Page 33 of His Good Girl

“What? I’m building the spreadsheet.”

“There is no spreadsheet.”

“There is always a spreadsheet.”

The first image that loaded was the construction-site photograph I had found the night before. Hard hat, wind, dark jacket pulled tight across his chest, one hand resting on a rolled plan, the building behind him half-built and gray. I should have looked away. Instead, I leaned closer and Jules made a low sound.

“Do not make animal noises in this café.”

“I’m not an animal. I’m an appreciator of infrastructure.”

“He looks normal.”

“He looks like he lets concrete know when it has disappointed him.”

“He probably does.”

“He looks like he could say ‘we need to discuss your performance’ and half the room would ask if they should bare their bottom for their spanking.”

I laughed so hard I had to put the phone down, but Jules picked it up again, swiping through more images. Callum at a gala in a tuxedo, unsmiling beside a woman from the city council. Callum at a ribbon cutting, sleeves rolled up, one hand shielding his eyes from the sun. Callum on a magazine cover from three years ago, photographed in black and white. He was not pretty. Pretty had softness, symmetry, a kind of invitation. Callum was handsome in a way that felt earned and possibly dangerous. His face was a little weathered and a little severe. He had the sort of face that became more compelling the longer you looked.

Jules sighed. “I’m sorry. We have to allow fantasy. It would be irresponsible not to.”

“We do not have to allow anything.”

“We do. Repression causes illness.”

“Does it?”

“I saw a documentary. Or a TikTok. Same category.”

“I start working for him tomorrow.”

“Yes. Which is why tonight, before you become a pillar of corporate restraint, we are permitted one controlled fantasy hour.”

“I don’t think fantasy comes in controlled hours.”

“Mine do. I use timers.”

“You absolutely do not.”

“I could.”

“You once forgot pasta was boiling because you got invested in ranking Batman actors by emotional availability.”

“And I stand by my list.”

I looked at the phone again, at Callum’s profile in some article about urban resilience, his gaze fixed on something beyond the camera. “This is wrong.”

“Is it?”

“He’s my godfather.”

“Technically.”

“That is not a helpful technically.”

“It’s the only kind.” Jules put the phone face down between us and leaned in, serious now. “Avery, he’s not related to you. He’s not your boss yet?—”