Page 182 of His Good Girl

“And turned into you helping save his company, surviving a smear campaign, making Dana respect you, and making Benjamin develop facial expressions that qualify as affection-adjacent.”

“I did do that.”

“You did.” Jules squeezed my hands. “You also love him.”

My throat tightened.

“I do.”

“Then maybe tonight you let yourself be happy before you cross-examine the happiness.”

I swallowed hard. “That was mature.”

“I know. I hated it.”

We chose a dress first. A red silk dress with long sleeves, a wrap waist, and a neckline that suggested I had lovely breasts without introducing them to the room individually. The black pencil skirt went into a garment bag with an ivory blouse and heels.

At quarter to seven, Callum texted.

Callum Rowe:I’m downstairs.

I smiled despite the panic.

Me:Of course you are.

Callum Rowe:Punctuality is still my least concerning condition.

I laughed.

Jules made a small, dying noise. “He quoted your banter. He’s proposing. I am calling it.”

“Stop.”

“I am wearing mascara and cannot survive this level of narrative closure.”

At the door, she hugged me hard. “Whatever happens,” she whispered, “you are not a girl being chosen by a billionaire. Youare Avery Hale walking into the room with an answer all her own.”

I closed my eyes.

“Thank you.”

“Also, text me if there is table sex.”

“Jules.”

“What? It’s the finale. Tables are thematically important.”

I laughed all the way down the stairs. Outside, Callum stood beside the car in a black suit and white shirt, no tie, his coat unbuttoned despite the cool air. He looked up when I stepped out of the building, and I saw his eyes warm at the sight of me.

“Avery,” he purred in that delectable deep voice. “You look beautiful.”

I crossed the sidewalk to him, the garment bag folded over one arm. His gaze dropped to it, then back to my face, but he did not say anything. The driver opened the door. Callum helped me into the car with his hand at my back, and this time I leaned into the touch openly.

Dinner was at Marcel’s. We were led not to the table in the back, but to a private dining room, which was when my pulse began to misbehave. The room was small and elegant, with paneled walls, a fireplace that glowed soft and gold, a round table set for two, and a bank of tall windows looking out over the city. There were candles, but not too many. There were also flowers on the table, white and simple. I hung the garment bag over a chair like a third guest with secrets. Callum pulled out my chair, then sat across from me.

“You’re nervous,” he observed with a tiny smirk.

“An absurd accusation.”