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

here, but not a career.” My voice warbled slightly as I tried to rein in my devastation. “You’ll never promote me, and I have no way to move up.” And after losing the opportunity to work on the East Bay Street project, that seemed insignificant. But damn it. My job. I really needed that promotion. I had to get a grip and focus on what was important. History was being lost. It was more important than my job in the grand scheme of things. I could appeal. As a citizen of the city—

Mr. Tate leaned forward again. “Oh, Josie,” he said, tilting his head slightly. “It’s not as bad as all that.” His finger reached out and then before I knew it his whole hand was on my knee. His hot, clammy, chubby hand.

I froze.

He squeezed gently, his face genial. Comforting, even. “I’m not saying you could never be promoted. At least to Senior Associate. Loyalty and dedication to the team is always appreciated. And rewarded.” Another squeeze. My stomach churned. “Just not … today.”

I lurched to my feet, and his hand slid off my knee. “Don’t touch me again.”

“Now, now,” said Mr. Tate, palms up. “We’ll have none of that nonsense. I was just comforting you. I know you’re disappointed about being passed over.”

My breath seesawed in and out of my chest, my heart pounded in my throat. I couldn’t stay here another second. My chest cinched up tight, and I blinked to try to mitigate the stinging in my nose and eyes that preceded tears of anger and frustration. I dug my fingernails into my palms, my balled-up fists. “I can’t stay here.”

“Sorry?”

“I quit.”

There was a long silence.

“Well, there’s no need to be hasty,” Tate said, looking surprised.

“I quit,” I repeated, though my voice shook.

“Right. Well. If you’re sure.” He held out his hand.

Numb, I reached out and without thinking, shook it.

Mr. Tate pursed his lips. “Actually, I need your badge and secure ID.”

“Oh.” I blinked and then fumbled the clip off the buttonhole of my jacket with trembling hands and handed it over. Immediately, I wished I’d thrown it in his bland, jowly face.

“You can leave your roll tubes here too. Your designs belong to us.”

I looked down to where they lay at my feet and felt a surge of tears rising up the back of my throat and nose. Not here, I told myself.

“Anything else you need from your desk?”

I shook my head, not trusting myself to speak any more. Holy shit. What had I just done?

“Well, if there is, I’ll ask Barbara to pack it up.” He gestured to the door. “Bye, Josie. Good luck.”

I took a breath and lifted my chin. I’d done the only thing I could do. I was a damn good architect. And if they didn’t see it, someone else would. I had contacts. I had some meager savings and could temporarily defer my loan payments. I could get a reference from any number of previous clients and Mr. Donovan. I couldn’t protect East Bay Street, but at least I had my pride. Feeling only a fraction of a percent better after my rationalizing, I turned to the door, then stopped. “Mr. Tate?”

He looked up as he rounded his desk, a placid look on his face like the last ten minutes hadn’t even phased him. “Yes?”

“Fuck you very much,” I said sweetly and spun on my heel and walked out, putting an extra sway in my step.

Chapter Three

XAVIER

Valbonne, Provence, France

The afternoon sun slanted across the wooden farm table, bleached and worn from decades of use on the sunny patio. The scent of lavender from the fields in the valley wafted across the lawn, mingling with honeysuckle.

“Can I get you anything before I leave?” The gruff voice of Martine, our longtime housekeeper and sometime child minder, roused me from where I’d been in a semi-meditative state after my pre-lunch laps in the pool.

I glanced to the spread of lunch waiting for my daughter to join me. In years past, when my wife was alive, this table had been filled with friends, acquaintances, and extended family almost every week. These days it was a party if Evan, my bodyguard and best friend, joined us.

“Non, merci,” I thanked her. “Just send Dauphine down when she’s changed out of her swimsuit.” A wet towel was still on the chair next to me from where Dauphine had abandoned it. She’d spent the morning in the pool begging me to join her while I took calls and tried to organize childcare. I adored spending time with her, but it was impossible when she was out of school for the summer and I still had a business to run. Of course, in a month or so business would be slower. It was almost August, and practically everyone would be on vacation for les grandes vacances. But for now it would be tricky to manage without help.

“Any luck?” Martine pressed, glancing down at my laptop. “I’m sorry I have to leave before you found a replacement nanny.”

“I have a call with the American agency this afternoon. Hopefully they’ll have someone else for us.”

“Keep me informed. I can try to shorten my trip if necessary.”

I waved my hand. “No, no. You must go and see your family. It’s not your fault our summer au pair fell through at the last moment.” She’d very unprofessionally cancelled her contract three days before arriving. “The American agency will have someone else, I’m sure of it. They’ve always come through for us in the past.”

She gave a brief nod. “D’accord,” she said, looking unconvinced.

If it wasn’t for knowing that Martine’s sister had been diagnosed with cancer, I’d insist she stay until I had someone else lined up. But Martine disliked coming on the boat, always butting heads with our chef, and I wanted us to head out on my yacht for at least a month. It was time we did something together, Dauphine and I, that didn’t involve rattling around this big old