Page 4 of The Good Girl Effect (Salacious Legacy #1)

If I’m caught, then I can simply claim confusion or say I got lost. Climbing up the stairs one by one, I get about halfway, and it’s high enough to just peek into the office on the left.

And there he is. He’s pacing the room and speaking, sounding frustrated and controlling. I assume he’s on the phone, but I’m not focused on his words. Instead, I’m staring at the broad expanse of his shoulders and the sharp line of his cheekbones.

He’s even more handsome in person than in the photo.

But there’s a darkness in his eyes, heavy circles underneath, and new wrinkles at the corners.

He’s aged, and not just by time. The effects of grief are apparent in his weathered features.

His posture is rigid and straight, and I watch the way his right hand balls into a fist before releasing, over and over again.

“I’m Beatrice,” a small voice says from behind me, and I let out a startled yelp.

Spinning around, I stare at the little girl at the bottom of the stairs.

She’s standing politely with her small hands clasped in front of her. “But everyone calls me Bea.”

I open my mouth to reply, but first, I glance back up toward the second floor in time to see Jack St. Claire glaring down at me. Heat and embarrassment pulse through my veins. A moment later, he slams his office door, and I am riddled with shame for spying on him.

Taking a deep breath, I turn back to the little girl and descend the stairs toward her.

“Enchantée, Bea,” I reply with a half-smile. “How old are you?”

“I’m five. Are you going to be my new nanny?” she asks. She has on a lavender chiffon dress with pristine white tights and shiny black Mary Jane shoes. Her hair is meticulously combed with a part on the side and a matching purple bow pinned just above her ear.

“I don’t know,” I reply as I kneel down in front of her. “Can I tell you a secret?”

She nods emphatically.

“I’ve never been a nanny before,” I whisper. “I didn’t even know I was going to be applying for this job today.”

I’m not sure why I come clean to a child, but Bea smiles widely at me when she hears my confession.

“That’s okay,” she chirps with a grin. “Do you like unicorns?”

This makes me chuckle. “I love unicorns.”

“And fairies?”

“Of course.”

“Want to see my room? It’s painted with fairies and unicorns.”

“I should probably wait here,” I start, but the girl takes my hand and tugs me along with her. Her shoes clap loudly against the floor as she pulls me deeper into the apartment, down a hallway, and into one of the bedrooms.

The room is, in fact, painted with fairies and unicorns. The entire back wall looks like a scene out of a fairy tale, with lush green trees, toadstools, and a castle in the background.

“This is amazing,” I whisper as she hops up onto her bed, kicking her feet beneath her.

“My papa works a lot,” she says. “Phoenix says I need someone to play with when I’m not in school because Papa is too busy to play with me.”

There’s sadness in her voice when she says this that tugs on my heart. I suddenly remember that this poor child lost her mother at only three years old. She probably doesn’t even remember her.

Something I can relate to. My mother didn’t die. She just decided she wasn’t fit for motherhood and rarely came around as I was growing up. But at least I had my father, who was always present, always enthusiastic about raising me, and always there to be the parent I needed.

But poor Bea has a father who is too busy to spend time with her, so they have to hire someone to come into their home and give her the attention she deserves.

And she’s so desperate for that attention that she’s latching on to a random stranger. I remember doing the same.

I stand in the doorway of her room, not comfortable with going inside. “I’m not going to be your nanny,” I say softly as I cross my arms over my chest.

“Why not?” she asks. “Why don’t you want to be my nanny?”

“Well, it’s not that I don’t want to. It’s that…” My voice trails, unable to find a good enough reason for her. “Your papa is going to find you a very good nanny. I’m sure a lot of people have applied.”

“He’ll pay you a lot of money,” she says, and it makes me chuckle. “And you can stay in our extra bedroom. And we can bake cookies and have sleepovers and play games.”

“That sounds very fun,” I reply softly, which isn’t a lie.

Just then, I hear footsteps behind me, and I turn to find the redheaded woman coming toward us.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I was on a phone call. We can do your interview now.”

Giving Bea a small wave, I leave her and follow the woman back out to the sitting room. Phoenix takes the opposite seat from me as she glances down at the packet I just filled out, assessing my answers with a strict, tight-lipped expression.

“Do you have experience with children?” she asks.

“I curate the children’s department at our bookstore, but other than that…no.”

She glances up at me skeptically. “Any certifications…or training?”

I shake my head. “No.”

“What makes you qualified for this job?” she asks plainly.

Somewhere in the midst of this whole mix-up, I found myself actually wanting this.

And why shouldn’t I? I want to work in this home and live in this city.

I want to pull my feet from the cement they’ve been stuck in since my father died and actually live my life.

This could all be a mix-up, or it could be fate.

My hands are clutched in my lap as I glance back up toward the stairs again. Then my eyes dance over to where Bea is peeking out from the hallway. And the answer comes straight from my heart.

“I didn’t have a mother growing up,” I say.

“So I can understand what life is like for Beatrice. I know what it’s like to feel like a part of you is missing, but I was lucky enough to have a father who instilled confidence in me.

I may not be…certified or trained, but I’m trustworthy and curious and fun. And I’d love her like my own.”

Bea grins at me from the hallway.

Just then, something draws my attention to the stairway again, and I glance up to find a man standing there, watching me from the second-floor landing. He has intense dark eyes and a wide, stoic stance. The way he’s staring at me sends chills down my spine.

Without saying a word, he walks away again as if he was just caught spying. He leaves me feeling cold and strange after gazing at me so intensely.

Phoenix doesn’t even notice his presence.

She just notes something on the paper before smiling back up at me.

“That was lovely. Thank you.” After a minute, she adds, “You should know the position is live-in. Beatrice would require around-the-clock attention with breaks, of course, in the evenings and on Sundays. I think that’s all for now. Do you have any questions?”

Questions? No. I’m still reeling from this entire encounter. My only question is how on earth did I end up in this job interview? Instead of asking that, I shake my head.

“Great,” she says as she stands. “We will be in touch.”

I stand from the chair and wave goodbye to Bea, glancing up at the stairs one more time, but he’s not there.

Then I shake the woman’s hand and walk out the front door. On my walk back to the Métro line, I can’t stop thinking about the man’s eyes as he stared at me. And about the sad way Bea spoke about him in her room. And about how strange it is that I just applied for a job I didn’t even come here for.

The letter is still hiding in my pocket.

I no longer feel bad for not giving it to him. I don’t feel bad for actually wanting this job now. And it’s not because I want the money or the life in Paris. It’s because something about this home and this family feels right.

It feels familiar.

It feels, in some small way, as if they need me.