Page 5 of The Good Girl Effect (Salacious Legacy #1)

Camille

W hat just happened? I’m in a daze on the walk from Jack’s apartment to the Métro station as if I’ve just woken up from a dream. Pressing my hand over my lips, I stifle a giggle as I relive the entire thing.

Was it wrong of me to apply for that job? If it was, I don’t care. When was the last time I did something so bold? It might have just been a job interview, but it felt like breaking the rules. And I nearly forgot how fun breaking the rules could be. It’s not like I’ll get it or ever see them again.

Or will I? What if I really do get the job?

What if I really do move to Paris and work in that luxury apartment?

I might not have gone there intending to apply for a job, but I still want it—I want it bad .

Working in that home, spending my days with the cutest little girl I’ve ever seen, living in Paris, and making better money—it’s not wrong of me to want this.

Not to mention I am perfectly qualified. Okay, so I’ve never been a nanny before, but how hard could it be? I can cook and clean. I can make sure that she stays safe and entertained. Honestly, what else do I need to know from there?

With a renewed sense of invigoration in my bones, I walk.

Although I was headed toward the Métro station to take me back home, I don’t continue there, not right away.

Instead, I walk to the center of Paris, taking my time to breathe in the city.

Strolling along the Seine, I buy a dusty old book from one of the stands, and I think for a while that my dad would be proud of me.

For one entire day, I’m not stuck in the same old boring routine.

Sitting on the edge of the river, my feet dangling over the wall, I pull the letter out again. I still don’t read it, but I stare at the picture. On the other side of the river, there’s a couple cuddled together, giggling so loudly they distract me from my thoughts.

Loneliness settles in like mud seeping into my pores, caking every part of me with this solitude.

It’s not just that I’ve been stuck in my village for the past two years—it’s that I’ve been utterly alone throughout it all.

The friends I did have I pushed away. When relatives call, I don’t answer.

I’ve isolated myself, and it took me this long to realize it.

As the sun starts to set over the city, I make a promise to myself. Even if I don’t get this job, I need a change. I need to get out of Giverny. I need to meet someone. I can’t keep living my life like this, hidden in the shadows while the world passes me by through dirty bookstore windows.

With a renewed sense of purpose, I board the train for home. With my head pressed against the glass, I watch Paris disappear into the distance. “I’m coming back,” I whisper quietly to the city as if it can hear me. As if it will miss me.

Then I close my eyes as I relive every moment in that home. The adorable way Bea pulled me into her room, the smile on her face when I answered the interview questions.

The heavy gaze from the man on the stairs.

I only saw his face in passing, but the man I saw did not match the one in the photo. The man in the picture is young and exuberant. The one who glared at me, making me shrink in my seat, is a hardened, reclusive shell of a man.

Even still, he was handsome.

Not that it matters. I doubt I’ll ever see him again.

The next few days pass in a sullen, boring haze.

When it sinks in by the end of the week that I truly am not getting that job, it hits me harder than I expected it to.

I’m not sure what hope I was clinging to, but part of me genuinely thought he was going to hire an unqualified, inexperienced woman to care for his precious five-year-old daughter.

I’m sitting at a table in the back of the store, doodling a lizard climbing the side of the Eiffel Tower on the inside of a pamphlet, when I glance up and see a familiar face passing through the front door.

Jack St. Claire strides into the small, musty shop as if he owns the place. He doesn’t see me at first as he marches straight to the front desk.

My jaw drops, and heat floods my cheeks as I tear my feet down from the table and nearly tumble over in my chair, knocking a stack of books to the floor in my clumsy attempt to be discreet.

Ducking down to pick up the books, I watch him through the aisles of the store as he speaks to Marguerite. It’s the most I’ve been able to look at his face since that moment in his house.

He has a soft five-o’clock shadow, a dimple in his chin, a heavy brow line, strong cheekbones, and a flat, emotionless expression on his face.

My eyes drift downward and latch on to the gold band gleaming around the ring finger on his left hand. His wedding band. My heart stutters at the sight of it, and a strange feeling courses through me. Is it jealousy or pity? Hard to tell.

Suddenly, I start to panic, thinking I’ve somehow been caught. He knows I took the letter from the book. He knows I manipulated my way into his home. He knows I lied about everything.

Except…I didn’t lie about anything.

I am wholly innocent, but just seeing his demeanor and hearing his voice make me feel as if I’ve done something wrong. Chills break out over the exposed flesh of my arms and neck.

He speaks loudly in English to Marguerite, and she stumbles her way through a response. I can’t make out what they’re saying, but I hear my name. My fingers grip the desk tighter as I spy from beneath the table.

What is he doing here? Did he really come all this way to check up on me?

