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

“Thank you. And Mom, I’m not making partner yet. That’s a few years away. No pressure or anything. ”

“You know I don’t mean it like that.”

“I know.” And I did.

“Good luck, my darling.”

“Thanks. I love you, Ma.”

We hung up, and I gobbled down granola, brushed my teeth, applied lip gloss, and headed out.

The streets were just waking up. Street sweepers were finishing their shifts, and garbage trucks tipped last night’s bottles and trash from the alleys behind all the bars and restaurants.

I stopped in at my favorite coffee shop, Armand’s, and ordered an espresso with a shot of cream. It was served in a tiny paper cup, and it was just the bolt of energy I needed before a day like today. I swung onto East Bay Street, taking a hit of the marsh and sea breeze coming in off the water, and passed by Rainbow Row, the colorful historic townhomes that faced the Charleston Historic Foundation building and the Charleston Yacht Club. I waved at the French lady, Sylvie, who worked at the yacht showroom on King Street as she passed me on the opposite side of the road. Most mornings I ran into her at Armand’s, and we sometimes exchanged small talk.

Finally, I arrived at the plate glass doors of Donovan and Tate, FAIA, CPBD, NSPE, one of Charleston’s most prestigious architecture firms. With my hand on the stainless steel bar that served as a door handle, I paused and thought of my conversation with my mom. Without her believing in me as hard as she did, I doubt I would have made it this far this soon. It helped that I felt as though I was doing this for my father. Hopefully one day, there’d be another name on the door plate. Mine. I’d been so happy to be granted an interview after my graduate degree, and even more overwhelmed to have been offered a position at such a prestigious firm to complete my three-year residency requirement to get licensed that I’d jumped aboard and never looked back. I’d always loved architecture, ever since my dad would take me on long walks on Sundays around the city and point out all the various details people used that evoked the feel of this influence or that.

I’d also been relieved to have Mr. Donovan instead of Mr. Tate as the partner overseeing my residency requirement. It seemed it was an unspoken understanding that it was best if Mr. Tate didn’t mentor young, impressionable women. Mr. Donovan, I knew, had my back. He respected my work and often made sure my contributions weren’t overlooked. However, a small niggling feeling had been bothering me for weeks about Mister Tate’s nephew, Jason, who’d joined the firm just last year after moving down from Virginia. No. Jason didn’t have near my experience with historical ordinances and designs. He was always submitting brash glass and concrete monstrosities better suited for big city tenements than the genteel low-profile look Charleston was desperately trying to save. I was the better designer and I had more experience, and after they saw my designs today, it would be a no-brainer to make me the Senior Associate.

My phone dinged. It was Meredith.

Sorry I missed you this morning. Heard about girl’s night tonight. I’m in. We’ll celebrate your promotion. You’ve got this! HUGS

I took a deep breath and pushed open the door to my office building with confidence.

Chapter Two

Barbara, my friend and Donovan and Tate’s longtime assistant, greeted me formally since she sat right outside both partners’ offices. “I’m afraid Mr. Donovan couldn’t come in today. Martha was taken into the hospital.”

Mr. Donovan’s sweet wife who I absolutely adored had struggled with several cardiac incidents over the last year. “Oh no.” I frowned. “Is she … is it serious?”

“I’m not sure.” Barbara grimaced. “Mr. Tate is doing your review,” she said with forced positivity.

My heart sank further. “Oh. Are you sure?” I whispered. “I mean, I can just wait. We can reschedule.” I’d rather not be promoted today than have to have my review and associate presentation with Mr. Tate.

“He’s already expecting you in his office.”

I swallowed, then blew out a breath to steady myself. “All right. Thanks, Barb. Oh, I forgot, girls night tonight after work?”

She made an exaggerated sad face. “Sorry, Jeff has a thing tonight. Have one for me?”

“Sure thing.” I turned on my heel.

“Josie?” she called, and I turned back. She lowered her voice. “Stick to your guns. You deserve this.”

A smile broke through the tense muscles of my face. “Thank you.”

I arrived at the open doorway of Mr. Tate’s office. His nephew Jason, my co-worker, was in there. Conversation stopped abruptly.

“Am I interrupting?” I asked

Mr. Tate stood. He always wore pastel colored button down shirts tucked into his suit pants, or into pressed and pleated khaki’s on Fridays, and seersucker suits on Sundays for church. Today, he wore a mint green shirt that clashed with his slightly ruddy cheeks and fleshy jowls. “Jason and I were just catching up.”

Jason smirked at me then turned back to his uncle as he stood. “Yeah. So glad you were able to come by and meet the new commissioner,” he said to his uncle. “You two hit it off. See you for our eight a.m. tee off tomorrow?”

“See you there.”

Jason, blond hair slicked back, passed me. “Josie.”

“Jason,” I returned, my expression as bland as I could make it in the face of his supercilious smirk.

I shut the door behind him. I didn’t like being in a closed room with Mr. Tate either, but I hated the thought Jason might listen in. I ran through the words I’d just heard. “The commissioner?” I asked.

“The PPS commissioner,” he answered and gestured for me to sit, not at one of the chairs at his desk but in the seating area where he had a low couch. Low couches were the enemy of skirts. I lowered myself gingerly and