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

My breath stuttered to a halt, my lungs seizing, as a current swept over my skin. Was this really happening?

Fingers trailed down and then they were on my skin, on my belly where my tank must have ridden up.

My mouth parted on a puff of air.

And then there was nothing. His fingers were gone.

He closed his eyes, leaving me alone in the dark, wondering if it had been an accident. Wondering if I’d imagined it.

I let out a long breath, not realizing until I released it how tightly wound my entire body had been in the last few minutes.

Dauphine’s inhalations were deep and relaxed, indicating the state of her slumber.

Gently, I rolled away and climbed out of bed. Without looking back, I crept to my room, and leaving the door open, climbed into my own bed.

I blinked in the morning light and found my mental bearings. Images of last night flooded my mind. Dauphine’s nightmare. Her damp hair. Her small body. Her father’s eyes in the dark.

His fingers on my skin.

My breath caught.

A knock at my door sounded again. “Josie?” Andrea’s voice called.

The skin on my shoulders scratched like burning sandpaper as I shifted to my elbow. Sunburn. Ouch. “Come in,” I croaked.

Andrea poked her head around the shiny mahogany. Someone must have closed my door. “Hey there, are you sick?”

“No. At least I don’t think so. Oh my God, I’m so sorry,” I added when I saw the time. “I think the sun wiped me out yesterday.” I scrambled to get up.

She waved her hand. “It’s fine. I was just checking on you. See you up top.”

Sitting up, I clutched my head as it pounded. It was worse than a hangover.

I showered and went to find Dauphine and get some water, some painkillers, and something to eat. I found my charge vegging out in front of a High School Musical marathon.

“No swimming today,” she groaned. “And no reading. I’m too tired for anything.”

“Not too tired for Zac Efron though,” I said with a smirk.

“Never.” She grinned.

I looked out the window. “Where are we today?” I asked, remembering I’d vaguely been aware of the boat engine running very early this morning as I must have slipped toward waking at some point before zonking out again.

Dauphine shrugged, her eyes never leaving Zac’s chiseled cheekbones. I feel ya, girl.

“Okey, dokey,” I said. Truly, I was relieved to have a calm day. I hadn’t taken a day off since I arrived. After checking with Andrea that it was all right to do so, I went out on the shaded stern deck to sketch. I was down to my last page.

The next day the boat would be moving out to sea, and we’d be heading back along the coast toward Nice and Monaco. I glanced longingly over my shoulder toward shore. I’d been doing some online research about all the architectural influences up and down the coast. The fact that the area had remnants dating back thousands of years made me desperate to experience some more of these little places. And Corsica, an island that had some of the most wide-ranging architectural influences, from pre-Roman to Pisan to Genoese still standing, was only four hours away by boat.

By boat!

And I was on a damn boat. I wanted to weep. Then I wanted to laugh at how much I was beginning to appreciate boats.

“What is so amusing?”

I jerked in surprise and turned to see Xavier had come out the sliding doors. He reached up and held the outdoor stair railing, spreading his feet to find balance as the boat sliced through the waves. The wind whipped his black hair over his forehead.

“Sorry. What?”

“It looked as though you laughed out loud to yourself.”

“I did?” I ducked my chin, embarrassed that he’d caught me changing my mind about boats. “I was just thinking I might be learning to appreciate boats.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Indeed?”

“Don’t get too ahead of yourself,” I sassed. “It’s a long way from appreciating to loving them.”

“Did you have a bad experience with a boat?”

“Not every feeling has to be rooted in the past.” I lifted a shoulder.

He cocked his head. “But they normally are.”

Interesting. “Well, not that I remember,” I said. “I’ve never really spent any time on a boat before this one.”

“Even living in Charleston? That’s an accomplishment,” he said. Good lord, Xavier Pascale was … joking with me.

I let out an awkward laugh. “True.”

I noticed then that he held a white canvas tote bag in his other hand. Seeing my gaze made him look down. “Oh. I came to give you this.” He cleared his throat. “I’m not sure if they are the right things.”

I stood and took the bag he offered. Inside were two large blank sketchbooks, a set of really expensive drafting pencils, watercolor pencils, and a hardback book. “Wow.” I smiled.

“Dauphine said you were running out of paper.” He waved a hand, dismissively, suddenly gruff and looking extremely uncomfortable. “It’s nothing. I’m simply replacing since Dauphine has been using up your supplies.”

“Thank you, really.” I looked back down at them, and then to the book. It was a hardcover, small coffee table type book, and the picture on the front was of a castle. I turned it over. “And this?”

“It’s, uh, about the architectural influences in the area around where I live, in Valbonne. I thought you’d be—I thought it would be good for Dauphine. My mother, she, uh, helped raise the funds to produce the book for the historical society she is part of. I had a copy. I thought you would appreciate it more. And perhaps show Dauphine. It’s in French, of course.”

“Of course. Thank you. This was extremely thoughtful.”

“As I said. It’s nothing.” Then he added, “I was only thinking of Dauphine.”

I looked up at him and gave him a grateful smile. “All the same, I really appreciate it.”

He nodded.

The boat suddenly slowed its motion, and I lurched forward. My hands were full, and unable to