Page 135 of His Good Girl

“I don’t know if I’m allowed to want anything,” I confessed.

“You are twenty-five, not a child bride in a melodrama.”

“He’s my boss.”

“Yes.”

“He was my father’s best friend.”

“Yes.”

“He is forty-something and terrifyingly rich and has an assistant who probably knows seven ways to make a body disappear through calendar blocking.”

“Also yes.”

“He gave me a job.”

“And you are doing that job.” Jules turned her head toward me. “Avery, I’m not saying this isn’t complicated. I’m saying you are not a napkin being blown around by a billionaire breeze. You have agency. Weird, horny, anxiety-riddled agency, but agency.”

I laughed despite myself. “Beautifully put.”

“I should embroider it.”

I looked toward the window. Across the street, a man in a baseball cap stood near a parked car, looking down at his phone. Nothing about him should have mattered. People stood near cars and looked at phones all the time. The city was basically built on people standing in inconvenient places while looking at phones. Still, a faint unease moved across my shoulders, the same little cold thread I had felt outside Rowe Tower.

“What?” Jules asked.

“Nothing.”

She followed my gaze to the window. The man turned and walked away before either of us could decide if he was worth concern.

“You still feeling watched?” she asked.

I stared at her. “How did you know?”

“You told me about the guy outside the tower.”

“I don’t know. It’s probably nothing.”

“Probably,” she agreed, which was not the same thing as definitely. “Did you tell Callum?”

“No.”

“Avery.”

“He’s away dealing with the Hartwell thing. I didn’t want to add my paranoia to his weekend.”

“You mean you didn’t want him to worry.”

“Maybe.”

“Or you didn’t want him to buy your entire block and send a private security team.”

I looked at her.

She nodded. “Which is fair. I would also fear that.”

We ate on the couch with our legs tucked under us and the television volume low, some old movie neither of us watched. Jules painted my nails a color called Wine Crime, which felt too on the nose, and I talked through every possible Monday scenario until she finally put the polish brush down and held up one finger.