Page 166 of The Last Good Man

I’m about to ask the woman at the front desk to call a cab for me when a frantic Emile walks into the venue, a vein pulsing on his brow.

“Hey. Where were you?”hesays in a breath as ifhe’sjust been informed I spent some time with a man in the back alley.

It’s a striking change of dynamic. In the span of an hour, he went from the laid-back guy to some freakishly obsessed man.

We are not that close, so his budding territoriality is annoying. I was number three or four on his list––I’d like to remind him––but I let it slide.

I didn’t think a change of image would make a man like him become obsessed with me.

He grips my elbow––and again, we’re notthat close––yet luckily, he adjusts his voice.

“I was worried about you,cherie. And then I heard the announcement and thought something bad had happened to you. Were you out of the building?”heasks, the woman from the front desk notfar from us.

I pivot to a food table and set my drink down, struggling to come up with an explanation.

“I was,” I say, turning to him. “I had a smoke.”

“I thought you quit,” he says, and I bite my lip.

That’s what small talk does to you.

“I had a relapse.”

He searches my eyes.

“Something bothered you tonight?”

Guilt sidles up to me as he seems genuinely worried about my well–being, which is more than I can say about Jax, who left without making sure I had all my belongings and then conveniently tasked some woman to bring them back. What if that woman changed her mind? What if I’d been gone by then? How could he trust the process?

“I’m sorry. Our meeting took longer than I thought,”hesays, and now I realize it had to do with work.“I was looking for you. We want to go to a French restaurant nearby. I thought you’d be interested in joining us?”

“We?”

“A group of friends.Would you be interested?” he asks, the man with flushed cheeks andanger in his eyes completelygone.

I think about itfor a second, recollecting what Jax told me about canceling my evening with this man.

He must’ve talked about me spending the night with Emile.As in sleeping with him.

This is not that.

I wouldn’t have done it anyway.

It was never my intention.

“Sure. We can do that.”

His face lights up.

“Perfect. Let me tell the other people,” he says before leaving me alone again.

This time, I onlyspenda few secondsby myself, enough for him to go into the other room, talk to the group, and return.

I could count about ten people. Some are couples. Some are singles. And then there's the woman I met in the restroom, a slender brunette with straight hair and big lips.

She looks at me circumspectly, dull resentment coming from her eyes in waves.

Is it me, or does she consider me her competition?

---