Page 7 of His Good Girl
I waggle my spoon at him.
He nods. “Good, good. Rose tells me you looking for a fight. I don’t beat on scrawny fucks, so you better get that food into you and bulk up.” He lets out a loud guffaw and ambles off as Rose shakes her head.
“You heard it here first.” She jabs her finger at the screen.
Snorting into my stew, I’m entertained, to say the least. This is better than spending the night alone.
That thought rears its head out of the blue. I narrow my eyes and shove it aside, shoveling food into my mouth until it’s all gone as Rose watches me, nodding appreciatively and making approving noises.
“This is like some sort of kink,” I chuckle, picking up the bowl and showing her it's empty.
She blushes and giggles at the wordkink. “You’re a good boy,” she says.
I press my lips together, enjoying the praise in a way that I can’t express to my housekeeper.
“I’ll see you tomorrow, Rose.”
“Night, Logan.”
We hang up, and the apartment falls back into an eerie silence, which does little to settle my concerns over tomorrow’s surprise assistant. I’m sure Quentin has his reasons, but that’s all well and good forhim. I’m the one who’s got to put up with whomever it is.
It also requires me to be on my best behavior, which is something that is harder for me than it looks.
Cursing him as I make my way back to the kitchen to clear up and maybe grab a bit more stew while I’m already eating anyway. Making short work of it, I disappear upstairs, pulling out the box from the closet and placing it reverently on the bed to stare into, resisting the urge to touch the contents.
Chapter5
Serena
My research into Logan Carter is ongoing. To say the man is mysterious yet an extremely accomplished human is not doing him justice.
I hunch my shoulders against the drizzle that has just started. Holding my phone up, I squint at it to follow the walking directions to Cannon Street. I had a vague idea but wasn’t sure of its exact location. I’m bright and early; it’s only 8 AM, so I’m feeling rather proud of myself when the Maps app tells me I’m nearly there. Wiping the raindrops off the screen, I look up at the tall buildings surrounding me. They’re all fancy, with shining glass and smart people rushing inside. I’m down on the wharf, which is the opposite side of the city from where I live. It’s taken me about forty-five minutes to walk here, through the busy streets, the vibrancy of the city coming to life at this early hour. Having had the foresight to wear my sneakers instead of my heels on the walk in, I pick up my pace to get out of the growing downpour.
You have reached your destination.
“Well, thank fuck.”
I glance up to make sure and see the Carter & Jeffers signage outside, along with a few others, which tells me this is a building full of attorneys, accountants, and architects.
Rushing forward into the revolving door, I discover it is automatic, and it slowly sweeps around, letting me into the magnificent lobby. Dripping rain onto the black tiled floor, I hurry to the desk manned by a severely professional-looking woman in her forties.
“Good morning,” I state, adopting my poshest tone. “I am here for Carter & Jeffers.”
“Floors eight to ten,” she says without missing a beat.
“Eight to ten.” I chew my lip. Not particularly wanting to ask her, upon which floor I will find the legendary Logan Carter, I practically wither under her steely gaze as I dither, forming a small puddle from my wet coat. There are few people who can intimidate me, but this dragon is one of them.
“Yes?”
With my tone going from posh to downright pathetic, I mutter, “Uhm. Which floor is Logan Carter on?”
“Ten.”
“Oh, okay, thank you.”
She gives me a swift nod and then answers the phone from a snug headset. “Marshall Building, how may I direct your call?”
Blinking a few times, I glance around for the elevator, smoothing back my damp hair. I’ve left it loose, but seriously, this place is so distinguished that I feel totally out of place. Rooting around in my oversized handbag for a hair band, I eventually find one and scoop my hair up in as neat a bun as I can with my limited equipment. Stabbing the button for the elevator, I pull my heels out of my bag and, toeing off one shoe, I slip one on. Of course, the elevator decides now is the time to slide open, scooping up my sneaker, I hobble with one heel, one flat into the empty box, only to find myself suddenly surrounded by people going up. There is no room to put on my other heel, so I stand there all lopsided, calling out, “Number ten, please!” to the person nearest the panel, seeing as I was unceremoniously shoved to the back of the now overcrowded compartment.
