Page 3 of The Good Girl Effect (Salacious Legacy #1)

Camille

“ T he train to Paris departs in fifteen minutes.”

I’m buzzing with excitement, standing on the train station platform. I’ve latched on to this wild idea as if it’s a hot air balloon taking flight. If I let it go, I’ll drift off into space. Instead, I hold tight and try not to look down.

The letter is tucked safely away in my pocket. Every few moments, I shove my hand in to make sure it’s still there, sometimes rubbing it softly with my thumb or picking at a corner as if it’s a safety blanket.

When the train doors open, I climb aboard and find a quiet seat in the back.

I called into work this morning at the bookstore, telling Marguerite I had a bad case of food poisoning.

It’s a one-hour train ride to Paris, and my plan is to arrive in the city, go straight to the apartment listed on the envelope, and return the letter.

Perhaps I could spend a couple of hours around the city before boarding the train tonight and coming home.

Still, after much deliberation, something about this plan feels off. It’s as if I can’t fully commit to it because part of me doesn’t want to come home at all. This is the first time I’ve properly left home in years. It feels like a taste of adventure when what I really want is a lifetime of it.

Papa used to say I was like a little hummingbird, constantly flitting from one place to another, and that someday I would fly too far if someone didn’t hold me down.

I was always running off, sneaking out, staying out too late, and ditching school.

I certainly didn’t make it easy on him. But he was never too angry.

He’d shake his head with a tsk, but he was never one for punishment.

The memory stings my eyes. I don’t feel much like a bird anymore.

Ever since he died, it’s like my feet have been glued to the village.

That part of me died with him. The Camille he once knew, who had enthusiasm for life, perished the moment he did.

Would he be disappointed in me if he knew how much I’ve changed?

That I lost my luster. That the responsibilities and weight of adulthood without him tied my feet to the floor.

Would he be let down by the woman I’ve become?

During the train ride, I pull out my phone and browse some more about my mystery couple. I’ve done so much research on the woman, Emmaline, that I’ve barely done any research on the man. Suddenly realizing that I might see him today, I decide to try to find something about him.

In the photos with her, he’s not tagged.

In her friends list, he’s not listed.

Even when I search his name, results pop up, but none of them are the man in the photo.

It’s like he’s a ghost.

For the rest of the journey, I busy myself with checking my appearance in the selfie camera of my phone, taming my stray curls and wiping the ink smudge from my cheek.

Digging into the bottom of my purse, I find an old lipstick and swipe it across my lips.

I’m not usually one for makeup, but I want to look nice today.

One should always look beautiful in Paris.

By the time the train arrives, I’m feeling far too flustered and tightly wound. From the train, I have to take the Métro to the 18th arrondissement, where the address listed is located.

As I climb up the stairs from the underground, it suddenly hits me that I’m really here. I’m really doing this.

It’s a short walk to the apartment building, and as I walk, I enjoy the stroll through one of my favorite areas of the city.

The art and culture come alive here. Walking alongside tourists and locals on a narrow sidewalk, I pass by a market bustling with energy and a small children’s park where the kids laugh and play while their parents watch from the sides.

The hills in Montmartre make for a beautiful view of Paris.

Then, before I know it, I’m standing in front of his building.

The leaves of a large cherry tree fall around me as I stare up at the apartment building.

Emmaline’s letter is still safely stowed away in my pocket.

Nervously, I climb the stairs and find the main door unlocked.

I realize at this moment that it’s possible he doesn’t even live here anymore.

He could have moved, especially if this letter is from before they were married and had their child.

And even though I came all this way to give him this letter, there’s a subtle sense of relief at the idea that he might not be on the other side of that door. Then at least I could keep the letter guilt-free. I’d have a funny story and a day in Paris to look back on.

Still, I climb the stairs to the second floor and gently rap my knuckles against the surface. My limbs are shaking, and it’s as if I forgot how to breathe entirely. Behind the door, I hear a little girl shouting something I can’t make out, and a woman replies in an assertive tone.

The door flies open, and to my surprise, a beautiful woman with long red hair stands before me. She has a businesslike appearance to her with black trousers, black flats, and a thin white blouse tucked into her pants.

