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

I cringed. Poor Dauphine. I hoped she was none the wiser. I exhaled the air I’d been holding, not feeling better at all. I was usually much better at handling my emotions in tough situations. Hell, I could be unjustly sidelined in my dream architectural position while holding my head up high as had happened just days ago. But Xavier Pascale had turned me into a raw bundle of emotions. I felt so very, very human and weak. It was exhaustion, I reasoned. Emotional and physical.

I picked up the clothes on the bed and returned them to the dresser. Then I zipped up my empty suitcase and re-stowed it under the table.

Opening the door, I jumped when I saw Dauphine waiting in her doorway to my left. She smiled shyly at me.

“Hi,” I said.

“Bonsoir. Allons-y?”

I shrugged. “Sure, let’s go. You lead the way,” I said.

She danced past me in bare feet and the same dress she’d been wearing earlier. “What games do you like?” she asked over her shoulder as we made our way up the inside of the yacht.

“Games? Like board games?”

“Hide and seek?”

“Actually, that’s a game I never play.”

She swung around to face me, a challenge in her eyes. “Non? Pourquoi?”

“Because I don’t like small cramped spaces. And all the best hiding places are like that. So I’m not a very good player.”

Her brow furrowed, reminding me of a certain caustic Frenchman upstairs. There was no mistaking Dauphine as his daughter. Then her expression smoothed out. “Then I will win all the times. We must play!”

I chuckled. “Nope. I would love to, I promise. But I won’t. We can play other games.”

Her lips pursed off to the side of her mouth as if I was a problem to solve.

“Come on, princess. Let’s go upstairs. I’m ready to eat my own hand.”

“What does this mean?”

“It’s a joke.”

“Hmm.”

“Race you.” I took off ahead of her.

She squealed behind me. “Non!”

We sailed past the bridge, Captain Paco nowhere to be found. I pounded up the last few steps with a laugh. Behind me Dauphine yelled, “Attention!”

As our heads emerged on the upper deck, I was thankful her yelled warning was unneeded since no one had been on the stairs at the same time.

Night had settled fast.

I bent over for a moment to catch my breath as Dauphine joined me, giggling. A glow came from the table. There were two hurricane jars enclosing a candle each on the table.

Andrea was standing over Mr. Pascale at the head of the table, one hand behind her back and the other pouring him a glass of pale pink wine. She gave me a quirked eyebrow.

Mr. Pascale looked less than pleased.

“Papa,” exclaimed Dauphine and rapid fired French at him.

He let out an uncomfortable chuckle, and his shoulders relaxed a notch.

A strong smell of buttery garlic wafted toward me, and my mouth flooded with saliva.

I caught my boss’s hooded eyes as they moved to me from his daughter. I pulled out the chair to his left with Dauphine to his right.

The plate in front of Dauphine had prosciutto-wrapped melon artfully placed on it. It was one of my favorite dishes with its salty-sweet flavor.

Dauphine clapped her hands together when she saw it.

“San Daniele di Parma avec melon. Chef made it specially for you, love,” Andrea told her with a smile, then she turned to us. “And for you both, we have Moules Mariniere, followed by Loup de Mer with haricots verts and petites patates.”

Mr. Pascale shifted toward me. “The direct translation is Wolf of the Sea, it’s a type of—”

“Sea bass. Special to the Mediterranean.” I trailed off as I realized how I’d rudely cut him off. Nervously, I turned to Andrea and was actually thankful for my mother and stepfather’s craving for keeping up with the foodie-Jones’s in Charleston, which was known for its great food. “Thank you. And mussels to start?” I wanted Monsieur Pascale to realize that he hadn’t employed some clueless, provincial pushover. I was intelligent and knowledgeable, and for some reason, I needed him to know it.

Andrea nodded at me. “Yes, that’s right. Can I pour you water or a soft drink?”

“Water is fine. Thank you.”

“No wine?” Mr. Pascale asked, a dark eyebrow arching.

I glanced at my wine glass winking in the candlelight, and the bottle of seriously refreshing looking chilled wine. I’d bet it was delicious. I wasn’t supposed to drink on the job. Then again, I’d quit this job. I was hardly a lush, but I enjoyed a glass with dinner.

“That would be lovely, actually,” I said with a lift of my shoulders. “Thank you, Andrea. I quit today, so I don’t think it really matters, does it?”

“Um.” She glanced between me and Mr. Pascale.

He sat back and eyed me with a look of puzzlement. But as I stared back I also saw reluctant admiration at calling his bluff.

“You see,” I turned back to Andrea, “Mr. Pascale is negotiating with me to see if I’ll stay. And we definitely haven’t discussed whether or not I can have a glass of wine with dinner.” In my head, I willed Andrea not to be offended by the way I was acting. I wanted to tell her I quit because he’d insulted me. I’d have to explain and apologize later. But frankly, having made the decision that I was willing to leave, it was easier to stick to my principles.

Andrea filled my wine glass. “Thank you,” I told her meaningfully.

“Non, Papa. She must stay,” Dauphine pleaded, her gaze also darting between us. Thank you, Dauphine.

Mr. Pascale patted his daughter’s hand. “Prends ton dîner.”

Dauphine dove into her plate, and I smiled at her enthusiasm and obedience.

Andrea pulled the lid off a bowl on the table and revealed black-shelled mussels swimming in a creamy sauce, sprinkled with fresh green herbs. Then she set down a breadbasket of cut baguette. “I’ll let Chef know to begin the next course,” she directed at her boss, and then melted away and down the stairs.

“Moules?” he