Page 23 of The Good Girl Effect (Salacious Legacy #1)

Camille

T he very last thing I wanted to find this morning was a written response from Jack slid under my door. But the moment I woke up and noticed the humiliating rough draft of my own letter gone and saw his, I was filled with mortification.

He must have snuck into my room in the middle of the night to take it. The thought of him sneaking into my room should probably bother me a lot more than it does, but I’m too distracted by the memory of what I wrote in that letter.

Now, as I stand in the kitchen, watching Bea color at the table, I’m remembering everything I said and wanting the earth to swallow me whole.

It’s bad enough that I shared something so personal with him, like my father’s death, but then I had to make it worse by telling him how much I want to be?—

“Can we do something fun today?” Bea asks, interrupting my thoughts.

“Of course,” I reply. “What would you like to do?”

She shrugs. “I don’t know.”

It’s Saturday, and since I’ve been here, Bea’s routine has been nearly the same every day. We haven’t done a single thing out of the ordinary.

“What if we take the Métro into the city?” I ask. “We can go to lunch and see the big park.”

“With the boats in the fountain?” she replies excitedly.

“Yeah. We can see the boats.”

Paris is beautiful in the fall, especially now that the leaves have started to change. And since we have a respite from the rain on this late September day, it feels wise to take advantage of it before it grows too cold outside to enjoy a sunny day in the park.

Bea wiggles excitedly in her seat. Instantly, my thoughts go back to Jack. He should really be the one to spend time with her today. I wish he’d come with us. I know how much she’d love that.

I pull the letter from my back pocket and read it again.

My good girl,

I think this was my favorite letter from you. You seemed to have forgotten to deliver it to me, so it’s a good thing I found it on your desk.

I’m sorry to hear about your father. That must have been difficult. And I understand the resentment you feel toward the one who left you. Being the survivor is incredibly unfair.

I’ve read this letter nearly a hundred times since I found it only an hour ago. And that line strikes a nerve every time. Here’s a man so torn up by his grief that he can hardly look at his own daughter, and yet he’s suddenly baring his soul in a letter to me.

How did this happen? And how do I protect it so that I might be able to hear more from him?

Your reactions and reasoning about the bondage are perfect. I’m glad you like it.

And I’m glad you trust me. That is the most important part.

Don’t give that to just anyone. Make them earn it.

As for that last part of your letter…

I wince, biting my lip and remembering what I wrote. The filthy, dirty words that no one was supposed to read.

I wish that person could be me, but we have to show our restraint. There are rules to follow and lines we cannot cross.

My daughter seems to really like you, and that’s more important to me than my selfish desires.

Also, you should talk like that more often. Tell me what you want.

You should always be honest about that.

I want to write my response before we leave, but Bea is already bouncing excitedly and clearly restless to get out of the house for the day. So my letter will have to wait.

We’re by the front door, tying the laces on her shoes, when we hear footsteps coming down the stairs. Bea and I look up at the same time to see Jack walking down. He’s casual today in a pair of dark jeans and a Henley-style shirt that fits snugly over his shoulders and pecs.

I force myself to look away.

“Hi, Papa!” Bea says with a smile. “We’re going on the Métro!”

Jack halts with skepticism on his face. I hesitate to explain more before I remember this isn’t a bondage scenario where I answer in silent nods and shakes of my head. I have to actually explain to him where I’m taking his daughter.

After clearing my throat, I mumble, “Bea wants to go into the city. I’m taking her to the Jardin du Luxembourg. If that’s all right.”

“Of course,” he replies quietly.

“Come with us, Papa!” Bea chimes in before rushing over to his side and taking his hand in hers.

He stares down at her as if he’s just now meeting her, a glimmer of warmth in his eyes.

I can see him deliberating, and I wish I knew what was going on in his head.

The reason—or is it fear?—that keeps him from wanting to be around her.

Is he afraid that being around Bea will hurt, like losing his wife all over again?

Is he filled with so much grief that he doesn’t even know how to love his own child anymore?

Either way, I just know the answer isn’t to avoid her and push her away.

“If it’s all right with your nanny,” he says before glancing up at me.

I’m struck as I open my mouth, unable to reply right away. “Uh…of course,” I say finally. “Do you want to take her? Just you two?”

“No,” he blurts out. “You should come.”

“Yes, you have to come, Camille,” Bea says sweetly.

“D’accord,” I reply under my breath.

Bea cheers, jumping in place as her father and I put on our shoes, getting ready to leave. I do everything in my power to avoid his eye contact. Normally, I can stare into his eyes and feel so comfortable, but right now…in this setting, I can’t possibly look at him.

We walk in silence down the street. Bea carries on with her usual chatter, holding my hand as Jack walks behind us. And when we board the Métro, he sits on the opposite side as she cuddles close to me.

Seeing him in this environment makes me laugh a little.

I don’t suspect that Jack is the type to ride the Métro very often.

He probably has personal drivers or takes taxis if he needs to get around, but I’ve always loved the city’s transit.

This is what it was made for, so it feels like a privilege to use it.

His eyes find mine for a brief moment on the journey, and I quickly look away.

