Page 53 of The Good Girl Effect

It feels so wrong. Em has only been gone two years. What is wrong with me?

I’ve lusted after plenty of women since my wife passed. In fact, that was my coping mechanism of choice for a long time, but this is different. I never cared about them.

Any other woman would have obeyed the basic rules I set—stay out of rooms, don’t pry about my job, don’t ask any questions. Camille broke every damn one, but I’m not nearly as angry as I should be. Instead, I’m fascinated by her. If she wasn’t so fucking cute, maybe I’d have less patience.

When I look at Camille and see the kindness in her eyes, especially her kindness towardme, which I don’t fucking deserve, I feel myself slipping. I should be ashamed of how I’ve behaved. Those damn rules were meant to keep people like her out of my life, and now I find myself actually enjoying our time together. I’m glad she broke them.

She is infuriatingly curious and stubborn. I’ve never met someone so strong-willed in my life. My daughter adores her, and it’s obvious the feeling is mutual. I can’t find a single fault with this girl, and even when she pisses me off, it’s so goddamn endearing I can’t be mad.

The way I’m starting to feel about Camille frightens me. I have to keep her at a distance, or someone is going to get hurt.

Quickly, I clear my throat and drop her foot.

“Looks good. Now go to bed and get some sleep. But not before you write me that letter, understood?”

She nods as she jumps off the counter, coming toe-to-toe with me. “Yes, sir,” she says, and my resolve crumbles.

As she stands so close, I worry that she can see everything I’m hiding. No matter how cold and closed off I am with her, I fear she can see past all that and will know my secret—that I adore her. Even when I know I shouldn’t.

“Good night,” she whispers before moving around me and going to her room. The sound of her voice drags me from the reverie.

I go into my room, closing the door. Trying to busy myself, I check emails and clean myself up in my bathroom. Every few minutes, my eyes drift to the door, waiting for the appearance of the folded-up white piece of paper, but it never comes.

Minutes drag into hours, and I start to grow irritated.

Where is she?

I know I should go to bed and forget it. Get her out of my head. Go back to living my own life.

But I can’t. I’ve grown addicted to her handwritten scribbles on lined paper. I want her thoughts and feelings.

I gave her an order, and she didn’t obey.

After trying to sleep and forget it, I give up after another hour when it’s clear there is no sign of peace until I face her.

It’s sometime around three in the morning when I march out of my bedroom and down the stairs. I creep slowly down the hall, careful not to wake my daughter. When I reach Camille’s door, I find it open just a crack.

What has gotten into me? This is the second time I’ve lurked outside her door in the middle of the night like some kind of creep. Granted, last time I was drunk, but still. This isn’t right.

And I blame her for getting into my head. For being too beautiful. Too captivating. Too perfect.

I press open the door of her room to find it dark and quiet. By the light coming in through the window, I see Camille’s blond curls strewn over the pillow. Tiptoeing closer, I hover over her and watch her as she sleeps, hugging one of the pillows to her body.

Still mostly naked, her bare leg is draped over the pillow. The way it’s nestled against her body makes my dick twitch in my pants.

Part of me wonders if I could just fuck Camille and get it out of my system. I could lose interest in her the same way I do every other woman I take to bed. But what if I don’t? What if one of us gets attached?

It takes everything in me not to crawl into her bed right now. She’d welcome it, I know it. Although if she didn’t want me, that would make all this so much easier. But I can tell by the way she moves around me, the way she submits so beautifully, the way she spread her legs for me for that photo—she wants this as much as I do.

Walk away, Jack.

Finally listening to the voice of reason in my head, I turn my back on the beautiful woman sleeping in her bed and walk toward the door. On my way out, I notice the piece of paper and pen on her desk.

She did write the letter, or at least she started it.

It’s too dark to read in here, so I snatch it off the desk and carry it with me as I slip out of her room, closing the door to the same place it was when I found it.

Then I walk down to my daughter’s room.