Page 41 of The Good Girl Effect (Salacious Legacy #1)

Jack

When was the last time I spoke about Em with anyone? What was I so afraid of? Talking about her gave me peace I didn’t expect.

Talking about a future with Camille gave me even more.

The future has been this elusive harbinger of sorrow for so long. It’s as bad as the past, really. Both hurt. The reminder of what I had lost and the idea of living longer without it both ache in ways I never understood.

But with Camille, for the first time, talking about the future with her didn’t hurt or scare me. Camille and I could be happy together. I truly believe that. We could make this work.

But am I rushing into this? Am I running from Em’s death directly into the arms of another woman? Is that fair to either of them?

As I reach the apartment, I hear music playing inside.

With a smile, I unlock the door and walk in to find Camille and Bea dancing and singing in the kitchen again.

There is something cooking in the oven—not burning, thank God—and my daughter is twirling around the room while Camille holds her hand to steady her.

When they see me, they don’t freeze in terror like they had before. Instead, Bea grins wildly, running up to me and taking my hands.

“Dance, Papa!” she squeals.

It’s a fast-paced French pop song. Gripping Bea’s small hands in mine, I twirl her around the room. “Turn it up,” I say to Camille, who’s biting her bottom lip as she admires us.

Bea shrieks with laughter as I spin her. Her joy is infectious. It seeps into my pores like medicine, curing ailments I didn’t even know I had. I just know I feel better when I hear it.

When the song ends, I hoist my daughter off the floor and hug her to me, kissing her on the cheek as she wraps her arms tightly around my neck.

A timer beeps, and Camille turns away to pull a casserole dish that smells and looks like lasagna out of the oven. As she places it on the trivet in the middle of the kitchen island, our eyes meet.

Everything we did and spoke about today hovers between us. My heart lurches in my chest, overwhelmed with this feeling I have for her. It’s more powerful than I remember falling in love to feel like.

I want to be around her all the time. I want to own her while also being owned by her. I want her to exist in every future iteration of my life.

The thought of her pain or fear haunts me in ways that make me feel like a caveman, and the need to protect her takes over.

I’m sure this is love.

And if I'm doubting myself, it's only because this doesn't feel like it did with Em. But if it’s not love, then what is it?

When I spot a familiar card on the counter, I carry Bea over and pick it up.

“Is this my mother’s recipe? Where did you get it?” I ask.

Camille grins sheepishly. “I found it. I hope you don’t mind. Bea told me it was your favorite.”

“It is my favorite,” I reply softly. The aroma of Jade’s lasagna suddenly makes me homesick, which is lovely but also a cruel reminder that I’m supposed to be leaving soon. But how could I?

I haven’t told Camille about my plans to move back to California, and I think in my heart, I set those plans aside when I met her.

This nostalgic reminder filling my kitchen is making me want to revisit that plan. I still want to go back to America. I want to take my daughter back so she can grow up around my family.

Would Camille go with us? Or am I putting an end to this before it’s even started?

As we set the table together, it’s as if I’m being ripped in two.

Bea chatters on excitedly without leaving a moment for either Camille or me to talk.

She tells me about her day at school and what she learned.

When we finally sit down and start to dig in, I stare across the table at Camille.

Each of us has a subtle smile on our face, and I wonder if she’s thinking the same thing I am.

This could work.

“You mentioned your parents are still married then,” she says when Bea finally stops talking long enough to eat.

I dab at my mouth with a napkin as I formulate my response. Speaking about my unique family is something I’m used to, but it still takes consideration.

“My parents are still married,” I say with a nod. She keeps her eyes on me as she waits for me to elaborate. “My mom and my dad…and my other mom.”

Bea kicks her feet under the table, smiling up at me. It’s nothing out of the ordinary for her now.

As for Camille, she’s frozen in place with her fork halfway to her mouth.

“Papa has two mommies and a daddy,” Bea says sweetly.

“Oh,” Camille replies. She puts the bite in her mouth and chews with a contemplative look on her face.

More than anything, she’s probably shocked that a guy who grew up in a home that exemplified love and acceptance struggles with it so much.

I’m sure in her imagination, I wasn’t raised in a home with six people who loved each other unconditionally but rather molded in some emotionless factory where I was taught three expressions—brooding, grumpy, and annoyed.

I wouldn’t blame her if she did.

As we eat, I share the story with Camille about how my single mother fell in love with not one but two people. How they made it work because they loved each other, even when the days were hard or my sisters and I faced mockery in school because our family looked different.

“That’s really beautiful,” she says softly while looking at me.

“It is.”

Her immediate acceptance makes my heart hammer loudly in my chest as if it’s demanding attention. It wants me to acknowledge how perfect she is, as if I don’t already notice.

The three of us wash up the dishes after dinner together. The music is playing again, but not as loudly. Bea dries the utensils in her tiny hands as I dry the larger dishes.

