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

He seemed to ponder my answer. “That’s … difficult,” he said.

“Papa!” Dauphine appeared, Evan close behind.

My shoulders relaxed. I hadn’t realized how on edge I’d been sitting with Xavier on my own, being pinned by those eyes that seemed to see right into me. And it occurred to me that even though we’d left the market so Xavier could make a phone call, he hadn’t touched his phone.

“Josie,” Evan said. “I’ll accompany you and Dauphine back to the boat. Xavier has a meeting.”

“Oh.” I took one more sip of lemonade and then stood. “Of course.”

Dauphine grabbed her Orangina, asking if she could carry it in the bottle. Then Xavier handed me the package with the baguettes, cheese, and honey, with his eyebrows rising above his sunglasses in challenge. “Try not to eat it all at once? At least save me some.”

I thanked him awkwardly because I was so touched and surprised and frankly shocked he was teasing me and giving me gifts of food, which was basically the fastest route to my heart, then the three of us headed back toward the market stalls. I tried to enjoy the glimpses of the old town that I could see past the market setup and relished the feeling of being on firm ground.

But soon the port and the water were in sight.

It had been a fun day and I felt as though I’d finally gotten a glimpse of the real Xavier Pascale, and it hadn’t done a whole lot to squash my attraction.

That thought sent a ripple of panic through me. This situation was just a tad too seductive to be safe. As soon as I got back to the boat, I would work on my resume. The sooner I had a plan to get out of here on time, the better.

Chapter Eighteen

I gasped for air, sitting straight up as the pressure in my chest woke me from a fitful sleep. Moonlight streamed a blue glow across my bedding. The boat rocked gently, and all was quiet. I opened the small window and dragged in a lungful of warm salty air.

And another.

The water lapped and tinkered.

It wasn’t enough. I slept with the cabin door open every night, but even that didn’t stop me from waking with a gasp every now and again. This week, I’d taken to tiptoeing up the stairs to the top deck and peeking carefully around to make absolutely sure I was alone. Only then could I inhale lungfuls of fresh, cooler, night air to tide me over. I never stayed long. After a trip to the upper deck, I’d often fall into a much deeper and undisturbed sleep until morning.

Exiting my cabin, I quickly glanced in at Dauphine. She lay almost sideways across her bed, covers all kicked off, gangly legs off the edge, and her fingers clutched tight around the trunk of Babar the Elephant. I smiled and shook my head. I’d move her when I came back down.

I slipped silently upstairs, level after level, pulled by the fresh night air I could almost taste. Stepping out onto the top deck, I was met with a night sky that had exploded in black ink and diamonds. I breathed out a soft, “Wow,” and filled my lungs again, more consciously this time as I crept forward toward the railing and the velvet darkness where the horizon lay. Xavier was right, out here on the ocean one could really breathe the easiest. The deepest. Especially at night. I concentrated on my breathing, in through my nose, out through my mouth. Trying to get my fill. My hands gripped the railing.

After a few minutes, I tilted my head back and tried to make out familiar constellations, wondering how different they’d be from what I saw back home. France was also in the Northern hemisphere so technically, I should be able to make out familiar patterns.

As my eyes drew more accustomed, I could see the cloudy swath of the milky way start to take on more definition and pick out some individual stars.

A breeze picked up and lifted the small hairs on my arms. The scent of salt spray, teak oil, and eucalyptus danced on the breeze with notes of smokey scotch. Scotch?

My skin prickled. The back of my neck specifically.

I whipped around and gasped.

My eyes, now accustomed to the dark, made out the long form of a man reclining on a lounger.

Xavier cradled a tumbler of amber liquid in one hand on his abdomen, his other behind his head. His eyes watched me, lazily. Like a very, very, attentive jungle cat.

The sight of him made my mouth go instantly dry and shattered the peaceful relief I’d found. “W-what are you doing here?” I asked, lamely. And how long had he been watching me?

There was such a long pause, I became self-conscious. I was wearing sleep shorts and a spaghetti strap tank, more than I’d wear to swim in, but suddenly it didn’t feel like enough. “It’s your boat, of course, you’re here,” I babbled. “I just didn’t expect you. Andrea said you were gone this afternoon. You didn’t eat with us. So …” My words trailed off. I looked around. Faint lights from some of the high up cliff houses twinkled in the dark and across the water behind him. Whatever peace I’d found up here was gone. I took one long last deep breath of abundant air. “So, I guess, um, I guess I’ll just go …”

“You know the origin of Marin means sailor or seafarer?” His accented voice was rough and soft, stopping me. His long legs, in shorts, were crossed at the ankle. His feet were bare. And the sight of them more than anything gave me an odd sense of intimacy.

I swallowed.

“And Joséphine … well, she was a wily and cunning empress.”

“Napoleon’s wife,” I confirmed, licking my lips nervously. The last few days he’d been cordial, if not that chatty, eating meals with Dauphine and me, but things felt different tonight.