Page 83 of His Good Girl

My face heated before I could stop it. Benjamin gave me one long, judgmental look, then turned and walked away with his tablet tucked against his side.

The final two modules took eighty-seven years.

At 5:23, I closed my laptop, collected my notebook, and went to the bathroom to stare at myself under fluorescent lighting that had clearly been installed by an enemy of women. I lookedprofessional. Tired, but professional. I was a serious employee and also a woman who understood boundaries, having recently passed a quiz on them with one hundred percent.

I washed my hands even though they were clean.

Then I walked to Callum’s office.

The floor was quieter than it had been all day, though not empty. A few people were still at desks. Dana was in a glass conference room with Marcus from government relations, one hand braced on the table as she appeared to explain something devastating with only a red pen and the force of her displeasure. Benjamin sat outside Callum’s office at his own small workstation, two phones, a laptop, and a half-eaten granola bar beside him.

He looked up as I approached.

“You survived,” he observed sardonically.

“Barely.”

“Barely counts in corporate learning environments.”

“Does he still want to see me?”

“No, I invented it to watch you become anxious for an hour.” He paused. “Yes, he wants to see you.”

I looked at the matte black doors.

Benjamin leaned back slightly. “Do you need a moment to make a face privately?”

“No.”

“You made one publicly, so that tracks.” He picked up one of his phones. “He’s expecting you.”

“Is he in a mood?”

“Mr. Rowe is always in a mood. The question is whether the mood has legal implications.”

“Does this one?”

Benjamin studied me for a second. “Potentially.”

My breath caught and he did not smile.

Then he pressed a button on his desk phone. “She’s here.”

A low voice answered from inside, indistinct through the speaker.

Benjamin looked at me. “Go in.”

“Any advice?”

“Many pieces. None you would currently enjoy.”

“Helpful.”

“It is my purpose for existing.”

I opened the door and stepped inside.

Callum was behind his desk, jacket off, shirt slightly unbuttoned, sleeves rolled again, tie absent, hair slightly disordered in a way that suggested the day had put up a fight and lost. The office was dimmer now, the city beyond the glass turning blue-gray with evening. Files were stacked along one side of his desk. His laptop glowed. A legal pad sat in front of him covered in hard, slanted notes. He looked tired, his face more severe for the long day, the silver at his temples catching the last of the light.