Page 18 of His Good Girl

Callum laughed then, a real low laugh that transformed his face for one dangerous second. I felt it in my stomach and hated everyone involved, including myself.

“Tomorrow at nine,” I confirmed, because if I did not anchor myself to practical words, I was going to drift into noticing the shape of Callum’s mouth, and in that way lay ruin.

“Good.” His expression softened. “And Avery?”

“Yes?”

“You did the right thing by writing me.”

It should have been a small kindness. It was not. It moved through me with the force of absolution, which was unfairbecause I had not asked him to absolve me and he had not offered to. Still, it felt like my whole body unclenched.

“Thank you,” I said.

Ben escorted me out of Callum’s office back to the elevator. People glanced up and away. Someone laughed near a printer. A man in a hard hat passed a woman in heels and handed her a roll of plans like a baton in a relay. On one monitor, a tower rotated slowly in three dimensions, all blue lines and white stress points. It occurred to me, with a strange little twist of awe, that the people here spent their days thinking about weight and pressure and what could bear what.

I wondered what they would make of me.

At the elevator, Ben pressed the button and stood beside me with his tablet tucked against his ribs.

“Congratulations,” he said.

“Was that painful?”

“Deeply.”

“I appreciate the sacrifice.”

“You should. I had several objections prepared.”

“I’m sure they were beautifully formatted.”

“They had subheadings.”

The elevator arrived, and we stepped inside. This time, the descent felt slower, maybe because I was no longer rushing toward possible disaster, only away from one that had turned, inexplicably, into an opportunity.

Ben glanced at me. “A word of advice.”

“Only one?”

“I’m editing myself for charity.” He faced forward. “Do not mistake Mr. Rowe’s kindness for softness. People do that often and it ends poorly for them.”

I looked at his reflection in the elevator doors. “I don’t think he’s soft.”

“No,” Ben replied. “You don’t. That may be useful.”

There was something about how he said it that made my face warm. I turned toward him, but he was still looking straight ahead, his expression unreadable.

“Do you dislike me?” I asked.

He considered this with insulting seriousness. “I dislike variables.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It istheanswer. You are a variable attached to a sentimental obligation. Historically, those are expensive.”

“I don’t want to be expensive.”

“Everyone says that before becoming expensive.”