“Bonjour,” she says in a polite greeting.

Struck by the sight of her, I hesitate before reaching my hand in my pocket. “Uh…I?—”

“You must be here for the nanny position,” the woman says in hurried English, cutting me off. “Please, come in.”

The hand in my pocket freezes. Nanny position?

Just then, a small child pops up to the right of the redheaded woman. She has piercing blue eyes and perfectly combed brown hair that reaches her shoulders.

“Bonjour,” she greets me sweetly.

I return the sentiment softly. Then the woman steps backward, allowing me space to walk into the house. Still frozen with uncertainty, I stammer some more. “I, uh…”

“Please, come in,” she urges.

It’s her authoritative tone that shakes me from my stupor. I don’t understand why, but I take the steps forward into the stranger’s apartment.

Think, Camille. What are you doing? Why are you here?

“My name is Phoenix Scott,” the woman says with an American accent. “I’m Mr. St. Claire’s business partner. I’ll be conducting the interviews for the position. What is your name?”

I blink rapidly as if I’ve forgotten my own name.

Interviews.

Positions.

“Parlez-vous anglais?” she asks as I stand here like a fish with my mouth hanging open. I’ve never been more confused in my life.

“Oui,” I stammer. “I mean…yes.”

“Good.” She gives me an uncomfortable smile and a nod. “And your name?”

This isn’t what I’m here for at all. I’m here to return a letter. I’m here to meet the mystery man in the photograph and return something from his late wife. I’m not here to apply for any job.

But for some reason, I find myself holding out a hand toward the woman. “Camille Aubert,” I reply.

“Enchantée, Camille.” She seems pleased that I managed to finally remember my name, gesturing for me to follow her into the apartment.

My jaw drops even more as I take a look around and notice just how stunning it is.

The ceilings soar with ornate crown molding, and large windows bathe the space in warm, natural light.

Looking down, I stare in awe at the herringbone wood floors and expensive-looking rugs.

My fingers drift along the back of a plush velvet upholstered sofa.

It’s a big difference from the small, boxy two-bedroom I live in.

Just then, I hear heavy footsteps from above, and I glance up toward the staircase to see someone walking by. It’s clearly a man in a dark blue suit, but at this angle, that’s all I can make out. In a flash, he’s gone.

“Was that…Monsieur St. Claire?” I mumble awkwardly.

The woman glances up toward the stairs. “Yes, but he won’t be coming down,” she answers in a rush.

“Oh.”

“Please have a seat,” she says, guiding me toward the sitting room with two oversized armchairs near a marble fireplace. I sit down in one of them, and warning sirens continue to go off in my mind.

They say that I’m going to be in trouble for even sitting down. I’m a trespasser. An interloper. I’m not supposed to be here. I only came to return a letter. And now I’m sitting in their home under false pretenses.

The last twenty-four hours of my life, I’ve been obsessing over this family. I know far more about them than they know about me, and something about that feels very wrong.

I should go, but as I sit in this beautiful room in this luxurious apartment, I can’t bring myself to leave. I’m not harming anyone. I can apply for the job. It doesn’t mean I have to take it.

The woman with the interesting name returns and hands me a clipboard with a stack of papers on it. “Fill these out, please. And then we’ll get started with the interview.”

Biting my lip, I take it from her. “Yes, ma’am.”

As I’m filling out the papers on the clipboard, I keep glancing up at the stairs, wondering if I’ll get a glimpse of the man again. Every few moments, I hear his voice, deep and muffled. It makes me wonder what he does for work. Why isn’t he the one conducting this interview?

It takes me nearly thirty minutes to complete the paperwork, which is a considerably long time to spend on something I shouldn’t even be doing.

The woman and the little girl seem to have escaped into another room of the home, leaving me alone.

Every time I contemplate giving a fake name or wrong answers, I choose not to.

Instead, I scribble every single answer with conviction as if this is a job I actually want.

There are more footsteps upstairs, and the curiosity becomes too much to bear. Setting the clipboard on my seat, I stand up and glance around cautiously to be sure I’m alone. Then I quietly tiptoe toward the stairs.

I just want a small glimpse. I’d only like to lay my eyes on him—for reasons even I don’t understand.