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

his eyes locked with mine, and the world snapped back into real time.

I felt the attraction like a punch in my solar plexus.

A tiny breath huffed out of me.

Shit.

There was nothing soft about him. His blue eyes darkened and his jaw tensed. His features were hard and angular, but slightly imperfect, in a way that took them from pretty and perfect to dangerously sexy. He was elegant with a sharp and jagged edge that made him lethal. In a flash, the look in his eyes—whatever it had been when he first looked at me—was gone. In fact, his whole mood seemed to travel at light-speed from desperate relief at his daughter’s safety, to annoyance, to whatever it was he’d thought when he looked at me, and then to some kind of cold control that swept over him. All in a matter of seconds. It was actually impressive.

My throat closed as I tried to swallow under his scrutiny. I wondered what he was a billionaire of. I could imagine peons and minions quaking and quailing under this stare.

I dragged my gaze from him to his daughter who stared at me curiously. “H-hello,” I stammered.

Her father watched me from his crouched position. He must have thighs of steel to crouch that long.

I stepped forward, holding out my hand, and looked her father square in the eye.

“Nice to meet you, I’m Josie Marin.”

Monsieur Pascale unfolded his body with the lithe grace of a panther until he stood, towering over me. He took my hand in a brief perfunctory shake, dropping it as quickly as it began.

His eyes assessed me coolly. “Xavier Pascale,” he announced. “This is my daughter, Dauphine.” His accent was like a drizzle of rich chocolate sauce that made me want to lick my lips.

I glanced down at Dauphine and held out my hand. “Nice to meet you.”

She shook it. “Vous parlez Francais?”

Shaking my head, I adopted what I hoped was an apologetic look. “Not very well, no.” I understood she was asking me if I spoke French, but beyond anything more than these basic questions I knew I’d be clueless. At least until my high school French clicked back into place, and even then, I knew I’d be woefully inadequate.

She smiled. “Bon.”

Good?

She fired something in rapid French up to her father, and then walked away. I expected her father to go immediately after her again based on the scare he’d just had, but Xavier Pascale didn’t move. And he didn’t strike me as someone who simply followed without good reason.

Dauphine walked up to a man hovering ten feet away from us. He was about my age with dark blond hair, wearing light colored but official looking pants and blazer, and an earpiece. He reached for Dauphine’s hand. In his other, he held a sign dangling by his side that had my name written on it. I must not have seen him. He shot me a warm and welcoming smile.

I nervously returned it.

The man in front of me hadn’t moved when I looked back at him. He studied me with a startling intensity. Nothing about it was warm and inviting. In fact, it was more like an arctic breeze. I guess this was the interview, then. In the train station. I hoped he’d buy my fare home, otherwise I was shit out of luck. But that was becoming the theme of my life.

“You are not what I expected,” he said, his voice deep and accented, articulating each word.

You either, buddy. I frowned. “In what way?”

His gaze swept over me, and he muttered something in French I didn’t understand.

My arms instinctively crossed over my chest, and I bristled.

Seemingly coming to his senses he shook his head. “Désolé. I’m … sorry. Merci … uh. Thank you for coming with much on short …”

“On short notice?”

“Short notice.” He nodded, though he didn’t seem very thankful. More annoyed and perturbed by my presence. “I apologize. My English is normally better. I studied for a time in Britain after all.”

“Of course,” I said. “My French is normally worse.”

He frowned.

“I was joking. I haven’t tried my rusty high school French yet. And I may not have as much experience as most, but if you give me the rules, I’m good at following them.”

I gave in to a smile I couldn’t seem to hold in.

His brows instantly knitted together as if in offense.

No smiling, then. Got it.

“Well,” I said, trying to stay bright. “It’s nice to meet you and Dauphine. Please let me know if there are any activities you would like me to do with her while she is in my care. School work, reading, mathematics,” I listed. He didn’t appear to be listening to my words even though he still studied me. “Though all that would have to be in English,” I pressed on. “Or we could just have fun,” I added when I still got no response.

He inhaled sharply through his nose, and his eyes snapped away from me and to his watch. “On y va,” he growled and turned and strode away. “Let’s go.”

Okay then. No joking either.

He snapped a finger at the other man who seemed to understand what a snap of fingers meant because he darted forward to grab my suitcase. Dauphine marched behind her father, arms folded and her head high.

It seemed I’d gotten off on the wrong foot with all of them. And worse, I wondered how I was going to get over my gut deep attraction to my new boss. Although, I guessed if he continued being a dismissive asshole, it might not be that hard. I clutched my water bottle and followed them outside.

Chapter Seven

Evan, our driver, introduced himself to me then loaded my bag into the trunk of a dark late model Mercedes. “Sorry we were late. Were you waiting long?” he asked in a British accent. A sense of relief at knowing there was a true English speaker to help me find my footing here was a massive relief.

“No, I’d just gotten off the train.”

“This