Page 87 of His Good Girl

My mouth went dry.

“I wasn’t?—”

His eyes narrowed and I stopped. There was no anger in him. That was what made it so much worse. He was not offended. He was not wounded. He was drawing the line between us.

“Do you understand?” he asked.

“Yes.”

His voice lowered. “Avery.”

My hands tightened on the notebook. “Yes, I understand.”

“Good girl.”

The words went through me like a lightning strike.

I looked away first.

For a few seconds, neither of us moved. Then he exhaled, and something in him shifted back toward restraint. I saw him choose it. Saw the moment he took the heat in the room and folded it carefully into some locked interior drawer where men like him stored everything inconvenient. It made me feel both relieved and bereft.

“Do you need a ride home?” he asked.

“No,” I answered. “I can take the train.”

“At this hour?”

“It’s barely six.”

“After a long day.”

“I’m twenty-five.”

His eyes flicked over me. “I’m aware.”

That quieted me immediately. The words were not flirtation exactly. They were not safe either. Callum seemed to feel it too, because he pushed away from the desk.

“We’ll discuss this tomorrow,” he said dismissively.

“Discuss what?”

“Your attitude toward training.”

“I have an excellent attitude toward training.”

“Avery.”

“Fine. A developing attitude.”

“Better.”

I stood, clutching the notebook to my chest like a shield. He walked me toward the door, and the movement felt absurdly formal after the charged quiet between us. I expected disappointment to hit first, but it was shame that came instead. What was I doing? Testing him in his office like a bored, reckless juvenile? Responding to correction like it was foreplay? Letting a man who had given me a chance and made the terms of that chance clear become the center of some dangerous little game neither of us could afford?

He reached the door before I did, then paused and turned back. For one second, he looked almost tired.

“I want you to do well here,” he said.

The words cut through the heat.