Page 42 of His Good Girl

He was not in the charcoal suit from the morning. This one was darker, nearly black, worn with an open-collared white shirt and no tie. His coat was unbuttoned despite the cold, one hand tucked into his pocket, the other holding his phone at his side. He looked up when I stepped outside, and whatever polite greeting I had prepared dissolved somewhere between my apartment building door and the curb.

For one suspended second, neither of us moved.

His gaze traveled over me, not crudely, and not even slowly enough to accuse him, but carefully. His expression warmed by one almost imperceptible degree before returning to my face.

I felt that look everywhere.

Then he smiled, small and contained.

“Avery,” he said. “You look lovely.”

“Thank you,” I said, and was proud when my voice did not shake. “You’re early.”

“I know.”

“Do you have a condition?”

“Several. Punctuality is the least concerning.”

A chuckle slipped out of me, and his smile deepened by a fraction. The driver opened the door. Callum stepped aside, one hand hovering near my back but not touching, not yet, giving me space to decide whether to enter the car on my own.

I took a deep breath, and then I climbed into the car. Callum followed, the door closing softly behind him, and the city narrowed to leather seats, low light, and the clean, cedar scent of him beside me.

Dinner, I reminded myself.

This was just dinner.

CHAPTER 5

Callum

I was twelve minutes early because I had been raised by a mother who believed lateness was a character flaw, and because sitting in the back of the car for twelve minutes was preferable to sitting in my office for twelve more minutes pretending I was not thinking about Avery Hale.

The evening had turned clear after the rain, the city rinsed clean and shining under a bruised gray sky. Her building stood on a narrow residential street lined with old brick walk-ups and trees just beginning to remember they were alive. It was not a bad building, but it was tired in the way young people’s first apartments often were tired, with a front door that had been painted too many times and a buzzer panel scarred by weather, keys, and impatience. I looked at it through the tinted window and felt a touch of heartache twist in my chest. Robert would have hated that his daughter was living in a place with a lock that looked like it had lost several arguments.

That was the first thing I had to manage.

The protective instinct.

It came easily. Too easily. Avery was Robert’s daughter. She had lost too much too young. I had promised to look out for her. I could sit in a car outside her apartment and tell myself the whole evening was an extension of that promise, a late fulfillment of an old obligation I had neglected out of respect for her independence and my own cowardice. That story was almost true, which made it useful and dangerous in equal measure.

My phone buzzed.

Benjamin:I see you have blocked off your evening as Private.

I stared at the screen.

Me:Observant.

Benjamin:I am deciding whether to alert counsel, clergy, or catering.

Me:Go home, Ben.

Benjamin:Is this dinner with the variable?

Me:Her name is Avery.

Benjamin:I notice you avoided the question.