Page 35 of The Good Girl Effect (Salacious Legacy #1)

Camille

J ack turns on the shower and tests the water, waiting for it to get warm enough.

We’re both standing quietly in his bathroom.

I’m leaning against the counter with my robe wrapped around me.

My wrists and ankles still wear the marks from the ropes, and they’re a little sore but nothing terrible. Definitely worth the ache.

“It’s ready,” he says, reaching for me. I step up to him and let him pull the robe from around my shoulders and lead me into the stall.

After he removes his own robe, he follows me. As we both stand close together under the stream, he stares down at me with a soft smile before leaning down and pressing his lips to mine. For a few moments, we just kiss and let the water soak us.

Before things can get too heated, he pulls away and reaches for the soap. I watch as he lathers up a washcloth and uses it to clean my back, then my shoulders and arms, working his way down to my legs. His touch is gentle and attentive, and I love being taken care of by him like this.

After he rinses me off, I take the washcloth and try to do the same to him.

“I can do it,” he says, pulling away.

“Let me,” I reply.

He hesitates before finally nodding and turning his back to let me lather soap across the broad expanse of his shoulders. When I apply a little pressure to the crevice of his neck and shoulders, I’m appalled to find the muscles nearly rock hard.

“My God, Jack,” I whisper.

Using the soap as a lubricant, I massage his shoulders, pressing my fingers into the knotted muscles. He winces but doesn’t pull away.

“I’m under a lot of stress at work,” he says.

“This is more than just stress,” I reply. “How do you live like this?”

He hangs his head as I continue to massage, running my fingers along his spine and up to his neck. Slowly, he starts to relax. I see his shoulders melt downward, and his body begins to sag.

“It’s my fault,” he mumbles sadly.

“What is your fault?” I ask.

“I let the club go to shit. I should have known better. I didn’t work hard enough because I think, deep down, I wanted it to fail. Not to mention I work so hard I can’t even be a father to Bea?—”

“Stop,” I plead with him. Releasing his shoulders, I move to his front to face him.

Taking his sad face in my hands, I force him to look at me.

“This is too much pressure for one person. So your first year of running a club didn’t go perfectly.

It was your first year, Jack. And to be thrust into all this alone after losing your wife… ”

I realize it’s the first time Jack and I have ever truly spoken about his wife. Hell, it’s the first time we’ve truly spoken about anything at all. And when he doesn’t stop me, I continue.

“Don’t try to do everything alone,” I say. “And Bea is doing fine, but she does miss you.”

His brows sink when he hears this. “I shouldn’t have been so harsh about the ballet lessons.”

“She’s your daughter, Jack,” I say, tilting my head and staring into his eyes. “You don’t have to justify anything to me.”

Gathering me up in his arms, he kisses my forehead. As he holds me against his chest, I wrap my arms around his waist. For something that’s supposed to be just sex, this feels so right.

“You know…her birthday is next week.”

Immediately, I pull away. “Whose?”

“Beatrice’s.”

My jaw drops. “We should do something for her.”

“I was thinking the same thing. But I don’t know what…”

“Has she ever been to the Disneyland in Paris?” I ask excitedly.

He responds with pinched brows and the broody expression I know so well. “No. You think she’d want to?”

I stare up at him. “What little girl wouldn’t want to go to Disneyland?”

I can see him trying to formulate an argument, but the words never come out. Instead, he sighs. “Fine. I think…she would love that. But you have to come too,” he adds.

Biting my bottom lip, I try not to feel too enamored. He’s only asking me to come because I can help take care of Bea. It’s not at all because he wants me there for more personal reasons. Or at least that’s what I tell myself.

“Okay, Monsieur St. Claire. I’ll come too.”

Using my thumb, I drag the pad across his wrinkled brows until he eventually relaxes them. Relenting with a smile, he leans down and kisses me again.

While Bea plays with her dolls in the living room and I wait for the chicken dish to bake in the oven, I draw mindlessly on a letter I’m working on for Jack. It’s a frog with mouse ears in the bottom corner of the paper.

The front door opens, and I look up as Jack enters the apartment. We haven’t seen each other since last night. He spent some time at work today while Bea was at school.

Our eyes meet immediately.

“Bonsoir, Papa!” Bea calls from the floor.

He pauses as he looks down at her, and I watch him intently, remembering our conversation in the shower late last night. Goose bumps cover my skin as he walks toward her and leans down to place a kiss on her head.

“Bonsoir, Bea,” he whispers softly.

Emotion stings my throat as I force myself to look away. It might not seem like much to anyone else, but that small gesture was monumental for both of them. I busy myself with checking on dinner when I hear him walk into the kitchen.

“Smells good,” he says.

“Thanks,” I reply, glancing up at him briefly. “It’s just a roast chicken with potatoes and carrots.”