It’s a priceless moment, frozen in time, and everything feels perfect, too perfect. I remember the last time things felt this good. The first year of marriage with Em. She found out she was pregnant. We were over the moon. Everything was perfect, and nothing could bring us down.

Until a blood test came back with frightening results. A happy pregnancy turned into a terrifying one. Even after Bea was born and our world felt so much larger and more beautiful, my wife had to undergo harsh chemo treatments that never worked as hard as the cancer did.

Nothing felt perfect again.

“Papa, will you tuck me in tonight?” Bea asks as she clings to my leg, stealing me from the hurtful memories.

I glance up at Camille, who is still scrubbing the casserole dish. She freezes as she watches me, and I know that in her mind, she’s silently praying that I say the right thing.

I love that my daughter is her first priority.

“Of course I will,” I say, softly stroking my daughter’s head. “I would love to.”

Draping my towel on the counter, I glance back at Camille before taking Bea’s hand and letting her guide me toward her bedroom.

Bea skips to the dresser against the wall, pulling open the top drawer and standing on her tiptoes to retrieve her pink satin pajamas. “Let me help,” I say as I pull them out for her.

“Thanks, Papa,” she says. Kneeling on the floor, I help her into her pajamas, marveling at the cute freckles on her cheeks as I button her shirt.

She’s being extra sweet to me tonight because having me in her room and helping her like a real parent is a novelty to her.

And as much as I love that, I should be here for all the fits and tears too. I should be here for everything.

“Can we read Maman’s book tonight?” she whispers once her pajamas are on.

“Of course,” I reply without question, although I don’t know which book she’s referring to. “We can read whatever you’d like.”

She hops excitedly into her bathroom, and I watch her brush her teeth, shaking her little hips as she moves the brush back and forth in her mouth. Once she’s done, she runs back into her room and picks out the old French copy of Madeline that was once Em’s as a child.

I swallow the pins and needles building in my throat and paste a smile on my face.

“Papa’s not good at French,” I say with an apologetic look.

“Yes, you are!” she squeals innocently.

These tiny moments feel enormous. Missing out on two years of this is tragic. But as I take the book from my daughter’s hand and settle into her tiny bed beside her, I remind myself that I don’t have to miss them anymore.

Bea cuddles into my side, and I drape an arm over her pillow. My heart practically expands out of my chest as I press my lips to the top of her head.

Then I struggle through the book with my terrible French.

When I mispronounce a word, she quickly corrects me.

She giggles when I say a few words very wrong, but she never scolds me.

It’s adorably wholesome, and it reminds me so much of her mother.

She is filled with so much kindness; it’s written in her DNA.

While I read, I remember the day she was born. The way it felt the first time I saw her. Lying in her mother’s arms, she stared up at Emmaline through squinting eyes. My heart became a stranger to me that day as it leaped out of my chest and attached itself to her.

Bea was a beacon of light in a dark storm. When everything felt weighed down by doom and fear, she brought hope and love into our lives.

And maybe that’s why I kept my distance once Em died. I didn’t want to dim Bea’s light.

As the book comes to an end, I rest my chin on her head and hug her close. She makes me feel more alive, and for the first time in two years, I let myself revel in just how much I love her.

I am her father, and it’s about time I start acting like it again. Before her life passes by and her childhood memories are full of a sadder version of me.

Bea is already asleep, snoring quietly, nestled into my side. I lie with her for a while before I notice Camille step into the doorframe. She watches us with affection as I quietly slide out from under Bea. I curl the blanket around her so she’s cozy and warm, and then I tiptoe out of her room.

Meeting Camille in the hallway, I forget what roles we are supposed to be playing. Is she my nanny? My sub? My girlfriend? Do these even matter?

Taking her face in my hands, I pull her lips to mine and kiss her softly. She leans into me, holding my arms for support.

“It could be like this,” I mumble softly before I kiss her again. “This could work.”

She hesitates.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

“Nothing,” she lies. “I just…I want this just as much as you do, but I’m scared.”

“What is there to be scared of?” My head tilts as I move my hands to hers. Tugging her with me up the stairs, I don’t take her to the bondage room tonight. I want her in my bed instead.

She doesn’t protest as I slip her shirt over her head and kiss a line down her jaw and the side of her neck.

I know what she’s referring to, but I’m ignoring the warning signs. We’re moving too fast. I’m still processing so much grief. My daughter and Camille’s job are on the line.

Instead of facing those, I pull her into my bed and lie on the pillow with her straddling my hips. I stare into her eyes as she rides my cock, and I let this pleasure we both feel when we’re together drown out the rest of the noise.

What I said earlier still rings with truth—this could work.

For now, I’ll cling to that possibility. Everything else will be waiting for us tomorrow.