Page 202 of The Last Good Man

And that’s his move.

He swings his gaze to my mother, who witnesses our exchange with wide eyes.

Jax is dressed nicely in a dark suit and a dress shirt without a tie, but he has dangerous written all over him, more so with his sexy stubble, jewelry, tattoos, and piercing eyes.

And my mother is no novice.She’s good at picking up vibes from people.

Her eyes gleam with interest when he pivots to her, extends his hand out, and introduces himself.

“Jax London,” he says, flashing a smile that makes my mother melt.

Oh, no.

A rush of blood colors her cheeks, and her eyes are dewy like grass in the morning.

She looks like she’s slipped into a trance as she offers her hand, unable to tear her eyes away from his magnetic gaze.

Like mother, like daughter.

I secretly roll my eyes while they exchange sweet pleasantries that make me gag.

I’m never in control whenhe'saround.He always finds a way to do whatever he pleases.

There is nothing inherently malicious in wanting to introduce yourself, but, in his case, it must be part of his plan to take over my world and now my mother.

He’s testing me, for sure,still angry, the tension between us suffocating like a thick fuzzy blanket.

I’m not sure whether he’s talking about what he does for a livingor not, but my mother shifts her gaze to me, her hand hostage to his grip, as she gives me a girlish smile.

“You’ve never mentioned Mr. London.”

From all I know, Mr. London might be a mafia man. And he barely made it not to be a murderer.

But nothing in his demeanor makes the alarm bells go off in my mother’s head.

Nothing.

He’s smooth, articulate, and magnetic––his magnetism could rotate the earth’s magnetic poles if he had tried hard enough––and omnipotentwhen it comes towomen.

“Melody and I have met in business circumstances,” he says, throwing me a lifeline. “The presentation wasextremely helpful, Miss Hill,” he says, holding myeyesand offering someof thatfake charm while boiling with frustration.

He doesn’t like this fake situation more than I do, but we’re caught in it, and it’s mostly my fault.

Although nowthere may be other things at play, like his secrets, for instance.

I know he didn’t want me to see those men, which makes me think they play an important role in his life.

And now that it’s happened, this has become a hurdle.

He eventually pulls his eyes away from me, wrapsitup, gives me a quick nod, and swiftly walks away.

My mother’s stare is pinned on my face while my eyes are glued to his back.

He goes straight to the table, reclaims his seat, his back still turned to me, andgoes onabout his life.

Eventually, I meet my mother’s gaze and slump into my seat like a pile of unfolded laundry.

“Who is this man?” she asks under her breath, still mesmerized with him.

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