Page 71 of His Good Girl

I laughed before I could stop myself. He looked ahead, but I saw the edge of his mouth move again in a mostly upward direction.

Progress.

Callum’s office looked different at midday. The city beyond the glass was pale under a washed-out sky, the streets below all silver movement and tiny yellow taxis. His desk, which had been almost bare yesterday, was now covered in files, marked-up statements, a laptop, two phones, and a half-empty mug of coffee he had clearly forgotten existed. He stood near theconference table by the window, with his jacket off and his sleeves rolled to his forearms, one hand holding a phone to his ear while the other rested on the back of a chair.

I forgot how to breathe for half a second. Possibly more than half a second.

Sleeves should not have been sexual. They were just fabric. But Callum with his sleeves rolled up looked like sex on a stick. His forearms were strong, lightly tanned, dark hair visible near the wrist, watch still in place. The sight hit low in my body, a sudden pull of want so immediate and intense that I stopped just inside the door.

Benjamin, behind me, murmured, “Tragic.”

I turned my head slightly. “What?”

“Nothing.”

Callum looked over then and his eyes passed over me. The hard focus in his face eased by a fraction, sudden warmth moving through the severity before he locked it down again. His gaze touched my face, my blouse, my hands clasped around my notebook, then returned to my eyes.

My pulse skipped a beat.

“I understand,” he said into the phone. “Send it to Tom. Nothing goes out without legal’s approval. I’ll call Marcus after lunch.”

Lunch.

With me.

The idea of it did not become less dangerous because it involved sandwiches.

He ended the call and set the phone down. “Avery.”

“Mr. Rowe,” I returned, because Benjamin was still there and because I valued survival.

Callum’s mouth twitched. “Benjamin.”

“Yes?” Ben almost chirped.

“Thank you.”

“I live to transport new hires through emotionally charged architecture.”

“Close the door.”

Benjamin looked from him to me. “That is my least favorite instruction.”

“Benjamin.”

He sighed. “Fine. But I’ll be just outside.”

The door closed. For one second, the room seemed to expand and shrink at the same time.

Callum gestured to the conference table, where lunch had been set out with the kind of casual abundance rich people pretended was simple. Two sandwiches, salads in clear bowls, fruit, sparkling water, coffee, napkins folded in a neat stack.

“Sit,” he ordered.

The word went through me before I could stop it and I sat obediently. His gaze narrowed slightly, as if he had seen the reaction and hated himself for seeing it.

He took the chair across from me, not at the head of the table. It was intentional, I thought. Equal enough to calm me, distant enough to behave. He pushed one of the salads toward me.

“Have they fed you?” he asked.