Page 7 of The Good Girl Effect (Salacious Legacy #1)

Bea begins smiling and dancing in her seat as I continue cooking. Crisis averted.

“So what do you like to do?” I ask, turning toward her.

She shrugs.

“You like arts?”

“Sometimes we do art at school,” she replies.

“What about sports? Or music?”

“At school,” she repeats.

“Hm,” I mumble to myself.

“Tante Elizabeth is a ballerina,” she says, and I turn to her with interest.

“That’s nice,” I reply. “Does your papa ever take you to her shows?”

Bea slumps in her seat. “No. Papa doesn’t take me anywhere.”

“Nowhere?” I ask.

She shakes her head. I can see sadness creeping in on her face, so I decide to change the subject—again.

“Well, I love arts and crafts and sports and music. So we’ll have lots of fun.”

This makes her grin excitedly. The song changes, and the next one is an upbeat pop song that suddenly has us both dancing and singing along.

The next thing I know, Bea is hopping around on the floor, shaking her hips, and trying to sing along with the words.

She twirls so fast in her pretty blue dress that her hair bow flies across the room.

It makes me laugh, so I crank up the volume and take her hands, spinning her around the kitchen as we giggle with excitement.

I lose track of time as we dance. I lose track of everything .

Warmth blossoms in my chest at the sight of her grinning from ear to ear.

When was the last time she smiled like this?

Hell, when was the last time I smiled like this?

If this is what being a nanny is like, then I am certain I will love every second of it.

All I must do is create a routine and keep her happy. That’s it. How hard could it be?

Lost in the moment, I’m singing along to the lyrics, incredibly off-key, when I spin around and let out a scream.

Slamming my hand over my mouth, I stare at Jack in the doorway, watching us both with a displeased grimace on his face.

“Turn it down,” he barks angrily.

But then, out of the corner of my eye, I catch sight of smoke billowing from the pan on the stove.

“Le riz!” I shriek as I run over and turn off the flame. I try to stir the contents, but it’s futile. They’re charred and stuck in a smelly black mass at the bottom of the pan.

“Papa said to turn it down!” Bea shouts at me.

Clapping a hand on my forehead, I dash over to the speaker, but Jack marches over and beats me to it. We reach for the device at the same time, our hands colliding as his clicks the button first.

Then the room is bathed in tense silence with the stench of burnt rice in the air.

Jack is wearing a tense scowl, the cleft in his chin more prominent as he frowns at me. This job is about to be over before it even started. Frazzled and caught off guard, I start rambling apologies in French.

“Je suis désolée. J’ai commencé à faire à manger, nous nous amusions beaucoup, et je n’ai pas fait attention. Je suis une très bonne cuisinière en principe, et…”

“English,” he bellows in frustration. “Miss Aubert, I thought I made it clear that we only speak English at home.”

My mouth hangs open as I stare at him in surprise. Does he not speak French?

“I’m sorry,” I stammer in English.

He settles his enraged eyes on me. “It’s only your first day, and you’re trying to burn our apartment down. I’m starting to worry that you can’t be trusted.”

I square my shoulders, my brows knitting together. “We were dancing, and I got distracted.”

I stare defiantly up at Jack. He’s tall, but he doesn’t intimidate me. I tip my chin up to try and make myself taller, but it’s no use. For what feels like an eternity, we do nothing but glare at each other.

“This isn’t a game, Miss Aubert.”

I catch a hint of grief in his dour expression, and I realize as I stare at him that he’s not just a cruel, angry man. There is pain there. I want to dislike him for the frigid, bleak exterior he presents to the world, but I’m too intrigued.

This is not the man in the photo. This is not Emmaline’s husband.

“I know it’s not a game,” I say, challenging him.

I’m being obstinate. I know that, but I can’t stand the thought of yielding to his irrational mood. It’s bad enough that he won’t even let Bea speak her mother’s language in their home.

“Please don’t make me regret hiring you,” he commands softly.

As his gaze moves away from my face, it travels down to his daughter as she stands hesitantly near the counter. I watch the way he regards her, remorse etched into his features.

With a sigh, he turns his back on us and leaves the kitchen. His footsteps echo through the apartment as he climbs the stairs to the second floor.

After a moment, I reach for the speaker and turn it back on, clicking the volume button until it’s low. The music begins to play again, and I turn toward Bea with a forced smile plastered on my face.

“Still hungry?”

She nods.

“You like burnt rice?”

She giggles.

Smiling down at her, I walk over to the sink, scrub out the blackened saucepan, and prepare it for another batch. The entire time I work, I can’t stop thinking about Jack and the way he stared at me. Like we could speak a language with our eyes alone.

I wish I could tell him what an ill-tempered, miserable grump he is. He’d probably tell me what a foolish, immature brat I am.

So I guess in that case, we really shouldn’t talk to each other at all.