Marguerite makes a confused face as she glances around the store. When her eyes find me in my hiding spot under the table, she points, and my cheeks burn even hotter. I let out a stifled groan as Jack’s fervent gaze locks with mine.

Thanks, Marguerite.

Swallowing my pride, I stand from the floor, quickly stacking the books I knocked over to busy my shaking hands. He’s still speaking to my boss at the front. She answers in quick, pleasant responses, nodding her head with a smile.

Then he’s making his way toward me, his footsteps heavy and pronounced. As he reaches the table where I’m awkwardly standing, he glances down at the pamphlet I was doodling on. I snatch it up and shove it into my pocket to hide my childish sketch.

He lets out a disgruntled sigh, and I nearly choke on this sense of inadequacy. It dawns on me how odd it is that he came all this way. Back to an old used bookstore in his late wife’s hometown. To the very bookstore where his letter ended up.

“I’m Jack St. Claire,” he states, and I bite my lip at the sound of his voice, deep and husky. I am practically shrinking in his presence, so I press my shoulders back and lengthen my spine to make up for the commanding loftiness of his stature.

“I know who you are,” I reply quietly.

For a while, he seems ready to say something but doesn’t. I can’t help but wonder why this man is standing in my place of employment. He looks so out of place here. After a moment of staring at me without an expression on his face, he states plainly, “My daughter likes you.”

“Me?” I murmur, touching my chest.

He nods. I’m filled with warmth at the thought. Picturing her in her pristine purple dress and shiny black shoes makes me smile.

“I like her too,” I reply before pinching my bottom lip between my fingers to hide my grin.

“She must speak only English in our home. Will that be a problem?”

My brows furrow, confusion piercing my ability to think clearly. Disoriented, I shake my head.

His next words don’t do much to clear up my confusion. “I did a thorough background check on you.”

Funny. I did one of my own on you too , I think but definitely don’t utter out loud.

Sternly, he continues. “You never went to university. Never left this town.” At this, he glances around the small, cramped bookstore, and I stiffen with a hint of defensiveness. Is he judging me? My spine straightens a little more.

“I stayed to help my father with his restaurant,” I reply, although I’m not sure why. I don’t owe this man an explanation of my life choices.

At the mention of my father, he glances back into my eyes as if he knows. Was that part of his thorough background check? Again, he looks like he wants to say something but stays quiet.

There is something so intriguing about him, and I don’t buy for a second that he’s as cold and emotionless as he lets on. Behind those dark eyes is the smiling man in the photo. He’s in there somewhere. There are layers hidden beneath Jack’s facade, and I have the photo in my pocket to prove it.

Finally, he bluntly states, “You start on Monday. Phoenix will call you with more information.”

Time stops as I blink at him numbly. I start on Monday. Start what? Did he just tell me he’s hiring me as a nanny?

“Wait, what?”

The broody veil lifts momentarily as he clarifies, “You got the job, Miss Aubert.” But then it’s quickly replaced as he settles his brows together. “Don’t let me down.”

Just when I expect him to say more, he lets out another growly sigh and turns on his heels before marching out of the bookstore without a goodbye. He says something in a kind tone to Marguerite before disappearing through the doors.

I’m standing in shock at the entire encounter, and she seems frozen in the same manner. It’s like he put us both in a daze, and we can’t seem to snap out of it.

Marguerite finally makes her way over to me before placing her hand on her hip, saying, “When were you going to tell me you were applying for other jobs?”

Blinking, I shake myself out of it. “Um…I didn’t mean to. It accidentally happened.”

“Well, you accidentally got the job. Congratulations.”

“Marguerite, I’m sorry,” I say, letting my shoulders melt away from my ears. “I can turn it down.”

“Psh,” she says, waving a hand at me. “Look at this place. Does it look like I need you? You’re taking a job in Paris with that man. If you turn it down, I’ll take it.”

Suddenly, it’s like everything hits me at once. Placing my hands on my cheeks, I stare at the old woman with eyes shot wide.

I got the job.

I’m moving to Paris.

I’m living with Jack St. Claire and his daughter.

All because I found a picture in a book.

“Don’t panic,” she says with a shake of her head. “You’re young. Your father wouldn’t want you wasting away here in this old town. Go. Have an adventure.”

The mention of my father has my head snapping up. Thick emotion builds behind my eyes because I know she’s right. My father would definitely not want me to stay here when I have the opportunity to go somewhere new.

I clear my throat before responding. “I can…finish the week.”

“Finish the week?” she asks incredulously. “I don’t want you finishing out the day . You need to get home and pack. You’re moving to Paris. Go draw all your little animals there. Leave one on the Eiffel Tower for me.”

I let out a giggle before leaping around the table and wrapping my arms around the woman. She pats my back sweetly before shooing me away.

“Merci, Marguerite,” I say with excitement. Then I grab my purse from under the central desk and dash out the front door.