Page 74 of The Last Good Man

We enter the corridor, and Olivia pushes the door to the suite open, inviting us in when the power goes out.

The people’s horror in the house is palpable.

“No worries.I’m sure it will come back,” she says,tense. “Here…” she murmurs as we all enter the main room and face the light coming from the fireplace.“I have plenty of candles,” she adds, lighting a few.

She sets them on the mantelpiece, a diffuse light spreading around the room.

If I didn’t know there was a power outage, I couldn’t tell just by looking at the room.

A tray of chocolate-dipped fruit and a large assortment of cheese awaits on the table. Next to it sits a chilled bottle of champagne.

“I’ll go now to make sure everybody else is okay,” the woman says.

The door closes behind her, leaving us in silence.

He walks across the room and peers out the window as if to ensure his car is still there.

“We’re facing the lake,” I say, sliding my clutch onto the nightstand and heading to the cheese tray, not knowing what to do.

I don’t feel like changing my clothes and throwing on my pajamas, so, for now, I strut in my cocktail dress and heels.

He turns around and glances at the bed beforemoving his gazeover me. Nothing indicates he wants to stay. He doesn’t take off his jacket or make himself comfortable in any other way.

The candlelight flutters around the room, and despitehow odd the situation is, I notice how romantic the place is.

“Let me do it,” Jax says as I stall.

I pivot to him, a questioning look on my face.

“I think you need a drink,” he says quietly, and he couldn’t bemore right.

Manning the bottle, he pours a glass of champagne and hands it to me before fixing a drink for himself.

“Cheers,” he says, unzipping his jacket and clinking my glass.

“You don’t strike me as a champagne guy,” I comment when he turns his backto meand takes a sip.

“I’m not.”

My body welcomes the alcohol, heat spreading across my skin.

I worry less about the storm outside as he sets his glass on the window sill and removes his jacket.

A slim-fit top wraps nicely around his chest and arms, setting off his V-shaped torso, and he catches me looking.

“I won't fall for that,” I say, cracking a smile, emboldened by the alcohol.

“You don’t seem the type, anyway,” he assures me, igniting my curiosity.

Really?

I wishI couldlight a cigarette and chat with him more. Learn more.

I appreciate that he’s spent some time studying me. Or maybe he is just a passionate observer of humane nature.

“What is my type?” I murmur as he leans back against the window sill, and I erase the space between us.

He faces theroom, while I look outside where gusts of wind hit the windowover and over again.

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