Page 6 of The Good Girl Effect (Salacious Legacy #1)

Camille

O n my next trip to Paris, I have a lot more with me than just one handbag.

Okay, it’s not much more, only a rolling valise filled with clothes and a backpack with my electronics.

It’s a little depressing to see everything I own fits into one small suitcase, but I’m on a mission to change that.

I’m moving to Paris to build a life, a real one.

Once I save up some money working for the St. Claire family, I’ll have the means to get my own place in Paris.

Eventually, I could find another job here.

Maybe I’ll meet someone, and we could travel the world together.

Who knows what my new future holds? The possibilities alone are more exciting than anything I’ve done in the past two years.

My feet are leaving the floor, Papa. And there’s no one to hold me down.

I’ve been in contact with Phoenix since Jack showed up in my bookstore out of the blue last week.

She’s helped to set everything up so that when I get off the train at Gare Saint-Lazare, there is a driver outside waiting for me.

I have never in my life seen a man in a black suit waiting for me with my last name printed on a white card, but there he is.

I stifle a grin as I wave at him awkwardly.

He helps me load my things into the trunk of the car and ushers me into the back seat before we take off toward the apartment in Montmartre.

It still feels like a dream.

Phoenix is standing out front with Bea when we pull up to the building.

The little girl, clothed in a slightly more casual blue dress today, hops up and down excitedly as the driver opens my door.

As soon as my feet hit the cobblestone street, Bea comes running toward me as if we’re old friends reunited.

It tugs at my heart to see how quickly she’s latched on to me.

“Camille!” she squeals as she throws her arms around my legs.

“Bonjour, Bea,” I say as I lean down and give her a proper hug. Her hair is still as immaculate as it was last time, and it makes me wonder if she ever lets it get messy. Is this little girl always so prim and proper? Does she ever get the chance to be a kid?

“I told Papa to hire you,” she says with a giggle.

“I’m glad you did,” I reply.

After greeting Bea, I stand and shake Phoenix’s hand again. She seems so serious with strict posture and very practical clothing.

“How was your trip?” she asks.

“Très bien, merci,” I reply, wincing at the reminder that Jack said strictly no French in the house. Technically, we’re still outside, so hopefully she’ll let that slide on a technicality.

Phoenix doesn’t react. “The driver can bring your bags inside, and I can give you a tour.”

Bea links her little hand in mine as we follow Phoenix into the building and up the stairs toward the apartment. Once we enter, I find myself immediately looking toward the stairs for a sign of Jack. The apartment is quiet, so I assume he’s not here.

“This will be your room back here,” Phoenix says, and I follow her through the apartment. It takes me by surprise again, just how large the home is with two levels, two sitting areas, two dining rooms, one grand kitchen, and a hallway full of doors.

As she presses open one of the doors, I peer inside to find a pristine and practical bedroom. One bed, one dresser, one nightstand, and an en suite bathroom.

“This is lovely,” I say as I take a look around. I imagine myself living here. It’s not much, but it’s a start.

“I’ve printed out everything we agreed upon already here,” she says as she hands me a packet. “Including your hours, house rules, payment, and numbers in case of emergency.”

As I take the packet, I quickly scan through it, but none of it is new. We’ve already discussed all this.

“Beatrice attends primary school from eight thirty until four. You will need to drop her off and pick her up. Monsieur St. Claire works mostly in his office upstairs during the day. The apartment must stay relatively quiet while he’s working. There’s a children’s park down the street.”

Bea hops excitedly at the sound of that. Surely, she has some play clothes, because I can’t imagine her at the park in these pretty dresses.

Phoenix continues to elaborate on all the rules and expectations, and I want to stop her and assure her that I have everything under control. But she seems so determined, I let her finish.

“Do you have any questions?” she asks.

“No,” I reply with my hands gripped together behind my back.

She hesitates briefly while staring into my eyes, and I can tell she wants to say something. “Bea, go play in your room,” she says to the little girl.

Reluctantly, Bea listens, sprinting down the hall to her own room, leaving Phoenix and me alone.

After breathing a pensive sigh, she says, “Monsieur St. Claire is a private man. It’s best you don’t go upstairs or bother him unless it’s important. Don’t ask about his work or where he goes at night.”

Well, that sounds very ominous and not at all comforting.

