Page 36 of His Good Girl
“Jules.”
“I’m processing.”
I read the message again. He hadn’t exactly called me a good girl, because the universe had not yet lost all subtlety, but his words were close enough that my body, traitorous and apparently illiterate, reacted anyway.
“I can’t go,” I breathed, fighting panic.
Jules blinked. “Of course you can go.”
“I start tomorrow.”
“Exactly. Free dinner before capitalism consumes you.”
“He’s my?—”
“Technically.”
“Stop technically-ing me.”
“Never.”
“He’s also my future CEO.”
“You will not be discussing quarterly projections over appetizers.”
“You don’t know that.”
“If he discusses quarterly projections over appetizers, you are allowed to fake your own death before dessert.”
I looked down at the phone, thumb hovering over the reply field. “What do I say?”
“Dinner sounds nice. Seven works.”
“That’s too calm.”
“You need calm.”
“I am not calm.”
“That is why we outsource.”
I typed her suggestion exactly and my thumb hovered over send.
Jules leaned close. “Do it.”
“I hate when you supervise my bad decisions.”
“I prefer the term formative experiences.”
I sent it. The delivered notification appeared immediately. My pulse took the stairs two at a time.
Three dots appeared, then disappeared.
“Oh, my God,” I whispered.
“Breathe.”
“I am breathing.”