When I finally turn around and truly meet his gaze, it feels loaded and strange.

After last night, when we were both so comfortable touching and kissing each other, refraining from doing that now is difficult.

And it wasn’t just the sex. It was the intimate conversation after.

If anything, that was far more significant.

Those are the moments that make it hard to maintain this working relationship.

“Will you be joining us for dinner?” I ask hesitantly. I don’t want him to feel pressured to, but also…I’d love it more than anything.

“I left work early for a reason,” he says, loosening his tie. “I told them I want to be home for dinner every night.”

This takes me by surprise. I turn my head toward him and meet his eyes again. A small smile grows on my face, but I try not to overdo it. “I think that’s wonderful.”

Captured in a fragile moment, the two of us stand here, delicately dancing around the awkwardness of our now confusing relationship. Then he backs out of the kitchen and walks to the stairs. “I’m going to go get cleaned up.”

“It’ll be ready in fifteen minutes,” I reply.

When the timer goes off, I pull the dish out of the oven and finish preparing the sides. I call for Bea to set the table, and as I so often do when it’s just her and me, I do it in French.

“D’accord,” she replies, getting up from the floor and rushing into the kitchen.

“Lave-toi les mains,” I add, peeking at her from over my shoulder as I carve the chicken.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Jack standing near the dining room table, and I pause, waiting for him to tell us to speak in English around him—as he so often does.

But this time, he stays quiet, only watching Bea as she stretches onto her tiptoes to reach the sink and cover her tiny fingers in soapy bubbles.

My eyes cast over to him again, and this time, he glances up at me.

I wonder if he notices how much he’s changing.

I should be so happy about it, but for some reason, it gnaws at me.

He’s not the broody, miserable man I knew, and I should be excited about that.

So why am I so nervous at the idea that everything is changing?

The next thing I know, something sharp slices across the edge of my palm, and I wince in pain, dropping the knife on the counter as I grab my hand.

“What happened?” Bea shrieks.

I squeeze the side of my hand as I rush toward the sink to run it under the cold water. As the pain starts to throb and pulse, I keep my eyes squeezed closed so Bea can’t see my reaction and panic.

“Let me see.”

I open my eyes and find Jack standing next to me. He pulls my hands from under the faucet and pries my grip off the cut area. Afraid to look at it, I keep my gaze trained on the ceiling as he inspects the wound.

“It doesn’t look too deep. I don’t think you need stitches. Bea, go into the closet and get the first aid kit.”

“Okay, Papa,” she replies, dashing off down the hallway.

“Does it hurt?” he whispers with his lips close to my ear. Now that we’re alone, I look up at him and nod.

Then he leans down and presses his lips to my hand, apparently not afraid of my blood. My chest warms with longing moments before Bea dashes back into the room with the red plastic kit.

“Dinner is going to get cold,” I complain as he works to meticulously dry and bandage my hand.

“It will still be delicious,” he replies placidly.

“Are you okay, Camille?” Bea asks as she huddles in close to my side, watching her father work.

“I’m fine,” I reply, smiling down at her. “I should be more careful.”

“There,” Jack says, sealing the bandage around my hand. “Now you go sit down at the table and let me and Bea bring you dinner.”

I give him a defeated sigh. “I can do it.”

“Sit,” he commands, giving me that dominant tone that causes my thighs to clench and my toes to curl.

Pressing my lips together, I quietly abide, walking over to my chair as Bea and Jack work to set the table and serve the meal.

It’s cute, watching them work together. He instructs her which cutlery to use as she asks him to pull down the plates for her.

It’s the most I’ve seen them interact in a while.

Again, I think that I should be happy about this. This is how they should be. How they probably would be if Emmaline had never died.

Of course, this makes me think of the picture again. The smiling woman who thought she had her whole life in front of her. She should be the one sitting here now, watching her husband and daughter in the kitchen.

But if she was still here…I wouldn’t be.

What a terrible thing to think.

But I can’t help it because this moment is so beautiful.

And that’s a dangerous idea to let in. If this is how it’s going to be now that Jack’s home for dinner every night, I fear it will be far harder to maintain our boundaries than I expected.

Because right now, this doesn’t feel like a nanny, her boss, and his little girl. It feels like a family.

As they both come parading into the dining room, Bea carrying three plates and Jack holding the casserole dish with a pair of pot holders, I shove the sad thoughts aside and smile at them for a job well done.

“Papa made sure you didn’t get blood on the chicken,” Bea blurts out as she sets out the three plates on the table.

I laugh out loud. “Bonne idée.”

“Papa, sit next to me,” she says as she crawls onto one of the chairs, sitting on her knees so she’s taller.

I can tell that Jack is trying not to grin too much as he takes the seat next to her. Then he looks up at me as he picks up his fork. “Bon appétit.”

For a moment, everything feels right.

And there’s something about that that feels so wrong.