Page 11 of The Good Girl Effect
I’m sitting at a table in the back of the store, doodling a lizard climbing the side of the Eiffel Tower on the inside of a pamphlet, when I glance up and see a familiar face passing through the front door.
Jack St. Claire strides into the small, musty shop as if he owns the place. He doesn’t see me at first as he marches straight to the front desk.
My jaw drops, and heat floods my cheeks as I tear my feet down from the table and nearly tumble over in my chair, knocking a stack of books to the floor in my clumsy attempt to be discreet.
Ducking down to pick up the books, I watch him through the aisles of the store as he speaks to Marguerite. It’s the most I’ve been able to look at his face since that moment in his house.
He has a soft five-o’clock shadow, a dimple in his chin, a heavy brow line, strong cheekbones, and a flat, emotionless expression on his face.
My eyes drift downward and latch on to the gold band gleaming around the ring finger on his left hand.His wedding band.My heart stutters at the sight of it, and a strange feeling courses through me. Is it jealousy or pity? Hard to tell.
Suddenly, I start to panic, thinking I’ve somehow been caught. He knows I took the letter from the book. He knows I manipulated my way into his home. He knows I lied about everything.
Except…I didn’t lie about anything.
I am wholly innocent, but just seeing his demeanor and hearing his voice make me feel as if I’ve done something wrong. Chills break out over the exposed flesh of my arms and neck.
He speaks loudly in English to Marguerite, and she stumbles her way through a response. I can’t make out what they’re saying, but I hear my name. My fingers grip the desk tighter as I spy from beneath the table.
What is he doing here? Did he really come all this way to check up on me?
Marguerite makes a confused face as she glances around the store. When her eyes find me in my hiding spot under the table, she points, and my cheeks burn even hotter. I let out a stifled groan as Jack’s fervent gaze locks with mine.
Thanks, Marguerite.
Swallowing my pride, I stand from the floor, quickly stacking the books I knocked over to busy my shaking hands. He’s still speaking to my boss at the front. She answers in quick, pleasant responses, nodding her head with a smile.
Then he’s making his way toward me, his footsteps heavy and pronounced. As he reaches the table where I’m awkwardly standing, he glances down at the pamphlet I was doodling on. I snatch it up and shove it into my pocket to hide my childish sketch.
He lets out a disgruntled sigh, and I nearly choke on this sense of inadequacy. It dawns on me how odd it is that he came all this way. Back to an old used bookstore in his late wife’s hometown. To the very bookstore where his letter ended up.
“I’m Jack St. Claire,” he states, and I bite my lip at the sound of his voice, deep and husky. I am practically shrinking in his presence, so I press my shoulders back and lengthen my spine to make up for the commanding loftiness of his stature.
“I know who you are,” I reply quietly.
For a while, he seems ready to say something but doesn’t. I can’t help but wonder why this man is standing in my place of employment. He looks so out of place here. After a moment of staring at me without an expression on his face, he states plainly, “My daughter likes you.”
“Me?” I murmur, touching my chest.
He nods. I’m filled with warmth at the thought. Picturing her in her pristine purple dress and shiny black shoes makes me smile.
“I like her too,” I reply before pinching my bottom lip between my fingers to hide my grin.
“She must speak only English in our home. Will that be a problem?”
My brows furrow, confusion piercing my ability to think clearly. Disoriented, I shake my head.
His next words don’t do much to clear up my confusion. “I did a thorough background check on you.”
Funny. I did one of my own on you too, I think but definitely don’t utter out loud.
Sternly, he continues. “You never went to university. Never left this town.” At this, he glances around the small, cramped bookstore, and I stiffen with a hint of defensiveness. Is he judging me? My spine straightens a little more.
“I stayed to help my father with his restaurant,” I reply, although I’m not sure why. I don’t owe this man an explanation of my life choices.
At the mention of my father, he glances back into my eyes as if he knows. Was that part of histhoroughbackground check? Again, he looks like he wants to say something but stays quiet.
There is something so intriguing about him, and I don’t buy for a second that he’s as cold and emotionless as he lets on. Behind those dark eyes is the smiling man in the photo. He’s in there somewhere. There are layers hidden beneath Jack’s facade, and I have the photo in my pocket to prove it.
