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

thought I’d wanted and plopped into the middle of the Mediterranean. This was the kind of thing I should have been putting on a vision board as a teenager. Not that I’d ever finished one. It had always been Meredith’s idea, and my logical left-minded brain didn’t put much stock in such a practice. Although Meredith was always trying to convince me that my Pinterest board about France was the same thing. Maybe it was. Maybe fate had indeed brought me here.

Dauphine and I ate with the crew again since Mr. Pascale had not yet returned, and later, I found myself restlessly trying and failing to sleep. My internal clock was still locked into American time. The boat rocked more heavily anchored in the bay than it had in port, and while the motion should lull me, all it did was make me constantly aware I was enclosed deep inside a vessel with no fresh air and surrounded by dark water. I debated getting up to go to outside, but then I heard the sounds of Xavier coming down the stairs and getting ready for bed. So he was home. Something inside me relaxed now that he was back.

Chapter Sixteen

I peered into the galley, expecting to find at least Chef in there too, but it was only Andrea. I didn’t think I’d missed breakfast this time as there were plates and food still on the table. She had her back to me as she fiddled with the coffee machine. “Morning,” she greeted as she looked over her shoulder. “Would you like a coffee?”

“Yes, please. Desperately. But just one, thank you. This jet lag might keep me awake again tonight, so I don't think adding too much caffeine into the mix is a good idea. I’m still six hours behind.”

“Let's sit and chat before everyone comes in,” she said and indicated the banquette seating. “The jet lag will take a few days, I’m sure.”

I slid onto the banquette with some fruit and a croissant. “What time do you all usually eat?”

Andrea sat down opposite me, setting two frothy cups of cappuccino in front of us. She glanced at her phone. “Around now, but they’re all trying to figure out the Wi-Fi. It’s glitching.” Her blonde hair was scraped back like she normally wore it, in a low bun behind her head. She wore minimal make-up, and her skin glowed healthy and smooth. “You probably gathered from lunch yesterday, but Monsieur Pascale … he likes to, uh—”

“Rescue people?"

She trilled tension-filled laughter. “I guess you could say that. I don’t even think he realizes it.” She waved her hands in the air dismissively. “It's probably best to bring you up to speed. And I didn’t want to talk about it in front of everyone. They know of course, but not Dauphine …” She cleared her throat. “You see,” she said. “I was, uh, in an abusive marriage.”

My eyes widened. “God, I’m so sorry,” I said.

She waved her hand again. “Not looking for sympathy. It’s been long enough I can say it for what it was without all the shame I dragged myself out of there with. But it's important you know about it because I have no doubt my husband would come looking if he knew where I was.”

“I don't know what to say. God. I’m so sorry you went through that.”

"There's nothing to say,” Andrea said. "The thing is, I ask myself why hiding out with an employer who's a paparazzi magnet like Xavier Pascale ever seemed to be a good idea. But then I ask myself what else could I do? He's been an amazing person to work for, and all of us who work for him would do anything for him. And so far I’ve stayed under the radar.”

I twisted my fingers together, fidgeting as her words chilled me. “Is there a chance your ex-husband could find you? Like, do you think he’s actively looking for you?”

“I don't see how he is after all this time. If I do go for a drink or dinner with the crew, they know we don't take pictures, and we keep a low profile.” She blew out a breath. “Unfortunately, he's not my ex-husband. I've been too nervous to file for divorce in case he could use that as a way to track me down.”

“My God, Andrea. I'm so sorry.” Jesus. I couldn’t imagine living with that kind of fear.

“Yeah. Well, I'm just telling you this because you need to keep a low profile too. Everyone on this boat is a target in their own way. Either themselves, as in my case, or as a way to get to Mister P or Dauphine.”

I pressed the side edge of my thumb nail against the highly varnished wood tabletop. “If you’re worried about me betraying your confidence, or attracting attention, please know I’d never willingly do that.”

“Thank you.”

“Of course.”

“Anyway” she said finally, “we all have something to lose. So, I hope you understand how seriously you have to take your job here.”

I nodded. “I do. Did I give you a different impression?”

“No, I don’t think so. But then again people have misled me before.” Her lips flattened.

“I do take my job seriously.”

“So far, we’ve been nothing but impressed with you.”

I was thankful to hear it, even though I didn’t think I’d done anything special beyond what a normal person would do.

The door to the galley smacked open behind me, and Dauphine flew in. She leaned over and planted a big smack of a kiss on each of my cheeks, then did the same with Andrea, and grabbed a plate, and then sat down.

“Wow,” I said. “Somebody’s in a good mood this morning.”

“Oui!” Dauphine clapped then reached for the butter. “Can you guess why?”

I shared a look with Andrea.

Dauphine pointed her knife. “You must not tell her, Andrea!”

Andrea made a zipper movement across her lips.

“I don’t know where to even start,” I said, amused.

“It is something to do with …” Dauphine paused, frowning, then said the