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

it though, I knew I didn’t want to be hungover while making the ride of shame to the airport tomorrow.

She laughed. “No judgment from me, I promise. I may even join you in a few. Come on.”

I rummaged through my bag and pulled out the only thing I could find. It was the plain black linen t-shirt dress I’d bought at the market in Antibes, but it was short and nicely cut. With the right accessories it could double as a little black dress. I also pulled out my makeup bag. “Give me five minutes?”

Andrea broke out in a wide smile. “You betcha. See you on the back deck. We won’t leave without you. Don’t wear heels, the cobblestones are a nightmare.”

“Don’t have any.” I shrugged. “See you in a few.”

My hair had dried into waves I was getting used to since I hadn’t seen a hairdryer since I’d arrived. It helped that I’d wound my locks into a low bun while it dried. Being in the sun every day, the copper tones had really lightened and caught the light as I separated the waves. I applied some light make up, focusing mostly on my eyes. The tan I’d built up over the last few weeks negated the need for much else. I slipped the dress over a black bra and panties, put on some dangly earrings that sparkled, and my black flip flops. It would have to do. I grabbed my small cross body purse, lip gloss, phone, and some money and left my cabin to go say goodnight to Dauphine before I left, only to bump right into her and Xavier coming down the stairs.

My cheeks throbbed as I was once again swamped with embarrassed heat. I couldn’t look at him, so I dropped my gaze to Dauphine, and then bent to her level. “Bonne nuit, my little mermaid,” I said and kissed her cheek as I felt the weight of her father’s gaze on me. “Sweet dreams.”

“I am going to see mémé tomorrow!” she crowed. “I must pack my clothes. And then you can read to me too later, after Papa?”

My heart squeezed. God, I’d miss her! I shook my head. “I’m going out with Andrea.”

“Where are you going?” Xavier’s harsh tone jerked my face up to meet his gaze.

“I have no idea.” I telegraphed don’t-fuck-with-me vibes as hard as I could.

His jaw flexed. “Be safe.”

I narrowed my eyes. Like he cared. “I think I’d like to have a few drinks and … dance,” I goaded. “Is that safe?”

His nostrils flared briefly. But he tamped down whatever he’d been about to say. He gave a curt nod that seemed like he’d rather do anything but agree with me.

“You look so beautiful,” said Dauphine. “Doesn’t she look pretty, Papa?”

I smiled down at her. “Thank you.”

“Oui,” came her father’s gruff voice.

I glanced back to him, my smile fading as his eyes seared into mine briefly.

I blinked.

“Excuse us,” he ground out and urged Dauphine forward. I flattened myself to the wall as he passed me, my eyes closed, and allowed myself a last surreptitious inhale. Wood. Man. Amazing that this condescending, control freak of a man could still make my lady parts do a tap dance. Even with my eyes closed, my body could feel the moment he was safely past me. I wondered how cell-deep awareness this strong could be one-sided. And I wondered if I’d ever experience it again in the rest of my life. My analytical brain couldn’t make sense of it.

I turned and hurried up the stairs without a look back.

On the back deck, the sounds of the port restaurants and the balmy evening breeze soothed my frayed senses. Paco sat on a deck chair holding a skinny brown cigar. A gun and a copy of For Whom the Bell Tolls rested on the table next to him.

Wait.

I spun back around so quickly, I hurt my neck. “Is that …?”

He casually glanced down. “A gun? Yes.”

I swallowed. “Okay.”

Right. Of course, someone would need to stay and guard the Pascale family. “Didn’t know that was a thing in France to just be casually packing. And Hemingway?” I arched my brows, playing off my shock.

“Sorry to be so cliché.” He chuckled.

“That’s not what I’d call it,” I said and caught Andrea’s amused expression.

Evan had finally ditched his starched uniform and was dressed in a t-shirt that hugged his impressive physique and a pair of worn chino pants. His hands slipped into his pockets and he shrugged. “I need to do a couple of things in town for an hour or so, so Paco will be guarding the fort.” I was relieved he was coming with us as I was hoping to find out what he’d discussed with Monsieur Pascale.

Chef and Rod were already off the gangplank and ambling down the pier toward the security gate that would let us out of the marina and into the throngs of the port nightlife. Apparently, they were getting along now.

I teetered down the gangplank, hitting terra firma for only the second time in a week, and grabbed Andrea’s arm. “Good lord. I have sea legs,” I moaned. “I feel like I weigh ten tons. Please tell me this is a known phenomenon and not that I ate that much pasta and baguette.”

Evan steadied me from the other side, looking concerned. “I hope you don’t have mal de débarquement.”

“Mally what?”

“It’s like reverse sea legs. People can get dizzy, their center of equilibrium is off from being on a boat for a long period. Hopefully it’s just an episode and will wear off soon. You didn’t have it at the beach club, right?”

I thought back. “I felt heavy and tired when we first arrived, but not dizzy. And it didn’t last.”

“Just hang on to one of us as we walk.”

“Wow, you’re serious. This is a thing?” I concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other. “I feel drunk without the fun.”

Evan left us then and hurried ahead to catch up with