Page 178 of His Good Girl

I had sent back: I love you too.

The elevator opened into the lobby, and every conversation seemed to thin at once. The lobby was full of people, and my first instinct was to shrink back. Callum’s thumb brushed once over my knuckles. I lifted my chin and told myself to be brave.

The questions started before the doors had even finished opening.

“Ms. Hale, how do you respond to concerns about your position at Rowe Structural?”

“Mr. Rowe, has your relationship influenced your work on the Hartwell contract?”

“Are you cooperating with investigators?”

Callum did not stop in the lobby. He did not flinch. He did not let go of my hand, but at the curb, he paused just long enough for the cameras to see.

He looked down at me.

“Ready?” he asked quietly.

“For what?”

He lifted our joined hands to his mouth and pressed a slow kiss to my knuckles, deliberate enough for every camera at the curb to catch. The flashes came faster.

“For the rest of our lives,” he replied, his eyes warming.

And then there it was again, that almost-smile of his, small and devastating and mine. He guided me into the car, then followed. The door closed against the flash of cameras and the shouted questions, sealing us briefly into a pocket of quiet, leather, low light, and the faint cedar-dark scent of him.

My phone buzzed.

From somewhere probably three feet away and emotionally miles above us:

Benjamin:Acceptable exit. Hand placement appropriate. PR has stopped making whale noises.

I laughed so hard I nearly cried.

Callum read the message over my shoulder and shook his head. “He’s impossible.”

“He loves you.”

“He would deny that in a deposition.”

“He loves me too.”

Callum looked at me.

“What?” I asked.

“You sound pleased.”

“I am. Benjamin love is like being adopted by a suspicious cat.”

Callum’s laugh was low and tired and beautiful. The car pulled away from Rowe Tower as Callum’s hand found mine in the dark. I looked out the window at the city, daring it to judge us.

Let it, I thought. Let the city look at the billionaire builder and the woman he was with, at the men who had tried to turn desire into blackmail and failed, at the two of us walking straight through the front doors with our hands locked together. Let it look as long as it wanted.

We were done hiding.

And if the city wanted to find a problem with that, it would have to invent one better than love.

CHAPTER 21