Page 102 of The Good Girl Effect
Without responding, I crawl up closer to him and press my lips to his. Somehow, we went from casual sex and kinky sessions to being a somewhat real couple. But for how long? And what about Bea? These are all questions that won’t leave me alone, but do they all need to be answered now?
Pulling my lips from his, I rest my head on his pillow and stare into his eyes. When we’re like this, it’s as if I exist in his mind as much as I exist in my own. But for so long, we could never truly speak to each other. So much of our relationship until now has been in letters and in sex. There are so manythings I want to express and understand about him. Layers of Jack St. Claire I’d like to peel back to get to the real man underneath.
I know his heart already, but I want to know his mind too.
He strokes my cheek as I work up the nerve to speak. If I ask too much, will he push me away? He’s done it before. When we first met, he was a frozen block of ice, but now that he’s thawing, will he let me truly see him?
“Can I ask you something?” I whisper.
His brow furrows. “Of course.”
“Why did you hire me?”
He turns to face me, sliding an arm under my head. We’re so close we’re breathing the same air. Our naked bodies are entangled, like there’s not an inch of me not touching him.
“It was what you said about loving her like your own,” he mumbles. “I don’t ever want to replace Beatrice’s mother, but I wanted my daughter to be loved like she still had one. After Em died, I couldn’t take care of Beatrice. She stayed with Phoenix for six whole months, and it was the worst six months of my life. I want my daughter, but I couldn’t be the parent she needed. I was failing as a father, so it was like Bea had no parent at all. I didn’t want her to just have a nanny paid to take care of her. I wanted to find someone to truly love her.”
“You’re not failing as a father,” I say, mostly because I hate to see him hurting.
“I was,” he replies without hesitation. “I still am, it seems.”
I press my hand to his cheek. It’s incredible how falling in love with someone means feeling their pain as if it’s your own heart breaking.
“You are allowed to fall apart, Jack. You lost the love of your life. It’s okay to fall down sometimes.”
He winces as he touches my hand. “I know, but I never wanted to get back up.”
“Even now?” I ask.
Staring into my eyes, he pulls me closer and grazes his lips against my forehead. “No. Not anymore.”
I squeeze my arms around his waist. In a couple of hours, I will have to leave and pick up Bea from school, but until then, I’m going to savor this moment. It’s daylight, and he’s holding me. He’s admitting things to me that make this relationship between us feel real.
And what could be better than this? Being in love. Feeling so close to someone and almost forgetting what lonely feels like.
Feeling bold and comfortable with Jack now, I whisper, “Will you tell me about her?”
He noticeably tenses. Maybe he finds it strange that I want to hear about his wife, someone he loved probably more than he’ll ever love me. But I do want to hear about her. It might seem bleak, but knowing someone he loved means knowinghima little more too.
“She was…the softest, kindest person I had ever met,” he says. “When I moved to Paris, I wanted a life like my parents had—love, kids, my own happily ever after. And when I met Em, I fell in love with her immediately. She was my sister’s dance instructor and the most beautiful woman I had ever met.”
Resting my cheek on his shoulder, I smile. Strangely, it warms my heart to hear him say that. To know that Jack has a warm, loving side. I’ve seen it briefly, but Em had it all the time.
“She made me learn French before we got married,” he says with a chuckle.
I sit up and gawk at him. “So you do know it.”
When he smiles, there are soft wrinkles around his mouth, and it’s so stunning my heart practically stops in my chest. “Yes, I do know it, but I’m very bad at it.”
“So why did you never let me speak?” I ask. “Even when I spoke English, you silenced me.”
His smile fades and is replaced with an expression of shame. Stroking my jaw, he says, “Because that accent of yours reminded me of her. Hearing your voice in my house brought back too many painful memories. It was like she was still here…but she wasn’t.”
My brows pinch inward. “Do you still feel like that?”
“No,” he replies, shaking his head softly. “You do not remind me of her, Camille. If that’s what you’re afraid of.”
Is it?I don’t want to be a replacement, but was I truly afraid that’s what I am to Jack?
