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

kind of love is the kind you’ll walk through fire for. You’ll die a thousand times or bear the loss again and again just to have known it. It’s big and it’s scary, but it’s worth it. Even everything I had to go through with Nicolas. If I could do it all again, I’d do it willingly to have had those years with your father. And to have had you. Our daughter.”

I swiped at my cheeks. “Oh, Mom.” It came out a whisper.

“It’s true. So whether or not you decide to go for this, I want you to know that I will be there for you no matter what.” She paused. “And also, it would be really cool to get a head start on a granddaughter by starting with a ten-year-old.”

“Mom!” I gasped a choking laugh.

“I’m just saying. I wouldn’t mind being the American grandmother who spoils her rotten. I’m ready.”

“She’ll be lucky to have you.”

“She’ll be lucky to have you, Josephine.”

A strange whining sound came from my chest and throat as I fought back more crying. I tried to purse my lips and blow like I was blowing into a paper bag. “Whoo.”

“What else is it?”

“Well, you know he’s like really well known in France. If I do this … people are going to want to know who I am. Who my family is. And I’m worried.”

There was a pause. “For who?”

“You. Mostly you. Me. Maybe even Xavier. I don’t know.”

“Well, don’t worry about me. One good thing I’ve accomplished is growing a thicker skin. But you know, darling, Nicolas has taken so much from us already. Don’t let him take this from you too. You’re going to be okay. You’re going to be happy. I know you are.”

“I’m a fucking mess, is what I am.”

“Josephine!”

“Sorry, Ma.” I laughed then, feeling as though something inside my chest had broken free. “Thank you.”

We said our goodbyes, and I tilted my head up to the sun, willing it to fade the mess my face must look like.

I walked back to work and ducked into the bathroom to wash my face and reapply my makeup with my small emergency kit. The mascara was two years old and caked, but the concealer and lip gloss were adequate. After I saw my girls, I would have to maybe run home for a shower and proper touch up before seeing Xavier.

At five thirty p.m. I’d never been more ready for girl’s night. I was approaching the King Street Tavern when my phone rang. Donovan & Tate. I frowned. Barbara must need to cancel, and frankly with everything that had happened today, I could totally wait on hearing the latest news on what had happened to the deal on East Bay Street.

“Hey, Barb,” I answered.

There was silence. And then, “This is Ravenel Tate. Is this Josie Marin?”

I swallowed. “It is.”

“Right. Okay. Well, I’ll get right to it. Uh. I was wondering if I could, um, possibly, uh…”

My eyes widened, my eyebrows rising, and my steps slowing. “Yes?”

“Well, uh, the thing is, we, Jason, and of course Donovan, and I, definitely me, well, we were wondering if we could offer you your old job back.”

I came to a complete stop. “Excuse me?”

“We wanted to know if you wanted your old, no, I’m sorry, we wanted to know if you would, if we could perhaps offer you a job here again at the position of Senior Associate.”

Frowning, I turned in a circle, the phone to my ear and my eyes unseeing. I stepped back out of the flow of tourists on King Street and stared blindly into the display of new and estate jewelry in Crogan’s. “And why would you want to do that?” I asked, genuinely curious.

“Oh. Well, uh, there’s a new developer for the East Bay Street Hotel Project. He bought out the old developer. And, uh, we’d obviously like to keep the business. But … he doesn’t like Jason’s design. Wanted something more …” I heard Tate clearing his voice and pictured him sticking a finger into his collar like it was choking him.

I smirked. “Go on.”

“He wanted something more historic. Given the history of the land.”

“I see.”

“So you’ll do it?”

“No.”

“No?”

“You can hire someone to consult. You can even use my designs since you took them from me. But if you think I’d work for you again after what you did, you must be out of your mind.” My heart pounded with the boldness and brashness of speaking my mind. My inner feminist cheered, even as my well-behaved, lady-like inner me that took a multitude of micro-aggressions in order not to rock the boat at work, cringed and hushed and clutched her pearls. My cheeks throbbed and my face grew hot.

“I see. I understand. Could we, ah, perhaps hire you to consult?”

I barked out a laugh. There was no answering laugh. “Wait. You’re serious?”

“Very much. We’d pay you hourly the same amount, if you broke it down, that you were earning hourly—”

“No.”

“We’ll double it. Just for consulting.”

“No. And don’t insult me by offering more money. You see, the problem isn’t the job.”

“Oh? But what about the history?” he asked, his voice getting a bit superior and mocking, clearly unused to dealing with rejection. He was resorting to goading and ridicule.

I frowned.

“You have a chance to save it,” he went on as if he was doing me a favor. “To do it your way.”

Mistake, buddy. I took a deep breath. “The problem, I’m afraid, is you. While you are still in charge of the project, or anywhere near it, I won’t be working on it.” I bit my lip, astounded at myself. I knew I’d always been taught not to burn bridges. At least not in Charleston. But right now, I had no fucks left to give.

There was silence.

“If there’s nothing else …” I tested. “Friday evening is calling my name.”

“Ah, no. No. That’s all right. H-have a good evening.”

“You too.” I hung up.

Wow. This day. I shook my head.

Entering the bar, I saw Barb, Tabs,