Page 89 of The Good Girl Effect

“This is more than just stress,” I reply. “How do you live like this?”

He hangs his head as I continue to massage, running my fingers along his spine and up to his neck. Slowly, he starts to relax. I see his shoulders melt downward, and his body begins to sag.

“It’s my fault,” he mumbles sadly.

“What is your fault?” I ask.

“I let the club go to shit. I should have known better. I didn’t work hard enough because I think, deep down, I wanted it to fail. Not to mention I work so hard I can’t even be a father to Bea?—”

“Stop,” I plead with him. Releasing his shoulders, I move to his front to face him. Taking his sad face in my hands, I force him to look at me. “This is too much pressure for one person. So your first year of running a club didn’t go perfectly. It was yourfirstyear, Jack. And to be thrust into all this alone after losing your wife…”

I realize it’s the first time Jack and I have ever truly spoken about his wife. Hell, it’s the first time we’ve truly spoken about anything at all. And when he doesn’t stop me, I continue.

“Don’t try to do everything alone,” I say. “And Bea is doing fine, but she does miss you.”

His brows sink when he hears this. “I shouldn’t have been so harsh about the ballet lessons.”

“She’s your daughter, Jack,” I say, tilting my head and staring into his eyes. “You don’t have to justify anything to me.”

Gathering me up in his arms, he kisses my forehead. As he holds me against his chest, I wrap my arms around his waist. For something that’s supposed to be just sex, this feels so right.

“You know…her birthday is next week.”

Immediately, I pull away. “Whose?”

“Beatrice’s.”

My jaw drops. “We should do something for her.”

“I was thinking the same thing. But I don’t know what…”

“Has she ever been to the Disneyland in Paris?” I ask excitedly.

He responds with pinched brows and the broody expression I know so well. “No. You think she’d want to?”

I stare up at him. “What little girl wouldn’t want to go to Disneyland?”

I can see him trying to formulate an argument, but the words never come out. Instead, he sighs. “Fine. I think…she would love that. But you have to come too,” he adds.

Biting my bottom lip, I try not to feel too enamored. He’s only asking me to come because I can help take care of Bea. It’s not at all because he wants me there for more personal reasons. Or at least that’s what I tell myself.

“Okay, Monsieur St. Claire. I’ll come too.”

Using my thumb, I drag the pad across his wrinkled brows until he eventually relaxes them. Relenting with a smile, he leans down and kisses me again.

While Bea plays with her dolls in the living room and I wait for the chicken dish to bake in the oven, I draw mindlessly on a letter I’m working on for Jack. It’s a frog with mouse ears in the bottom corner of the paper.

The front door opens, and I look up as Jack enters the apartment. We haven’t seen each other since last night. He spent some time at work today while Bea was at school.

Our eyes meet immediately.

“Bonsoir, Papa!” Bea calls from the floor.

He pauses as he looks down at her, and I watch him intently, remembering our conversation in the shower late last night. Goose bumps cover my skin as he walks toward her and leans down to place a kiss on her head.

“Bonsoir, Bea,” he whispers softly.

Emotion stings my throat as I force myself to look away. It might not seem like much to anyone else, but that small gesture was monumental for both of them. I busy myself with checking on dinner when I hear him walk into the kitchen.