Page 14 of The Good Girl Effect

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 forby 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?