Page 54 of His Good Girl

He smiled faintly. “Let me have this.”

It should have annoyed me. It did, a little. But beneath the annoyance was a much softer feeling, almost like the strange comfort of being taken care of without feeling handled. That had always been the difference with him. Even when he was firm, maybe even especially when he was firm, there was a steadiness underneath it that never seemed to require my humiliation.

“Fine,” I sniffed, but with a tiny smirk.

“Thank you.”

“But tomorrow I’m buying my own coffee.”

“Ambitious.”

“And lunch.”

“We’ll alert the finance department.”

I smiled despite myself and looked away because smiling at him too long felt like confession.

When we stood, Callum moved around the table but did not touch me. I noticed the absence of it. It was humiliating, somehow, that my body had begun waiting for a hand at my back, a brief press at my elbow, some allowable brush of contact I could replay later and pretend had meant nothing. He held my coat instead, and I slid my arms into it with him standing behind me.

For three seconds, he was close enough that I felt the warmth of him at my back. His hands lifted the coat lightly onto my shoulders, not lingering or grazing anywhere they did not belong. Still, my body reacted as if he had dragged his palms over my bare skin.

Need fluttered hard through me, and I clenched my fingers inside my sleeves.

He was forbidden, I reminded myself.

He stepped back.

“Ready?” he asked.

No, I thought.

“Yes,” I said.

Outside, rain had left the streets glossy and dark, reflecting gold from the restaurant windows and red from passing taillights. The air smelled like wet pavement, smoke from somewhere distant, and the faint sweetness of spring trying to push its way through the city. The driver brought the car around, but Callum paused beneath the awning with me while we waited. For a moment, without the table between us, I immediately became aware of his proximity.

He was so close.

I could see the dense shadow of the stubble along his jaw, the small line near his mouth that deepened when he was amused, and how his gaze moved briefly over the sidewalk, the car, me, then away again.

“I had a good time,” I said, because someone needed to say something before I did something unforgivable like stare openly at his mouth.

“So did I,” he returned.

“Even with the orchid trauma?”

“Especially with the orchid trauma.”

I laughed softly and his gaze returned to my face, and then for one second, the city around us seemed to hold its breath. Then his gaze dropped and he cleared his throat.

“Tomorrow will be different,” he stated plainly.

“I know.” I wished my voice wasn’t quite so quiet but I couldn’t do any better.

“At work, I need distance.” It felt like his words were hammering nails into a coffin.

My chest tightened, though I had known this was coming. It was rational. It was the correct thing to do. I hated it anyway.

“Because of the job,” I said, sounding reasonable and mature, which was not how I was feeling.