Page 51 of The Good Girl Effect (Salacious Legacy #1)

Camille

I haven’t been sleeping well lately. I hear every sound, every creak in the floorboards and door closing somewhere in this large apartment.

More than once, I’ve gotten up in the middle of the night and opened my door in hopes of finding him standing in the hallway. But every time, the hallway is empty, and he’s still so far away.

Today is Christmas Eve. I’ve never dreaded a holiday more in my life. I’ve booked myself a ticket to go home to Giverny for two days. Bea should spend the holiday with her family, and I know that if I’m around, it will make it all hurt that much more.

Marguerite has offered to let me stay with her.

She’s going to her granddaughter’s house for Christmas, and she invited me to join, but I don’t think I will.

I intend to use the day to make a new plan for my life.

I can’t be a nanny forever. I have to move on eventually.

But I’d like to stay in Paris, which won’t be cheap or easy, so it better be a very good plan.

Before the sun rises, I climb out of bed. Walking out to the living room, I start a fire in the fireplace and brew myself a cup of coffee. Sitting on the couch, I listen to the crackle of the flames. The Christmas tree in the corner illuminates the room in a warm, white glow.

It’s relaxing and quiet until I hear a creak on the stairs. Tensing, I wait.

Jack and I haven’t been in a room alone together since the fight in October. He made it quite clear that things between us were over when he retreated to his room, cutting off all communication between us.

I should be glad he at least let me keep my job.

But in the moments we have seen each other, speaking only about Bea while in her company, I’ve noticed a change in him. There’s something raw and sincere in his eyes now. I want to believe he’s healing, but I don’t make it a habit to hope for things anymore.

He walks into the living room, and I watch in my periphery as he sits on the other end of the couch. In a pair of black joggers and a plain white T-shirt, he looks so familiar to me it hurts.

Two months ago, I would have crawled into his lap. I would have pressed my face against the soft cotton of his shirt and felt his arms wrap protectively around me. He would have stroked my hair and kissed the top of my head.

Now, we sit in silence.

And when I can’t stand another second of it, I speak. “I’ll be on the ten o’clock train, and I’ll be back in two days. I’ve prepared a soup. It’s in the icebox. You’ll have to warm it up?—”

“Camille,” he says, staring at me, but I won’t turn toward him.

“I wrapped a few gifts for her. They’re under the tree. And a couple for Elizabeth and Phoenix too.”

“Don’t go,” he pleads, and it cuts deep in my heart.

I can’t utter another word without the threat of tears, but I do eventually turn my head and look into his eyes, which is a mistake.

I forgot how comfortable his gaze is, how peaceful and warm it feels to stare into the abyss of those haunting green orbs. It makes my loneliness ache that much harder.

“Beatrice should spend the holiday with her family,” I say with moisture in my eyes.

“You are her family,” he replies, and I have to look away. It hurts too much.

“No, I’m not,” I argue. “I’m her nanny.” Standing from the couch, I try to walk to the kitchen, but Jack takes my hand to stop me.

“Camille, please.”

Turning toward him, my anger boils. “Please what, Jack? We tried and it failed, just like we were afraid it would. Luckily, Bea wasn’t hurt, and we can make this work. I’ll keep my job for now, but I think we need to just accept that we can never go back down that road again.”

I tear my hand from his grip and walk toward the kitchen. I hear him stand from the couch and follow me.

“Please don’t say that,” he begs.

“You called me a fraud,” I argue, turning toward him.

“I was wrong,” he says, taking another step toward me.

My back hits the kitchen counter, and a panic rises inside me. If he gets too close, I won’t be able to resist. I’ll fall right back into his arms and forgive everything without either of us learning or accepting a thing.

“It’s too late, Jack,” I say, hearing my voice crack.

As he takes the last step in my direction, standing so close his body is flush with mine, I let out a quiet sob.

“It’s not too late,” he begs.

But before he can utter another word, I press my hand over his mouth to stop him. “Please,” I whisper. “Don’t.” The last thing I want in this moment is hope. Hope can be cruel. It can make you believe things that will never come true, torturously making you feel that loss all over again.

His eyes bore down on me, desperation and pain in them. I feel it too. But I see the moment he surrenders.

Taking a step back, he moves from my reach, and my hand falls back to my side. I wipe the tears falling across my cheeks as he stares sadly at me.

Finally, on an exhale, he turns and walks over to the Christmas tree. I watch in confusion as he leans down and picks up something from the pile.

With remorse on his face, he returns and hands it to me. “This is for you. Open it when you’re alone.”

Curiosity weighs heavily on me as I stare down at the rectangular box wrapped in red-and-white paper. He got me a gift?

This is all so strange and foreign. I have no idea how to behave, and I certainly didn’t get him a gift.

“Thank you,” I murmur.

With that, he turns away and walks up the stairs. I hug the box to my chest and squeeze my eyes closed to keep from sobbing right here in the kitchen.

Bea sobbed when I left this morning. I didn’t know anything could be as hard as walking away from her as she cried.

It’s the first time we’ve been apart in nearly six months.

