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

respond to it. I should have seen it and called him. But of course, I wanted to check in with you first and hear your side.”

My heart was drumming in my throat, the sick feeling now spreading through me. “My side? There’s no side. I feel like—”

I felt betrayed by him, is what I felt. “How long ago was the email?” I asked instead and waited as she looked it up.

She named a date. Almost two weeks ago. I guessed that should make me feel a little better.

“And he hasn’t sent you another one, calling off that request?” I clarified. “Even though you didn’t respond?”

“Maybe he thought I was still working on it. What happened two weeks ago?”

“I don’t know,” I said truthfully. “I mean, the night I arrived he was so rude to me that I kind of quit. It was clear he wanted me to stay. And I didn’t want to let you down. So I stayed. And since then …” Since then he’d been hot and cold. Kind, then mean. Friendly, then icy.

“Since then, what?”

“Nothing. Honestly. I’ve been busy with Dauphine. She’s happy. I just … I don’t know, Tabs.” I picked at a tiny piece of peeling skin leftover from a sunburn on my knee. “Can—can I ask? What did his email say exactly?”

“Josie, I know we’re friends, but I can’t divulge that.” Her voice sounded pained.

“Shoot. I know. I’m sorry.”

“Maybe one day when you’re home. I—I guess I’d better give him a call.”

“Okay,” I said, deflated. Almost two weeks ago was the incident on the top deck in the middle of the night. But I had no idea if that was the inciting incident for him emailing Tabitha. But maybe it was. Nausea rolled through me. What exactly had I done that was so bad? And what exactly had he said to me that night?

We said our goodbyes, and I mashed the end button. Inexplicably, tears burned at the back of my eyes. I knew I’d done nothing wrong, but the sense of betrayal and rejection was so strong, I felt helpless. And he was a goddamn successful billionaire for God’s sake. If he had a problem with me why couldn’t he just damn well tell me to my face?

Around the table with the crew in the galley a few hours later, I tried to follow the animated banter, but my stomach had been churning for hours. My bludgeoned pride was allowing all manner of thoughts to join the pity party parade. Now I began wondering if Dauphine had been sweet to my face and then complained bitterly about me to her father at all the meals they’d shared without me. Because how else could I explain him taking the drastic step of asking for a replacement?

I’d found Andrea right before dinner and told her what had happened. She’d been as surprised as me, and completely clueless. “I’ll try and ask Evan later,” she said before giving me a hug. “He may know.”

I thought I’d been doing an all right job. It wasn’t exactly hard. And I thought, despite the concern I’d voiced to him earlier, he at least liked me. But who had I been kidding? From the moment I’d arrived, Xavier Pascale and I had been at odds. The friendly boss-employee relationship I’d caught glimpses of were clearly an illusion. I thought of the hard look he’d given me after I fell against him when the boat slowed so abruptly. I’d never known it was possible to repulse someone you had a crush on so utterly.

“What do you think, Josie?” Rod asked me.

I blinked, a forkful of forgotten ravioli halfway to my mouth, and realized everyone was staring at me. Everyone but Captain Paco. He was having dinner with Monsieur Pascale and Dauphine this evening on the upper deck.

“Um, I’m sorry, what do I think about what?” I managed, my voice dredged from somewhere far away.

Rod smirked. “About whether Chef should wax his back?”

My eyebrows shot up.

“Fuck off,” growled Chef, and there was a screech as he pushed his chair back and leaned over the table, grabbing Rod by the collar and knuckling his head. “That’s not what I said and I don’t have a hairy back.”

“Oi, get off,” yelped Rod. “Joking, mate. Joking.”

“Say sorry, you—”

“Children, children,” said Evan calmly as he deftly moved his glass of water from under Chef’s elbow where it was in danger of being batted off the table.

I held my breath as Rod tried to jerk himself free from the merciless ribbing. And I cringed as I waited for something to actually be knocked over.

Finally, Chef let go, straightened his shirt and sat. “Hmmph,” he sounded grouchily.

“Bloody hell.” Rod rubbed his head. “Sore spot was it?” he baited.

Chef feinted another move, chuckling as Rod jerked back on instinct.

“The ravioli is delicious,” I told Chef, even though until now I’d barely tasted a thing. But I was eager to help move the group along. I focused on my plate and took another bite. It was homemade as always, filled to bursting with a soft buttery cheese, herbs, and a hint of truffle. God, I’d miss his cooking.

Chef shrugged. “Simple food. I don’t get inspired cooking for this lot.” Even though this ravioli was far from simple to my palate, and he was clearly being humble and also throwing in a dig at Rod.

“No complaints on preferring simplicity here,” said Rod, deliberately pushing the scrumptious and far from simple pasta around his plate, his tone sarcastic. “I’d rather eat baked beans on toast than this swill, anyway.”

Chef growled.

Everyone else laughed.

Clearly this was a long running play-feud because no one seemed to take it seriously. And being here with them every day had slowly started feeling like a family. I blinked as tears threatened again. It reminded me of when my dad was alive and both my mother’s and aunt’s families and extended families would have Sunday lunch every week that lasted past dinner time. All that had changed when Mom