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

me toward the stairs. “Good night,” I said to her father.

“One more question, Miss Marin?”

I turned back. “Yes?”

“Do you like them now? Boats?” he clarified and cast a hand around him.

Cocking my head to the side, I pretended to ponder. “I’m still deciding.”

He raised his glass with a smirk.

I turned and went downstairs with his daughter, hating how my pulse seemed to be ticking in my throat, and that sea bass was doing a tap dance in my belly. Careful, I told myself.

In her cabin, Dauphine showed me her favorite pajamas and began introducing me to her stuffed animals.

“Do these travel with you between the boat and home?”

“Yes. But I have more. Papa said I cannot bring them all here.” Her shoulders sank.

“Hey, that’s okay. You need some to remain at home to look after your bedroom there.”

“But they get lonely.”

“Are you kidding? They are having a party every night.”

“I’m not a baby, I know my toys are not having a party.”

“But they have feelings. You told me they get lonely. If they get lonely, they can just as easily be happy.”

She humphed. “Being happy is not as easy as being sad. That’s what my maman used to tell me. She said she tried very hard to be happy all the time, but sometimes it was too difficult.”

God. My chest ached. I really needed to know what had happened to her mother. “It’s true that some people have a harder time being happy than others,” I said carefully, reaching for her toothbrush. “Just like some people get headaches more than other people.”

She took the toothbrush from my hand and added toothpaste.

“I’m going to count to sixty. You have to brush your teeth for that long.”

Her head tilted. “Pourquoi?”

“Because that’s how long it takes not to miss any of your teeth and get all the germs out. You need to brush them all. Otherwise one tooth might feel like you don’t like him as much.”

Her eyes sparkled in amusement and she tucked the brush in her mouth.

“One, two, three, four …” I began. By thirty, she was spitting and sighing in annoyance. I laughed. “Continue.”

She rolled her eyes, but when she was finished and rinsed and had done her business while I turned down her bed, she was humming. Running and leaping, she landed square in the middle of the bed.

“Okay, time for introductions. Who is this?” I asked, picking up a lanky brown monkey.

“Mon Chi Chi.”

“Mon Chi Chi?” I asked, looking the monkey in the eyes. Then I shook its limp arm. “Enchantée,” I said, remembering the French greeting.

Dauphine giggled. “This is Pépé, Arnaud, Céleste, and Babar.” She presented them to me one by one until we’d gone through about twenty toys from monkeys to mermaids and an entire elephant family. Finally, she got to the last one. A bear with blue peacoat, a red hat, and Wellington boots.

“I know this character,” I said. “It’s Paddington. How do you do, Paddington? Who gave you this one?” I asked her.

“Evan. Il est beau, non?”

“Very handsome,” I agreed, so grateful that my high school French had started coming back to me for these little phrases here and there.

“I love the coat,” she said. “It is very … stylish? I wish I have more clothes for him.”

“No Barbies? You can dress those.”

Her nose turned up. “No. I do not like.” Then she let out a big yawn.

I’d have loved to discuss our mutual dislike of Barbies, but it was getting late. I patted the pillow behind her, encouraging her to scoot down. She complied, grabbing Paddington, and I tucked the fluffy duvet around her. The boat rocked ever so gently, the waves tiny in the protected port. She yawned again.

“Were you laughing at me?” she asked sleepily. “Upstairs when I come back from les toilettes.”

“No,” I answered, surprised. “Why would you think that?”

She picked at the stitching on Paddington. “It happens at my school sometimes. When I leave the classroom, the girls they laugh loudly. And when I come back in, they stop.”

My breath stuttered as emotion flood me unexpectedly. I blinked and slowly exhaled. Reaching out, I brushed the silky hair off her forehead. My mind went blank at how to comfort her.

“I think it is because of my name. Dauphine. Nobody has this name.”

I cocked my head. “What does Dauphine mean?”

“I do not know the word in English.”

“It sounds like Dolphin to me. And who wouldn’t want to be named after a Dolphin.” Still, I slipped my phone out of my back pocket and translated Dauphine. There was no translation, so I typed, “what is a dauphine in France?” “Ahh,” I said as the answer loaded. “So you are the female heir to the French Royal Throne.” Actually, not really that far from the truth if the tabloids were to be believed. At least that’s how people saw Xavier Pascale.

“But I’m not. Papa said my maman wanted to call me this. And now that she is not here I do not want to change it. But it is so, so stupid.” She rolled over, snuggling into her pillow.

“I think it’s pretty. It’s like being called Princess.”

“And this is not good. The girls at school are mean about it.”

I blew out a breath, realizing most platitudes would be a lie. I was also humbled that this little girl had chosen to share her personal pain with me, and I’d only just met her. “I have known girls like that too,” I said, instead. “Boys too. It’s hurtful. But luckily there are many more people in the world who are nicer, kinder, and better friends. They can be hard to find. Like treasure. But when you find them, keep the friendship safe. It is very, very precious.”

I leaned down and kissed her forehead, surprised that this little girl had wormed her way into my heart in a matter of hours. I turned the bedside lamp off. “Sleep well, princess.”

“Bonne nuit,” she said sleepily.

Standing, I moved to the doorway.

“Peaux-tu laisser la porte ouverte?” she