Page 53 of His Good Girl

“Does it?” he asked, his face flickering with something I couldn’t quite figure out.

“Yes.”

The honesty slipped out before I had time to disguise it. I could have pretended I meant grief, employment, growing up, or even the awkwardness of being known too well and not enough. All of that was true, but none of it was the whole truth.

Callum set his wineglass down with precise care. “Then we should be careful,” he replied.

The word should have cooled me. It did not. It made me think of the charity dinner again, his hand at my back. As if careful meant danger was close. As if careful meant he knew exactly how close.

“Yes,” I said.

Neither of us moved for a second.

Then he reached for the dessert menu, though we had already ordered, and adjusted it by less than an inch. It was such a transparent attempt to give his hands something harmless to do that a wild, nervous laugh nearly escaped me. I pressed my lips together.

“What?” he asked.

“Nothing,” I smiled.

“Avery.” His deep voice was like a warning.

The way he said my name made the need low in me turn over again.

“I was just thinking that you moved the menu like it offended you.”

A flash of amusement broke through the tension. “It was crooked.”

“It was not.”

“It was.”

“You build towers. I’m sure everything looks crooked to you.”

“Most things are.”

“Do I look crooked to you? Off by a little bit?”

The question was playful, but it was also reckless. I knew it as soon as it left my mouth.

Callum’s gaze moved over me once, controlled but no longer completely neutral. My face. My hair. The neckline of my dress. Back to my eyes. It was not enough to be improper, but it was enough to set my body on fire.

“No,” he said.

My mouth went dry.

The waiter returned to clear the plates, and I had never been so grateful to another human being. We both shifted back into civilized people. Callum asked for the check before I could pretend I might argue, and when I opened my mouth anyway, he gave me one look that closed it.

“Do not start,” he warned.

“I am capable of paying for my own tart.”

“I don’t doubt it.”

“Then—”

“Avery.” He spoke with a quiet sternness that made parts of me tingle.

I stopped.