My cheeks heat when his attention doesn’t shift, and I’m reminded of the things I said in that letter.

Not that he hasn’t also said dirty, sexy things to me in his letters too.

His first letter to me was the filthiest thing I’ve ever read.

But that was a different time. That was before we found this new dynamic together.

Before I became his bunny, and he became my rigger.

I feast on the sight of his ravishing smile, his gaze averted.

These past few weeks have been like watching Jack come into the light.

Slowly, he’s emerging from the depths of wherever he’s been hiding.

My overwhelming interest in him started as curiosity and has blossomed into something more.

He’s not at all who I expected, and even now, the ice is slowly chipping away from that cold, brutal man I encountered when I started.

When we reach the park, Bea runs ahead of us in her sandy tweed coat and pink tights, eager to eat up the free space and sprawling pathways through the large garden. Geese scamper by as she chases them around an island of green grass and a stone statue.

This garden has always been my favorite.

My father brought me here as a child, and I distinctly remember gasping in awe as we came upon the massive palm trees, uncharacteristically planted right in front of the old palace.

Colors burst along the walkways in pink and purple flowers blooming in perfectly landscaped artistry.

Bea seems to be equally as enamored as she dashes ahead.

“Beatrice!” Jack calls in a panic when she slips around a hedge and out of sight. The moment she hears him call, she turns back and returns to where we can see her. I jog ahead to be closer to her, but the sound of his voice in such a fatherly, protective tone stays with me.

With Bea’s hand in mine, we meander our way through the park until we reach the large fountain where white sailboats are drifting across the water.

Jack steps away and returns a moment later with one of the boats for Bea to sail.

She sets it on the water with an enthusiastic giggle and a beaming smile.

Then he leans over and demonstrates how to use the large stick to push the boat onto the water.

I stand back and watch them, savoring the way he speaks to her, explaining how the wind pushes the sails.

She touches his hand, and I wonder if it’s the first moment they’ve really spent together since his wife died.

As she plays, he and I find a bench to sit on together and watch her.

He seems at ease, and when I glance his way, I see the love in his eyes as he watches his daughter play.

I’d like to ask him so many questions—like why has he been so distant with her?

Why won’t he be the father I know he wants to be?

Instead, I keep my lips pressed together tightly, and I let him have this moment. Whatever I have to say, I will put it in my next letter.

After the park, we get lunch at a nearby café.

The three of us share a Margherita pizza and three bottles of Coca-Cola.

Jack is sitting across from me, and I can’t stop marveling at how sexy he looks as he leans back in the small café chair, his wool coat draped open to reveal the tight shirt over his muscled pecs.

With a pair of pitch-black sunglasses on, he stares out at the people passing by, and I can tell that he loves Paris.

He fits in well, as if he was made for this city.

“L’addition, s’il vous pla?t,” he mumbles to the server as he walks by, and it catches me by surprise. Staring at Jack with wide eyes, I watch as he pulls out his wallet and hands the man his credit card.

Does Jack know French? It’s a simple phrase that I’m sure most tourists learn to ask for the bill, but hearing him speak my native language has an effect on me. Is he doing this on purpose? Making me fall for him when he’s very explicitly said we shouldn’t.

After collecting our things and standing from the table, Jack drapes his jacket over his forearm as the day has grown warmer with the clear skies.

We continue to stroll around the city, stopping in the shops Bea wants to see.

It all feels so comfortable and intimate.

To anyone walking by, we look like a regular family.

A man and his wife and their young daughter.

Shamelessly, I love that idea.

If only they knew I’m just the nanny to a grief-stricken man and the daughter he barely knows.

Everything always looks better on the outside.

When we finally board the Métro for the ride home, it’s far more crowded than when we rode it earlier. There are no places to sit, and Jack and I have to stand with Bea pressed between us to keep her safe.

She holds my hand as we squeeze in closer at one of the stops to let even more people on.

When a rowdy group of young men board, I feel a hand on my lower back, and I look up at Jack to realize it’s him.

He’s holding me close to his body while glaring protectively at the men, and it sends a thrill through my bloodstream.

As the train starts to move again, I stumble a little toward him, and his grip tightens. My gaze lifts slowly to his face and his to mine. It feels like I’m granted access to this connection between us.

Just like the night in the hallway and the moment in the kitchen when he gave me his letter, it’s as if Jack and I exist alone, separate from the rest of the world, when we allow ourselves to feast on the sight of each other. It’s a feeling so palpable I never want it to end.

I smell his cologne and see the flecks of green and brown in his eyes. His fingers are still on my back, and for the first time since he placed them there, he moves them slightly back and forth. It’s not much, but to me, it feels monumental. Just a subtle reminder of his touch. A hint of affection.

What is he doing? Doesn’t he realize what moments like this do to me? They obliterate boundaries and lines and rules. This longing is so much louder than all those reasons why we shouldn’t get involved with each other.

Unable to bear it anymore, I turn my head away from him, glancing down at Bea, who is nestled by my side.

Then Jack’s nose brushes against my head, and I hear him breathe in the scent of my hair. Suddenly, I wish I could tie him up, because then I could force him to stay away from me so I never have to know what it’s like to feel his affection.