And the moment I’m in the car on the way to the train station, it’s like my heart is being pulled back to the apartment in Montmartre.

Jack stood by her side looking despondent as I carried my small weekender to the door. I could see so many things on his lips that he wanted to say but didn’t.

During the entire ride, I’m filled with anxiety and indecision. Am I doing the right thing?

In my heart, I don’t want to leave, not even for two days. But I can’t keep doing this forever. I can’t stay in that apartment and waste my life away on the memories of a short love affair that didn’t work. I can’t keep playing the part of Bea’s mother forever.

So this is more than just a holiday away from them. It’s a chance for me to rethink my life and where it’s headed. It’s time I do as my father said I should and spread my wings and fly.

Of course, the only place my wings want to take me is back home to them.

The driver drops me off at Gare Saint-Lazare, and I climb out with my bag slung across my shoulder.

“Joyeux Noel,” I say to him before he closes my door. He returns the greeting with a polite smile.

Then I’m on my own. My train doesn’t leave for another forty-five minutes, so I find a café at the station that is still open. I buy myself a latte and a pastry and sit at a small table with my bags at my side.

The gift from Jack is calling my name. I should have left it in my room at the apartment, but I couldn’t resist. It’s the only gift I’ve received this year, and I’m too curious about what is inside to ignore it.

Pushing my food and drink aside, I pull the box out and set it on the table.

Just open it , I tell myself.

What am I so afraid of? That whatever is inside will be too heartfelt and thoughtful to ignore? That once I see what he’s bought for me, I’ll be reminded of how in love with him I am and have no choice but to go home?

Or perhaps the opposite. Maybe the gift is too plain and means nothing. Maybe it’s a candle or a pair of slippers and it only proves that I don’t mean as much to Jack as I thought I did.

Somehow, I just know that’s not the case. Curiosity is what got me into this mess. It’s only appropriate that I let it take me the rest of the way.

Twisting my lips, I begin unwrapping. Immediately, I recognize the pink-painted wood and the floral design on the edges.

Confused, I stare down at my jewelry box.

Why would Jack give me my own jewelry box?

Then I remember the day I bought one for Bea at the theme park. I had told Jack how my father would put gifts in it every year on my birthday. Did he really remember that?

And if so, what is inside?

Biting my bottom lip, I slowly open the lid.

When I spot the familiar beige paper of his stationery, I slam the box closed again.

It’s a letter.

Am I ready for this?

Maybe what is in this letter is what he tried telling me early this morning. He sounded as if he wanted to give us another shot, but I was too afraid. What if nothing has changed? I can’t go through this again.

An elderly couple nearby glances my way as I stare down at the ominous jewelry box like I’m afraid it might detonate if I touch it. I smile up at them before picking up my latte and busying my hands while I deliberate what I’ll do next.

I go through every single scenario of what could be in that letter. I’m fairly certain Jack didn’t fire me via handwritten letter on Christmas, so that means that whatever is in there is meant to make me feel better. What am I waiting for?

My heart beats wildly in my chest, begging me to open it.

So, with shaking hands, I do.

The letter is in an envelope, much like the one he wrote Emmaline. But instead of her name, it’s mine addressed across the front. Peeling back the paper, I pull out the letter.

While the train station speaker announces trains departing and arriving and Christmas music plays lightly overhead, I block it all out and read Jack’s handwriting.

Dear Camille,

I can imagine it all very vividly in my mind now. I can see you finding that letter in the random book in your tiny used bookstore. I can see you scribbling animals on the inside cover. And I can imagine how strongly you connected to that photo and what I wrote to my soon-to-be wife inside.

I can see it all so well because I know you so well now. You don’t do anything with half of your heart. You’re used to giving more love than you receive. And when you look at someone, you truly see them.

These are all things that made me love you.

I know you brought that letter to my house that day to return it, but I’d like to believe you were brought here by something stronger. Maybe it was fate or divine intervention.

Or maybe you took one look at the photo and saw a man who needed you. And I did.

To be honest, I still do.

I need your stubborn will and fiery temper. I need your strength and your wisdom. I need the laughter and joy you bring to my life. Bea and I both do.

It was always more than bondage and ropes, and we both know it. What you gave me upstairs in that room is far more than I ever expected. You gave me your trust. Your heart. And confidence. You pushed me to be better not only for my daughter but for myself too.

But I know I can’t ask you to fulfill my needs without fulfilling yours.

And I think what you need right now is to know that I love you for you.

You are not too much. You’re not too loud or too curious.

You are not filling a hole in my heart or replacing a person I’ve lost. That hole will always exist, much like the hole left in your heart the day your father passed.

I’ve been to enough counseling in the past two months to understand that.

But our hearts and lives will grow around those holes, and I hope more than anything that we can do that together.

I love you so much it hurts, little bird. But I don’t want to hold you down anymore.

When you do fly off, I hope you will take us with you. And if you can’t, I understand.

At least I hope you can take our memories and this apology.

I’m sorry.

Joyeux Noel.

Yours,

Jack