Page 45 of His Good Girl

“Anything deconstructed.”

“That seems fair.”

Marcel’s was the sort of restaurant that had survived long enough to stop caring about trends. Dark wood, white tablecloths, low brass light, a bar polished to a deep amber shine. The owner knew me well enough to give me a table in the back that was private without being secluded. I had chosen it with more care than I wanted to admit. It was a restaurant where Robert and I had eaten several times after long meetings years ago, back when we both still believed most problems could be solved by steak, Scotch, and enough time to decompress properly.

Avery noticed the room immediately. Her eyes moved over everything, taking in the old, framed photographs, the waiters in white jackets, the heavy silver, the people speaking in low voices. She did not look impressed exactly. She looked alert and a little amused, maybe even a little out of her depth and furious with herself for it.

“This place feels like someone here owns a horse named after a legal doctrine,” she said as we sat.

“I believe two of them do.”

“I knew it.”

I ordered sparkling water first, then wine only after asking if she wanted any. She did, but cautiously, and chose a glass of red after reading the menu with the grave concentration of someone trying to calculate the total in her head. I did not tell her she could order whatever she wanted. That would have made her feel managed. I simply ordered what I wanted and let the waiter leave us alone.

For a moment, silence sat between us, but it wasn’t uncomfortable.

She looked at the folded napkin beside her plate. “I think I remember my dad mentioning this place to me when they were still both alive.”

“He did?”

She nodded. “Yeah. My dad brought my mom here for their anniversary once. She wore green. I remember because she came into my room before they left and asked if her earrings were too much, and they were absolutely too much, but I said no because I was seventeen and had just learned diplomacy.”

I remembered the earrings. They were elegant emerald dangles, a little theatrical, but exactly the kind of thing Elena Hale could wear without apology. Robert had complained about the price for three days and then spent the entire dinner looking at his wife like the earrings had been entirely his idea.

“She looked beautiful,” I said.

Avery’s gaze lifted to mine.

I had to be careful with memories. They were bridges and traps. A way to reach her, yes, but also a way to pull her backward into a version of herself she was trying very hard not to be. I did not want to make her the orphan at dinner. I did not want to summon ghosts to sit between us because I was more comfortable loving the dead than wanting the living.

“She always did,” Avery responded softly.

“She did.”

“And Dad probably told everyone the earrings were fake because he thought it was funny.”

“He told me they were made of paste.”

Her laugh came out surprised and bright. “Of course he did.”

“Then he spent the next ten minutes making sure I understood he knew they weren’t.”

“That also sounds like him.”

The waiter returned with water, and the moment settled instead of breaking.

“So,” I said when we were alone again. “Tell me about the terrible bosses.”

Her brows rose. “That’s a dangerous invitation.”

“I survived commercial development in the nineties. I can handle a bad events planner.”

“Lydia once made me reorganize orchids by emotional tone.”

“So your resume said.”

“No, but you don’t understand. There were categories.” She leaned forward, hands beginning to move as she spoke, the nerves turning into animation. “Welcoming, romantic, architectural, tragic, defensive, and—my personal favorite—quietly sensual.”