Page 35 of His Good Girl

“He’s growing on you,” Jules said.

“He is not.”

“He is. Like bespoke mold.”

With a sigh, I checked my email again. Nothing from Callum.

By late afternoon, I had convinced myself he would not text, because of course he would not. Men like Callum Rowe did not leave interviews and then ask women like me to dinner. They gave jobs, issued warnings, delegated onboarding, and returned to whatever men like him did in offices that existed above the clouds. They did not sit around thinking about my damp hair or whether I had looked at their mouth when they told me to be serious. That was my disease. My little private delusion. My brain had taken one morning of kindness and authority, added cheekbones, seasoned it with unresolved grief, and served me a meal called ‘Ruin Your Life.’

After taking a sip of my second glass of wine, I said this to Jules.

She listened gravely, then said, “The cheekbones were already in the recipe.”

“I’m trying to have a crisis.”

“I am supporting you.”

“You are eating my fries.”

“I have many talents.”

When I finished my glass of wine, I went to the bathroom and stared at myself in the mirror under lighting that had clearly been designed by someone with a vendetta against pores. I looked less pale than I had that morning, mostly because Jules had forced me to eat half a sandwich and stop narrating my own downfall for eight consecutive minutes. My hair had dried into soft, imperfect waves around my face. My lipstick was gone. My hazel eyes looked too bright.

“Get a grip,” I told my reflection.

A woman in a stall flushed.

I closed my eyes. “Sorry. I didn’t mean you.”

When I got back to the table, my phone was in Jules’s hand.

“What are you doing?”

“Protecting you.”

“From what?”

“Your lock screen.”

“Juuuules…”

“I didn’t open it. I’m not a criminal. I was simply staring respectfully at the notification that says Callum Rowe texted you.”

Everything in me stopped as Jules turned the phone around.

Callum Rowe:Avery, it’s Callum. You did well today. I know tomorrow is a formal start, but before that, I’d like to have dinner with you tonight if you’re free. It’s not an interview. Justdinner, so we can catch up properly. I’ll pick you up at seven. Only if you’re comfortable with that.

For a few seconds, the world narrowed to the glowing screen in my hand.

Then Jules whispered, “Oh, that man edited himself.”

“What?”

“He wrote ‘I’ll pick you up at seven’ like a bossy skyscraper daddy, panicked, and added consent language.”

“Do not call him that.”

“Which part? Bossy? Skyscraper? Daddy? Because legally?—”