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

then,” Meredith said, a legitimate expression of horror on her face. “Scoot over, I’m going to get ice-cream delivered, and we’ll hold a wake for your sex life.”

I laughed, but it morphed into a fresh round of tears. “I-ice-cream s-sounds good.” I hiccupped.

“Christ, you’re a mess.” She sighed and pulled me in to lie on her shoulder while her other hand found the food delivery app on my phone.

I was a zombie for the next week or so.

Dauphine still called, but sometimes it was every two or three days now. It felt as though she was getting better. Finally able to move on from her grief and recent trauma. I knew Xavier had organized for her to see a therapist again after the incident with the kidnapping, so with that and having me to talk to, she’d sounded lighter and lighter. However, I hadn’t heard Xavier’s voice again, and my gut ached to hear it.

But then Tabitha came back and the energy in our apartment began to slowly shift back toward the happier times we’d had pre-France. It was Friday and we’d planned a girls’ night so I could fill Tabitha in sparingly about the fact I’d broken all her rules about not fraternizing with one of her families, and she could fill us in on what, or who, had kept her away from Charleston so long. The late September heat in Charleston was relentless and would continue to be for the next few months at least, and it was always jarring to see people start to decorate with fake fall foliage and real pumpkins that promptly rotted on doorsteps.

Every time I was on East Bay Street, I looked to see if the builders had broken ground on the hideously designed hotel. But today, jogging past, sweat dripping off my chin, I saw all the developer signs had been removed. I slowed and called Barbara, Donovan and Tate’s assistant at my old job.

“Barbara, it’s me, Josie. Don’t say my name,” I hastily added.

“Jo—hiii!”

“Johigh? That’s a new one.” I laughed.

“How are you?”

“Great, actually. You?”

“Mr. Donovan isn’t in today. It’s just Mr. Tate.”

“So, pretty shitty?”

“That’s exactly right,” she sang.

“What can you tell me about the East Bay Street hotel job?”

“Um … it’s a doozy. Whoo boy, I’ll have to check the schedule. But could you perhaps do something later in the day?”

I frowned, and then realized she must not be alone. I played along. “Today?” I asked.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Meet at King Street Tavern at five?”

“About a half hour later, and I can fit you into the schedule.”

“Perfect.” I grinned, though she couldn’t see me. “See you then. I’m buying you your favorite Margarita, so plan on grabbing an Uber home or have Jeff come get you?”

“That’d work wonderfully. I have you on the schedule. Okay, bye now,” Barbara sang and clicked off.

I chuckled as I put my phone away. It was true, every day was better than the last. I would come out of this broken heart stronger. I continued my jog up toward King Street. As I ran past the window of the fancy yacht company, I couldn’t help thinking about Xavier. Ugh. That was why I didn’t normally run this way. Then I saw the French lady I recognized from Armand’s coffee shop just heading to the glass front doors and coming out. I slowed.

She came out and flicked open a silver cigarette case. Her lips were bright vermilion.

“Hey,” I said. “Sylvie, right?”

“Oh. Oui. How are you?” She removed a cigarette and offered one to me.

“Oh, no thank you. I’m doing great. You?”

She snapped the case closed. “I don’t see you at Armand’s anymore.”

I smoothed my damp and frizzing hair back off my forehead. “I still go, but my schedule has changed. I don’t have to be in officially for an hour later, which is nice. How about you? How’s …” I laughed, because it was odd having a conversation with someone you barely knew more than to say hello to every day. “How’s life? Are you French or French Canadian? I’ve never been sure.”

“Both. I spent lots of time in Paris.” She said the word exactly as a French person would, with no S. Paree. The sound of the accent caused my stomach to clench.

“I know your name, but we’ve never been properly introduced.” I held out my hand. “Josephine Marin.”

She paused in the act of putting her silver case away, her unlit cigarette dangling between two fingers. She narrowed her eyes at me.

“What?” I asked. My hand dropped between us.

She shook her head. “The strangest thing. Someone—one of my clients—mentioned your name the other day. Actually, yesterday, uh.”

“Oh? Did I do some architectural design for them?”

“Him.” She chuckled. “I don’t think so. He asked if I knew you. Of course, I said no. I didn’t realize I did.” She looked closer at me, her gaze moving from my sweaty face down over my shirt sticking to me, my leggings, and my dirty running shoes. “Huh.”

“Umm…” I raised my eyebrows. What a peculiar moment.

“You know the name Xavier Pascale?” she asked.

My blood drained, and I swayed. “What?” I whispered. “What did you say?” But I’d heard.

Sylvie looked past my shoulder, her eyes going round.

And I knew. “It’s him, isn’t it?”

She looked at the state of me again and winced. “Desolée. But yes.”

I couldn’t breathe.

“Bonjour, Sylvie,” he said.

Oh.

My.

God.

His voice.

Right here. In real life. In my city.

His tone was jovial and friendly.

Why are you so happy? I screeched in my head. How dare he come here? He should be home, back in France, crying into his leek soup and regretting letting me go. Bitterness and pain rose up. I should keep moving. He wouldn’t recognize me from behind.

Plus, I looked like shit.

And I was mad at him, dammit. I was light headed with the intensity of both shock and anger in equal measure.

“Joséphine?” His voice was rough. Unsure. Incredulous.

It was too late to move. I took a brief look down at my outfit, the sweat on my scalp making my head itch.