Page 59 of His Good Girl

I turned my head toward the window, which did not help.

I thought of her navy dress, her loose, luxurious dark brown hair, the quick, startled heat in her face when I said she was not a little girl to me, and her gorgeous hazel eyes lifting to mine across the table when she said, “That makes it harder.” Then I thought of her mouth closing around the first bite of chocolate tart, the soft, unguarded sound she made before she remembered herself, and her knees pressing together under the table when she thought I would not notice.

I had noticed.

God help me, I had noticed everything.

I noticed when she looked at my hands. When she watched my mouth on the rim of the espresso cup. How her breathing changed when my voice dropped, how she responded to firmness as if it reached some secret, hopeful part of her before the rest of her mind could object. I noticed because I was trained to see pressure, to read stress and to know when a structure was taking more weight than it had been designed to carry.

My phone buzzed.

I looked down despite myself.

Benjamin:I assume from your lack of communication that you are making decisions I will regret professionally.

I exhaled once through my nose.

Me:Go to bed.

Benjamin:That is what guilty men say to witnesses.

Me:Goodnight, Ben.

Benjamin:Was there dinner?

I ignored him.

Benjamin:Was there wine?

I turned the phone face down.

Benjamin:Was there judgment?

Another buzz, immediately after.

Benjamin:There will be.

I should have been irritated, but the familiar annoyance helped. It put me back in the world of logistics and consequences, a world with edges I could trust. Benjamin was right to worry. Robert, if he had been alive, would probably have punched me in the face, then asked what exactly my intentions were, then punched me again no matter how I answered. The entire situation was a bad idea wearing a beautiful dress and looking at me like she could feel the line between us heating under her feet.

The driver glanced back. “Home, sir?”

“Yes.”

My house sat at the end of a quiet street behind iron gates and old trees, all limestone, black-framed windows, and restraint passing itself off as good taste. I had purchased it after the divorce because I had wanted space and silence. It was too large for one person. Most houses like it were. I used the study, the kitchen, the primary bedroom, and occasionally the terrace when the weather and my mood cooperated. The rest existed in a state of polished readiness, as if waiting for a family that had never arrived.

The driver left me at the front walk. I let myself in, turned off the alarm, and stood in the foyer without moving. The lights came up automatically.

With a sigh, I went to the kitchen first, poured a glass of water, drank half of it, and placed the glass in the sink. Then I went to the study. If I could work for an hour, I could move throughthis. Hartwell still needed attention. Our competitors, most specifically Lang, were still spreading vague poison about our bid for the civic center, still feeding reporters just enough smoke to imply fire, and were still trying to make the city question whether Rowe Structural had cut corners on previous builds. It was serious in the way reputational attacks became existential threats when your business was built on trust. I should have been able to focus on that. A rival firm trying to take a public project away from me was not a small concern.

I opened the file.

I read the same paragraph five times.

The words rearranged themselves into Avery leaning across the table to tell me about quietly sensual orchids. Avery looking down when I mentioned her father worrying about her. Avery saying she could do distance, though her face told me she hated the idea. Avery in the car, the hem of her dress slipping up an inch when she crossed her legs and uncrossed them too quickly, as if she had realized I might see.

I had seen.

I shut the file.