Page 52 of The Good Girl Effect (Salacious Legacy #1)

Jack

“ D on’t you want to decorate the cookies?” I ask, passing Bea a tray of sugar cookies. My kitchen counter is covered in sprinkles and icing.

With a despondent shrug, she takes the icing and unenthusiastically smears it across the white sugar cookie.

“When is Camille coming back?” she whines.

“In two days,” I reply.

“I miss her already.”

“She left an hour ago,” I say. Placing my hands on the counter, I slump with a defeated sigh.

This is all my fault. If I had just apologized weeks ago, then she might have stayed, but I wasn’t ready.

I was too afraid that if I tried, she wouldn’t accept it and then really leave for good.

And I didn’t want to ruin Bea’s Christmas like that.

“You miss her too,” Bea says, noticing my glum demeanor.

“Of course I miss her too,” I reply.

“Can you call her?” she asks. “Tell her she can sleep in your bed again, and maybe she’ll come back.”

My head snaps up, and I stare at her in shock. “Beatrice,” I say in a scolding tone, without fully knowing what I’m supposed to be scolding her for.

“What?” she asks innocently. “When Camille slept in your bed, she was much happier.”

“She never slept in my bed,” I argue, which is a lie.

“Yes, she did. Sometimes, I would get up in the middle of the night, and she would be in your bed.”

I’m appalled. My jaw hangs open as I stare at my daughter, suddenly humiliated that she found her nanny in my bed. I should be ashamed of myself.

“You shouldn’t have seen that,” I mutter quietly.

She only shrugs. “I love Camille. I think you should call her and tell her she can sleep in your bed again so she comes back.”

“It’s not that easy.”

“Because Maman went to sleep?” Bea seems to get smaller as she says that. Playing with sprinkles between her fingers, she almost looks ashamed of even bringing up her mother. What a mess I am. I haven’t even spoken with my own daughter about this.

Rounding the corner, I sit in the chair next to Bea and take her hands in mine so she can look into my eyes. “Beatrice, you know your maman didn’t go to sleep, right? She got very sick and died.”

“I know,” she mumbles sweetly, scrunching her lips.

“You do?” I ask.

“Yeah. Tante Elizabeth told me. But I don’t want to hurt you, Papa.”

My chest cracks and shatters at hearing my daughter say that.

Pressing my molars together, I lean forward and pull Bea to my chest, wrapping my arms around her.

“You don’t have to worry about that, sweetheart.

You won’t hurt me if you talk about your maman.

In fact, you can talk about her as much as you want.

And if you have any questions about her, you can always ask me. I promise it won’t hurt me.”

Her tiny arms squeeze around me as we hold each other.

“I love you very much. You know that, right?”

“I love you too, Papa.”

I don’t know what I was so afraid of. I was terrified that talking to Bea about Em would cause my daughter more trauma and pain, but I was so wrong. Asking about her mother isn’t hurting her or me. Instead, she smiles against my shirt, letting out a delicate sigh.

“Is that why Camille can’t sleep in your bed anymore?” she asks after we pull away from the hug. “Because Maman died?”

“No,” I reply. “She wasn’t supposed to sleep in my bed because she’s your nanny.”

Why am I even telling my six-year-old this?

“So she can stop being my nanny,” Bea replies, moving her attention back to the icing and sprinkles. “Tante Elizabeth doesn’t have a nanny, and she has ladies who sleep in her bed all the time.”

“Beatrice!” I snap, staring at her in shock. “How do you even know that?”

“Because when I sleep over, they knock on her door, but she tells them they can’t sleep over because I’m there.”

Apparently, I’m going to have to have a serious talk with my sister. How many different women is she seeing?

Shaking away that thought, I focus on Camille instead. It’s not as simple as Bea is suggesting, obviously. She still puts her shoes on backward, so what does she know?

But I can’t stop thinking about my apology in that jewelry box. Was it enough? Should I have said those things to her face? I mean…she really didn’t let me talk, so it’s not like I had a choice. Ironically.

Am I really going to sit around here and waste away for the next two days when I could just tell her to her face how sorry I am and how much we love her? And maybe it would just be as simple as telling her that she can sleep in my bed again. And she can stop being a nanny.

I can prove that I’ve healed and grown in the last two months.

Feeling excited and a little wild, I glance down at my watch. Her train has already left.

But Giverny is only an hour away. Bea and I could be there this afternoon. I’ll tell Camille everything in person that I said in that letter, and we’ll beg her to come back, for real this time.

