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

She nodded. “But I’m sad also when I forget things about her.”

“Do you have a picture?”

“In my room at home. I should have brought one here so you could see.” She blinked rapidly, her blue eyes watery. “She was very, very beautiful. But she was very, very sad. Papa said being sad can be like getting sick. Some people die when they get too sick.”

Jesus. Swallowing a wave of grief at her loss, I squeezed her shoulder. “He’s right.” I blew out a steadying breath. “Would you like me to brush your hair before you go to sleep tonight? I might not do it the same way, but you have such beautiful curls, we should make them shine like your maman liked.”

The boat’s engines slowed, and the rocking grew a little more pronounced. I hung on to the door frame, my stomach lurching, and reached for Dauphine’s hand. I was glad I’d had something solid for breakfast.

Turning, I stopped short at the sight of Xavier Pascale striding across the cabin. “What are you doing in there?” he asked, his voice with an odd quake. “Dauphine, I told you not to come in here.”

She inhaled sharply, and I stepped protectively in front of her.

Chapter Fourteen

With Dauphine protected behind me, I raised my eyebrows in surprise at the tone of her father’s voice. My heart thundered like I’d been sent to the principal’s office.

The disapproval on his face suddenly evaporated as if he’d caught himself overreacting.

“I didn’t have time to buy sunscreen.” I held up the bottle by way of explanation of why we were in the master stateroom. “Dauphine said I could borrow some.”

“Oui, Papa.” Dauphine slipped from behind me and grabbed him in a hug around his middle. Her shoulders shook. The tears that had been so close to the surface, ones I’d managed to keep at bay just moments before, suddenly burst out at the puncture wound her father’s anger had inflicted. She babbled words into his body.

His head bowed down as he hugged her back, and dark brown hair flopped silkily over his forehead. Then he gently pried his daughter off his middle. She’d left wet splotches on his pale blue linen shirt. Seeing her tears, I saw his shoulders slump, guilt wracking his features.

He cooed gently to her in French, and then looked up at me, his eyes miserable.

“My apologies,” he said. “I’ll have Andrea add sunscreen to the purchase list.” His eyes tracked to the hem of my sundress and skimmed down my legs. He seemed to realize what he was doing and quickly shook his head. He hugged Dauphine back and then set her away from him. “Mon chou,” he said, looking down at her, his earlier frosty expression a thing of the past as he looked at his daughter. “You will be a good girl for Miss Marin, oui? Evan will take me to shore for my meeting.”

Dauphine wrinkled her brow. “Where will you have lunch?”

“In town.”

“You promised me we would go to Le Cinquante-Cinq. When?” Her voice pitched hysterically.

“Next week, okay?” He switched to French, and she responded.

Dauphine pouted and stomped her foot. Then she looked back at me, her eyes lighting as if she’d had an idea. “Can Miss Marin come? Please, Papa!”

He looked up.

I had no idea what had just been decided, so I shrugged.

“If she would like.” He looked at me a beat, but his mouth twisted like he’d swallowed a bug at having to invite me along.

I managed to find my tongue. “If Dauphine would like me to go with you all, it would be a pleasure.”

“D’accord. It’s a plan. Dauphine.” He turned to his daughter and kissed her head. “Will you leave me and Miss Marin for a moment. I must speak with her privately.”

My stomach tensed with nerves.

Dauphine pouted but pirouetted toward the door. “Paco!” I heard her calling out as she hightailed it to the bridge.

He followed her route and closed the door behind her. “Is this okay?” he asked me, indicating the closed door. The gesture of concern was surprising.

“Um. Sure.” I looked toward the long but narrow windows and inhaled. At least the boat had stopped rocking so much.

“You are …” he paused. “Claustrophobic?” he asked as if he’d had to retrieve the word from the recesses of his mind.

I nodded. “A little. It’s not crippling. But it’s there.” This room with its wider space and more windows felt less confining than my cabin downstairs.

“Sit?” he indicated toward the couch. “I have some employment paperwork for you. A contract and a non-disclosure agreement.” He picked a stack of paper off his desk and handed it to me with a pen.

I sank down on one end of the couch and skimmed through each page. It was in English, which I appreciated.

“You can look it over and give it to Andrea when it is signed.” He leaned against his built-in desk, crossed his ankles, and folded his arms across his chest. Along with his blue linen shirt that matched the color of his eyes today, he wore distressed jeans and brown boat shoes. He looked like a model in a menswear commercial—brow expertly furrowed, careless masculinity oozing from everywhere.

He’s my boss, I reminded myself. I dragged my gaze away. I’d have to pray the contracts were standard because I couldn’t focus on a damned word. I signed the employment contract and the non-disclosure agreement. “Here.”

He took the papers. “I must apologize,” he began. “I am normally more … smooth. Even.”

Inwardly, I chuckled at him calling himself smooth. “Even-tempered?” I supplied.

“Yes. I reacted from concern. Dauphine … she gets upset sometimes when she comes to see her mother’s things. I have been meaning to remove them …” He lifted his shoulders helplessly. “Her emotions. They are elevated sometimes.”

I licked my lips and cocked my head to the side, unsure what to say. I had so many questions about Dauphine’s mother, his late wife, and what happened. “If you think it would