My brows furrow as my heart suddenly starts hammering in my chest. “Okay…” I should probably pry for information, but what if I do and she decides I’m too nosy and Jack changes his mind about hiring me?

It was my stubborn curiosity that got me this job—I’m not about to let it ruin it at the same time.

“He hasn’t dealt with the death of his wife well, so he might come across as a little cold and mean. It would be wise of you to give him his space.”

Consider my curiosity piqued. Leave it be, Camille.

“I understand,” I murmur.

“You have my number. If you need anything, call me. I live just two blocks down.”

“Everything is under control,” I say with a nod.

When she lets out another sigh, her shoulders relax.

Before she walks away, I ask, “Has Bea ever had a nanny before?”

She shakes her head. “No. Jack never wanted another woman in the house.”

“So who normally watches her?”

Her mouth sets in a thin line. “Me. Other friends. Her aunt.”

“What about her father?” I ask, sensing that she’s hiding something.

After a contemplative look, she replies, “Like I said, he didn’t handle Em’s death well.”

Before I can ask her to elaborate, Phoenix walks out of the room and down the hall toward the front door. I’m left to wonder what exactly that means.

Once Phoenix is gone, I find Bea sitting on the floor of her room. There is still no sign of her father. I’m not sure if that means he’s asleep or at work…wherever that is.

Suddenly, it hits me that it’s just me and her. I’m really doing this. I’m really her nanny. Until this evening, I am responsible for this little girl that I don’t even know. For now, I can put my curiosity about Jack St. Claire aside and focus on her.

Bea’s room is tidy and simple. Other than the fairy mural painted on the wall, it’s a very traditional girl’s room. There’s a large dollhouse against the wall with a small bucket of toys next to it. Bea is lying on the floor with two of her dolls, playing quietly.

“What are you playing?” I ask, leaning against the doorframe with my arms crossed. The urge to use French is strong, but I refrain. Although I know English, French is what I’m accustomed to using at home. This might be difficult to get used to.

“With my dolls,” Bea replies playfully.

My stomach growls as if on cue. I read somewhere in my very lazy research on taking care of children that they thrive on structure.

And while Bea’s home seems to be very strict and controlled, I have a feeling her life is anything but structured.

If what Phoenix said was true, then Bea has been cared for by family and friends sporadically to cover the gaps that her mother’s death left behind.

Step one—create a routine.

Glancing down at my watch, I see it’s just past noon. “Are you hungry?”

She glances up from the floor. With a cute little smirk on her face, she nods.

I hold out my hand for her, and she jumps up from the floor and takes it. We walk together into the kitchen, and I find an apron hanging on a hook behind the door. After slipping it over my head, I open the fridge and scavenge for something to prepare for lunch.

The kitchen is poorly stocked, which is something I assume will be my responsibility starting today. Step two—make a grocery list tonight and go shopping tomorrow.

“There isn’t very much in here,” I say with a wrinkle between my brows.

“Papa normally orders in.”

“Orders in?” I reply with a gasp. Slamming the fridge shut, I turn toward Bea. “Well, lucky for you, my father owned a restaurant, so I know how to cook.”

It takes me a while to scour the kitchen, but eventually, I find enough to prepare a simple stir-fry lunch with eggs and vegetables. As I’m working, Bea watches from the stool.

Everything just feels right. I have a new job in Paris. An adorable little girl to look after. Excellent pay.

“Are you a…” She stumbles over her words. “What’s the person called who cooks for other people?”

I turn to find her mouth twisted up in a quizzical expression. With a smile, I reply, “A chef?”

“A chef,” she repeats. “Are you a chef?”

“No,” I say, shaking my head. “I was a waiter sometimes, but not a chef.”

“You don’t want to work there anymore?” she asks innocently.

A pang of regret stings as I turn my attention back to the stove. “After my father died, the restaurant closed.”

“Oh,” she mumbles sadly. “Did he go to sleep like my maman?”

Shit . The kitchen falls into a heavy silence, and the change in mood is my fault.

I didn’t really want to cover death on day one of my new job.

It’s slightly concerning that she thinks her mother went to sleep, but maybe that’s how they explained it to her innocent mind. Who am I to complicate that?

“Um…yes. I think we need some music,” I say to change the subject. Going into my backpack, I pull out my portable speaker and place it on the counter. After connecting it to my phone, I pick an upbeat playlist, and “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun” blasts through the kitchen.