Page 67 of His Good Girl

I wanted to see her.

I wanted to see whether she looked rested, whether she wore the same lipstick from dinner or whether she would search the floor for me and try not to seem disappointed if I was not there. I wanted to tell her she would be fine, that Benjamin’s bite was mostly ceremonial and Dana only drew blood for sport on Tuesdays.

What unsettled me was that I did not only want her. I cared whether she was frightened, whether she believed she deserved to be there, whether the people I trusted treated her fairly. I wanted her trust, and I wanted to deserve it. The night before, listening to her speak about her parents, her failures, and the life she was trying to rebuild, I had wanted a place in that life—not only as Robert’s friend or the man who had given her a job, but as myself. That feeling carried more danger than lust. If I acted on it, I could damage her career, expose her to judgment, and make the safety she felt with me conditional on what I wanted. I knew all of that. I also knew that walking away before anything began already felt less like restraint than loss.

With a sigh, I picked up the tablet with the article and read the headline again.

I had a company to protect, a project to hold onto, and employees whose livelihoods depended on my ability to care more about the fight in front of me than the woman who had kept me awake the night before.

So, when my phone buzzed again and Benjamin’s message appeared, I did not go see her.

Benjamin:The variable has arrived. Early. Slightly terrified.

I stared at it longer than I should have. Then another message followed.

Benjamin:I was civil. Put it in my file.

I set the phone down, turned toward the waiting crisis, and told myself distance was not avoidance if it was necessary.

Today, it was necessary.

Today, it had to be.

CHAPTER 9

Avery

I arrived at Rowe Tower fifteen minutes early because I had developed a healthy fear of Benjamin Mercer and a deeply unhealthy desire to impress Callum Rowe.

The lobby looked different now that I was not sprinting through it in panic mode. The black stone still shone, the suspended bridge models still hung in their glass cases, and the security guards still looked like they were guarding a royal palace. But this time, when I gave my name, the man behind the desk did not print me a visitor badge. He handed me a temporary employee pass with my picture already on it, which was alarming because the picture appeared to have been taken from my driver’s license and then insulted by a fluorescent lighting filter of some kind.

“Avery Hale,” he said. “Forty-seven. Mr. Mercer is expecting you.”

“I’m sure he is,” I replied.

I clipped the badge to my blazer and stepped toward the elevators, my stomach doing small, unpleasant acrobatics. I had dressed like a person who wanted to be taken seriously. I was wearing black trousers and blazer, a cream blouse, low heels, with my hair pinned back, and no distracting lipstick. Professional. Sensible even.

The elevator doors opened on forty-seven, and Benjamin Mercer stood there waiting. He wore a dark blue suit, a silver tie, and the expression of a man who had been awake since the invention of electricity. His tablet was under one arm, a coffee in one hand, and my first-day schedule in the other. He looked me over once, not rudely exactly, but with the clinical attention of someone inspecting a bridge after an earthquake.

“Ms. Hale,” he said. “You are fourteen minutes early.”

“Good morning to you too, Ben.”

His eyes flicked to my badge. “Acceptable.”

“My badge?”

“Your arrival. Your shoes. Your general lack of glitter.”

“I considered a tiara, but it clashed with my desperation.”

His mouth twitched. It was tiny. Almost invisible. But it still happened anyway and I filed it away as progress.

“Do not make me like you before payroll has processed your tax forms,” he said. “It complicates my objectivity.”

“I’ll try to become less charming.”

“Please do. The building has enough structural stress this week.”