Broken French: A widowed, billionaire, single dad romance, Natasha Boyd [e reader books .TXT] 📗

premises without written consent from employer. (Best idea is to email employer and cc me, and then we have it in writing. Actually, best of all idea is just to avoid visitors for the length of the contract.)

3)No smoking, drinking alcohol, or drug taking.

4)No fraternizing in any romantic capacity with any of the employer’s family, friends, or acquaintances. You should mostly be invisible.

5)No using cell phone except during personal time or expressly to be in touch with employer if out with child(ren). He’ll probably give you a local phone.

You are allowed two days off per week. Actually, a work week in France is maximum forty hours, but you can make the arrangement with your employer.

In your case, since it’s mostly going to be on a yacht (sorry! I just found out. I feel awful. You’ll be okay, right?), I imagine you’ll have to work it out with Monsieur Pascale. I’ll check in with you at the end of the first week, third week, and then your final (sixth week) to see if they want to extend to eight. If anything comes up in the meantime, please don’t hesitate to call.

Best of luck for the best job in the world—being a guardian angel to a small soul!

Tabs xo

I blew out the long breath I’d been holding as I read most of the email. I loved the invisible part. Invisible was exactly what I needed. But was it possible to be invisible when you were going to be sharing a tiny space, like a boat? And what about if we all ventured off the boat? I had a horrible feeling that came with a shit ton of very close scrutiny. Remembering how traumatizing it had been when my family had been in the news, I gave a shudder.

Mer: Ok. Your lack of response tells me you are freaking out. Trust me, Josie. It’s going to be fine. Just keep your head down, and watch the kid, and six weeks will be over before you know it.

I breathed out. My best friend knew me well.

And then what? I typed.

Mer: Then we’ll figure out your next step. Together. Love you

Love you too.

I closed the apps on my phone to save battery life and gathered my things as we pulled into the train station.

What had I been thinking? There should be a rule to never make life altering decisions after a traumatic day followed by three gin cocktails.

This job had disaster written all over it.

Chapter Six

I stepped off the train and walked through one of the ornate green double doors into the Nice Ville train station. The building was old and gorgeous, the main vestibule only about the size of a basketball court, but with ornate details on the walls and a roof dome of paneled glass that spoke of a bygone era. I stopped, and stared upwards, not realizing I’d come to a complete standstill with my mouth open until someone bumped into me with a muttered grunt.

“S-sorry.” Nervousness pinched my belly, and I made my feet move. I wasn’t sure if I was expecting someone holding a sign, but as I looked left and right, trying to stay out of the way of the stream of passengers coming after me, I saw no one who looked like they were here for me.

Someone jostled into me again. “Excusez-moi.”

“Sorry,” I muttered and headed toward a small stand that sold newspapers, candy, and cigarettes so I could get out of the way. I should at least buy a bottle of water while I waited and figured out my next move in case no one showed up. I pursed my lips together and dug in my purse for my sunglasses and slipped them on my face. I pointed to a bottle of water and handed over some of my Euros I’d managed to get out of an ATM at the Paris airport.

The sound of small feet running caught my attention. A small girl, dressed in a pink dress and Mary Jane shoes, and tangled honey-colored hair floating wild about her face flew around the corner of the newsstand and stopped dead when she saw me.

I squatted and pushed my sunglasses up to my hair, frowning. “Are you okay?”

“Dauphine!” A man’s voice boomed across the station, the sound panicked.

“Dauphine!” The man rushed past, then whirled as he saw us. He dropped to a crouch, yanking the small girl into his arms. He held her tight, his head falling into her shoulder like he was inhaling her desperately.

Oh my God. It was him. Xavier whatever. Monsieur Pascale. I could tell from the brief flash of his face before I was confronted with that incredible thick dark hair. And of course, the name of his daughter suddenly clicked into place. Expensive denim stretched tight over his strong thighs, and his white linen shirt and navy blazer, that screamed custom-made, dressed a torso that didn’t seem to have an ounce of expendable fat.

I stood slowly and stepped backward to give them some space.

My hands itched to drop my sunglasses back over my eyes as protection, but I resisted.

After Monsieur Pascale had given his daughter enough of a hug, he set her at arm’s length and gave her a shake, his face thunderous, and his mouth sputtering all sorts of things I didn’t understand. I figured he’d thought he lost his daughter and now his fear was catching up. Christ, the man was attractive. Far more attractive than the French tabloid link Mer had sent me had managed to capture. His presence alone was like a vortex.

I made myself step back farther as the little girl pointed at me.

But then the world slowed down. In the time it took for his eyes to trek slowly upward, from my feet to my face, I lived eons. I had moments where I wondered if I should step forward and introduce myself and moments where I wished I’d evaporate back onto the train before we locked eyes. Before I could decide to introduce myself,