Page 90 of The Good Girl Effect

“Smells good,” he says.

“Thanks,” I reply, glancing up at him briefly. “It’s just a roast chicken with potatoes and carrots.”

When I finally turn around and truly meet his gaze, it feels loaded and strange. After last night, when we were both so comfortable touching and kissing each other, refraining from doing that now is difficult. And it wasn’t just the sex. It was the intimate conversation after. If anything, that was far more significant. Those are the moments that make it hard to maintain this working relationship.

“Will you be joining us for dinner?” I ask hesitantly. I don’t want him to feel pressured to, but also…I’d love it more than anything.

“I left work early for a reason,” he says, loosening his tie. “I told them I want to be home for dinner every night.”

This takes me by surprise. I turn my head toward him and meet his eyes again. A small smile grows on my face, but I try not to overdo it. “I think that’s wonderful.”

Captured in a fragile moment, the two of us stand here, delicately dancing around the awkwardness of our now confusing relationship. Then he backs out of the kitchen and walks to the stairs. “I’m going to go get cleaned up.”

“It’ll be ready in fifteen minutes,” I reply.

When the timer goes off, I pull the dish out of the oven and finish preparing the sides. I call for Bea to set the table, and as I so often do when it’s just her and me, I do it in French.

“D’accord,” she replies, getting up from the floor and rushing into the kitchen.

“Lave-toi les mains,” I add, peeking at her from over my shoulder as I carve the chicken.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Jack standing near the dining room table, and I pause, waiting for him to tell us to speak in English around him—as heso often does.

But this time, he stays quiet, only watching Bea as she stretches onto her tiptoes to reach the sink and cover her tiny fingers in soapy bubbles.

My eyes cast over to him again, and this time, he glances up at me. I wonder if he notices how much he’s changing. I should be so happy about it, but for some reason, it gnaws at me. He’s not the broody, miserable man I knew, and I should be excited about that. So why am I so nervous at the idea that everything is changing?

The next thing I know, something sharp slices across the edge of my palm, and I wince in pain, dropping the knife on the counter as I grab my hand.

“What happened?” Bea shrieks.

I squeeze the side of my hand as I rush toward the sink to run it under the cold water. As the pain starts to throb and pulse, I keep my eyes squeezed closed so Bea can’t see my reaction and panic.

“Let me see.”

I open my eyes and find Jack standing next to me. He pulls my hands from under the faucet and pries my grip off the cut area. Afraid to look at it, I keep my gaze trained on the ceiling as he inspects the wound.

“It doesn’t look too deep. I don’t think you need stitches. Bea, go into the closet and get the first aid kit.”

“Okay, Papa,” she replies, dashing off down the hallway.

“Does it hurt?” he whispers with his lips close to my ear. Now that we’re alone, I look up at him and nod.

Then he leans down and presses his lips to my hand, apparently not afraid of my blood. My chest warms with longing moments before Bea dashes back into the room with the red plastic kit.

“Dinner is going to get cold,” I complain as he works to meticulously dry and bandage my hand.

“It will still be delicious,” he replies placidly.

“Are you okay, Camille?” Bea asks as she huddles in close to my side, watching her father work.

“I’m fine,” I reply, smiling down at her. “I should be more careful.”

“There,” Jack says, sealing the bandage around my hand. “Now you go sit down at the table and let me and Bea bring you dinner.”

I give him a defeated sigh. “I can do it.”

“Sit,” he commands, giving me that dominant tone that causes my thighs to clench and my toes to curl.