“Get your shoes on.” I stand from the stool and rush toward the stairs to get my wallet.

“What?” Bea shrieks. “Where are we going?”

“To the train station. We have to bring her back,” I call.

“Yay!” Bea cheers.

I hear sprinkles hit the wood floor, but I don’t care. I’ll clean it up later. Bea’s tiny feet stomp through the house as she gathers her shoes and coat. I’m calling the car as I button up her coat and pull a hat over her head.

The car pulls up five minutes later, and I quickly usher my daughter inside.

She’s beaming with excitement, and I worry if I’m doing the right thing.

Bringing Bea into this feels wrong, but she has as much fight in this game as I do.

She loves Camille just as much, and she deserves a chance to chase after her too.

When we pull up to the station, we rush out of the car. Bea takes my hand as we run together toward the ticket booth.

She’s laughing excitedly as we weave in and out of the crowd. It’s infectious, so I find myself smiling along with her.

“Jack?”

When I hear my name, Bea and I come to a complete stop. Spinning around, I stare in shock at Camille standing near a bench. Her eyes are swollen and wet, and there are blotches of red splattered across her nose and cheeks.

“Camille!” Bea shouts excitedly. Sprinting toward her, she leaps into the woman’s arms.

The look of relief and love on Camille’s face as she gathers my daughter in a tight embrace is palpable. Camille closes her eyes, love etched into her features as she presses her cheek to my daughter’s.

I take a step toward her, and I realize that if I’m going to do this, I’m going to do it right.

“Je suis désolé.” I stammer my apology. My French is so rusty and was never very good to begin with, but I can do this for her.

She takes a step toward me.

“J’aurais d?…m’excuser plus t?t.”

I should have apologized sooner.

She winces, which probably means I'm butchering this. But she lets me continue. And I don’t know what else to say but the obvious.

“Je t’aime.”

Her eyes moisten again. I haven’t fucked it up yet, so I keep going.

“Je suis en thérapie. Et…j’essaie de m’améliorer.”

Maybe the most challenging words to say in any language—I’m trying to get better.

“That’s good,” she mumbles softly. “I’m proud of you.”

“Please come home,” I plead.

Camille sets Bea down and takes her hand as she closes the space between us. Standing right in front of me, she stares into my eyes. “I missed my train.”

“You did?” I ask with hope.

She nods. “I was so busy reading this letter.” Reaching into her pocket, she pulls out the folded-up paper I put in her jewelry box.

I’ve never felt more on edge in my life. I keep staring at her face, reading her emotions, hoping everything I conveyed in that letter was enough to bring her back into my life.

Forcing myself to swallow, I ask, “And…what did you think about it?”

Tears fill her lashes again. “I love you so much it hurts too,” she says with a sob. “And I don’t want to fly off anymore. Not without you.”

Relief floods through me as I gather her up in my arms. Pressing my face to her neck, I breathe her in as her arms go around my neck. Bea hugs my leg as the three of us stand together as one.

When Camille pulls away, her face is wet. Holding me by the cheeks, she stares into my eyes before dragging my mouth toward hers for a kiss. After two months without her lips on mine, this kiss feels like heaven.

I want to rediscover every inch of her like it’s the first time.

“Papa, tell her!” Bea says, hopping up and down beside us.

“Tell her what?” I ask.

“That she’s not my nanny anymore.”

Camille’s eyes widen with alarm.

I chuckle as I kiss her again. “Yeah, you’re…sort of fired, I guess.”

“Fired?”

“So you can sleep in Papa’s bed again!”

Camille looks at me again with her brows raised and a hesitant smile.

“I’ll explain when we get home. As long as you are coming home.”

She nuzzles in closer. “I am coming home.”

Beaming, I kiss her again. “Good. Je suis très excité.”

Camille lets out a laugh as she covers her mouth.

“What?” I ask with a perplexed expression.

Leaning in, she whispers in my ear, “That means…I am very aroused.”

“Oh fuck,” I mutter, making my six-year-old giggle and cover her mouth. “I knew that.”

“What does it mean?” Bea asks, hopping up and down.

Camille takes her hand as they walk ahead together. “Nothing.”

Grinning to myself, I pick up Camille’s bag and walk on the other side of her. Sliding a hand around her waist, I lean in until my mouth is next to her ear.

“Well, to be fair,” I whisper, “I am a little of that too.”

“Me too.” She giggles as she looks up at me. “Let’s go home.”