Page 19 of His Good Girl

The elevator doors opened onto the lobby. For a moment, he did not move. Then he reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and handed me a business card so heavy it probably had its own credit score.

“My number,” he explained. “Which you already have because I used it to harass you this morning. Save it. Tomorrow, you ask me questions before you improvise.”

“Understood.”

“And Ms. Hale?”

“Yes?”

His eyes flicked over me, not unkindly this time. “Buy a lint roller.”

I looked down. There was one pale thread clinging to the sleeve of my black blazer. Possibly from my towel. Possibly from the collapsing chair laundry. Possibly placed there by God just to humble me.

“Thank you, Ben.”

“Mr. Mercer when you’re annoyed with me,” he quipped, and walked away.

When I stepped out of Rowe Tower, I noticed that the rain had stopped. The sidewalks shone with wetness. The clouds were beginning to thin in places, and light seeped through them in pale, uncertain beams, catching on windows and puddles and the polished hoods of taxis. People streamed past me, some in a rush and others not. I stood beneath the black awning and took my first full breath in what felt like hours.

Then I called Jules.

She answered on the second ring. “Are you employed or incarcerated?”

“I have a job.”

There was a loud crash on her end, like she had dropped something. “Shut up.”

“I have a job,” I repeated, and this time the words came out strange, softer, almost disbelieving. “I start tomorrow at nine.”

Jules screamed, not quite loudly enough to damage my ears, probably, but close. I held the phone away from my ear and laughed, then immediately felt tears sting my eyes because apparently my body had decided to celebrate by becoming useless.

“I knew it,” Jules gushed. “I knew threatening you would fix your life.”

“That is not what happened.”

“That is exactly what happened. I am a life coach with better cheekbones.”

“His assistant hates me.”

“His assistant sounds like the only person in that building with taste.”

“He called me a variable attached to a sentimental obligation.”

Jules made a pleased noise. “Oh, that’s hot.”

“Why is everything hot to you?”

“Because I am alive.”

I turned and looked up at Rowe Tower. From the sidewalk, the forty-seventh floor was invisible, swallowed by glass and height. Somewhere up there, Callum Rowe had probably already gone back to his day. Maybe my email had been a five-minutedisruption, a kindness efficiently handled before lunch. Maybe he had already filed me away under complete.

I should have wanted that.

Instead, I remembered how he had said my name and how he had not let me turn my failures entirely into jokes as well as how he had looked at me when he saidresponsible. Firmly, like he was handing me something heavy because he believed I could hold it.

“Avery?” Jules said, her voice changing. “You there?”

“Yes.”