened?”

He wears light brown slacks, a white button-down shirt, a scarf with a small diamond print around his neck, and a black blazer.

He’s dressed for the occasion but not necessarily to impress someone.

Many guests display varied levels of elegance and originality in how they wear their clothes.

He looks more like my accountant than a French painter, and if I didn’t know any better, I’d say he had a meeting with his lawyer right before heading this way.

His effusion and wide eyes don’t go unnoticed.

A few people turn their heads to us, smiling for no reason.

He takes my hand and stares down unapologetically, ignoring all the intrusive, mystified onlookers.

“Darling, you look fabulous.Très jolie.”

I take his compliment with the grace of an entitled queen before looking around the room with his eyes still glued to me.

His hand still holds mine when I gently free myself.

“What would you like to drink?” he asks, procuring a glass of champagne before I can answer.

“Let me show you around,” he says with a hint of urgency in his voice.

We spend an hour inside the room.

Strutting like a peacock, he is trying to impress me with his breadth of art knowledge while I listen absently.

He normally wouldn’t pull away from me for no reason, but the gallery owner, who happens to be his friend, asks him to join him and a group of people in the other room.

Reluctantly, he leaves me in front of a sculpture after repeatedly telling me it wouldn’t take that long.

The fragile connection between us evaporates completely when he walks out of the room, and I tune out the hum of conversations in the gallery and analyze that piece of art.

My mind travels to a different place and time, and I look at it like I’m a different woman wearing the same dress, only having brown hair and eyes that are not so piercing.

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