Page 19 of The Good Girl Effect (Salacious Legacy #1)

Camille

O n my way back from taking Bea to school, I get lost in a daydream, thinking about last night. This discovery has filled me with new life. Especially when I still have so much I’ve yet to experience.

Jack St. Claire is gorgeous, rich, and older—and the one person I can’t get involved with.

For one, he’s far out of my league. Two, he’s still grieving his late wife.

And three, I’m his daughter’s nanny.

I meant what I said in that letter. I can separate work from pleasure. But pleasure from love? That sounds harder.

If anything romantic were to grow between us and it didn’t work out, I would be forced to leave, and it would crush that little girl. And after everything she’s been through, that would haunt me forever. Not to mention it would ruin my grand plans of getting out of Giverny and starting a new life.

So I can keep my heart guarded. It shouldn’t be hard with such an emotionally unavailable man. He would never let me in anyway.

In just a few short weeks, I’ve seen a new side of Jack. He was so elusive and grumpy to start, and now I’m seeing this softness in him. I see the desire and humility that he thinks he’s hiding so well.

Jack is just a man. And I may never know the pain he’s endured, but I can still see who he is underneath it all.

I imagine what it must be like to see all of him. To have Jack St. Claire without restraint. Even if he shuts out the world, I love the idea of him letting me in. And for someone who is not supposed to be getting romantically attached, it does sound awfully nice in my head.

When I get back to the apartment, it’s quiet and empty. Jack had meetings today, as he said during breakfast. So I have the house to myself.

And while I do need to do some shopping for supper, I also desperately need a nap to recoup the sleep I lost last night.

I quickly clean up the kitchen and set my list on the counter where I can find it later. Then I go to my room.

Distracted by the promise of a nap, I nearly forget about the letter I left Jack last night. So when I walk into the room and find a folded piece of paper on my pillow, I let out a gasp.

Of course he’s responded. These letters appear to be the only way we can truly communicate.

I open it quickly and start reading.

Camille,

I am not afraid of anything. It’s become clear to me that neither are you.

But since you are so intent on proving your ability to separate your role as my employee from your role as my submissive, then I will give you the opportunity.

There will be rules.

Rule #1: You cannot tell anyone about our sessions.

Rule #2: We will meet for one hour each night at midnight upstairs.

Rule #3: No sex.

I can prove my restraint if you can prove yours. I lost control last night, and I will not do it again.

If any of these rules are broken, the deal is off. No punishment. No second chances.

Let’s see if you can prove just how good you are.

Jack

Biting my lip, I smile down at the letter. The promise of more sessions fills me with excitement. Now I don’t know if I’ll be able to sleep at all.

Dropping onto the mattress, I hold the handwritten note against my chest as I close my eyes. With thoughts of ropes and blindfolds and the scent of his spicy cologne, I drift off to sleep.

“What do you want to be when you grow up?” Bea asks with her hand in mine as we walk home from school. She prances along the sidewalk, trying to jump over cracks in the pavement.

I laugh as I smile down at her. “I am already grown up.”

She sneers up at me in confusion. “No, you’re not.”

“How old do you think I am?

“I don’t know,” she replies with a shrug. “This many?” She holds up both of her hands, showing ten fingers, and it makes me giggle.

“Not quite, little Bea. I’m twenty-four.”

She appears momentarily shocked before bouncing along beside me. “But you can still grow up more.”

“I guess so,” I say.

“So what do you want to be when you grow up?” she asks, repeating the question.

“Hmm…” I screw up my mouth. “I don’t know. I used to work in a bookstore. Before that, I worked at my father’s restaurant. Now, I’m a nanny for a curious little girl. I don’t know what I’ll do next.”

“I want to be a ballerina like my tante Elizabeth,” she says, pointing her arms over her head in a messy little ballet move.

“Why don’t you take lessons?” I ask.

“Because Papa doesn’t like it.”

My brows pinch inward. “Why not?”

She shrugs. “I took lessons when Maman was sick, but when she went to sleep, I stopped.”

Everything in me tenses. Why does it seem like every innocent conversation makes its way back to her mother? I’m terrible at this.

And why on earth does she think her mother went to sleep? Is that what Jack told her? Maybe she’s too young to understand death? What the hell do I know?

I wish I could take away all Bea’s pain and give her the normal, happy childhood she deserves. I can’t imagine what it must have been like to lose her mother at only three years old.

“If you want dance lessons, I can take you.”

“You can?” she asks excitedly.

With a sigh, I realize it might not have been wise of me to make such promises. What if Jack doesn’t change his mind? She’s not my daughter. But then again…it’s not like he would notice anyway. He barely knows his own child.

I can’t help that I have this overwhelming need to make Bea’s life as good as it can be. And if ballet lessons are what she wants, then somehow, I can make that happen for her.

When we get back to the apartment, I write ballet lessons on the to-do list I keep in my bedroom. I plan to look into it later when I have some free time. I’m sure I have Jack’s sister’s contact information somewhere. I’ll call her later and ask if she can recommend something for Bea.

I should ask Jack first. But what if he says no? I’m not sure if that’s something I want to risk.

While Bea plays with her dolls in her room, I stare down at the to-do list, mindlessly sketching a polar bear ballerina on the bottom.

For some reason, I get the urge to look at the photo of Jack and his wife again, so I check to be sure I’m alone before opening the drawer and fishing the original letter and photo out.

It’s the first time I’ve looked at it in a while.

And it feels strange to see Jack with her now.

Now that it feels like some small piece of him belongs to me.

Even if he and I will never be romantic the way they were, Jack is opening up to me.

He’s giving me a piece of himself, no matter how big or small that is.

But as I stare at the woman in the photo, Emmaline, I realize that I feel a closeness to her too. It’s strange, really. I never knew her, and I never will. But I care about her in a way that I can’t describe. I love her daughter with a sense of protectiveness already.

I’m living in her house and building a relationship with her family. Would she like me? Or hate me? I know I’ll never fill the hole she left or live up to her, but in some strange way, I want to make her proud.

I want to prove that I’m good enough.