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

Chef and Rod. By the end of the pier, I felt marginally better but realized I’d missed my chance to talk to Evan.

“How’s your head feel?” Andrea asked.

“Good. Fine. So, is it just me, or did you notice Evan made himself scarce before I could ask him about going to speak to Monsieur Pascale on my behalf?”

“Yeah. I did. Coward.” She rolled her eyes. “It can only mean he doesn’t have an answer yet. I’m sorry.”

My stomach sank. “It’s fine. It’s not like it would have changed my mind about leaving.”

“But maybe you can corner Evan later and get the details?”

I nodded.

“Great,” she said, her uncomfortable smile morphing into a joyous one. “Now let me take you to my favorite little boutique off the square and then we’ll go get some drinks. And then I’ll persuade you to stay.”

The cobblestones were tightly packed and so were the throngs of people. I clung tightly to Andrea’s arm. There were singles, couples, families, and groups of fiery young men and tittering young girls. The outfits ranged from a day out on the water to fancy reservations for dinner.

Music and the clink of glass and hum of chatter emanating from the street cafés and restaurants lent a festive mood to the atmosphere. The evening felt full. Vibrant. Unmarred by the silly stresses of family worries or low paying jobs. Or the humiliation of failing at being a nanny. Real life didn’t seem to exist here.

A family with two little toddler darlings dressed in matching Vilbrequin and Gucci gesticulated wildly as they talked and walked and browsed the shop windows. After several little shops, I’d put a marginal dent in my credit card with some cute items for Meredith and Tabs, a gorgeous linen scarf and a necklace with peacock feathers for my mother.

“Come on," Andrea said and squeezed my arm. “There's another little boutique I want to pop into up ahead. But first, I’m buying you a real French crepe.”

The smell of warm batter and caramelized sugar had already grabbed my attention and made my stomach growl. She dragged me to an open window across the street and ordered two lemon and sugar crepes that were served to us in sticky goodness, dripping out of wax paper. The tart and sweet flavors exploded across my tongue and I devoured the delicious treat.

“Ohmygoooood,” I mumbled with my mouth full. “Shmazing.”

Andrea laughed. “Right?”

When we were both done, Andrea pulled out a couple of wet wipes from her purse, and we cleaned off our fingers and lips. Then we made our way farther up the road.

Tucked into an alley no more than five feet wide was a little store. There was a planter full of colorful flowers below the picture window. The antique wooden front door, with peeling light blue paint, was propped open. Several pretty summer dresses hung from it and swayed in the breeze. The smell of baked waffle cones and coffee drifted from the busy ice cream shop on the corner.

Andrea greeted the saleslady who seemed to remember her from previous trips, and they chatted in French. Andrea pointed at me, and they both looked me up and down. “She has a new shipment of gorgeous dresses that haven't been seen by anyone,” Andrea addressed me. “What size are you? Actually, don’t tell me American sizes, they’re nauseatingly small. I’ll always remember Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman telling the personal shopper that she was a size six, and everyone watching in the common room at uni let out an audible groan." She laughed. "Oops. I'm dating myself, aren’t I?”

I smiled. "I know the scene you’re talking about. If only we had Richard Gere and his unlimited credit card. That would make this trip even more fun. Or better yet, our own unlimited credit cards, no men required.”

The sales lady disappeared into the back and came back out with her arms full, and Andrea and I spent a fun half an hour trying on little flirty dresses.

The last one I tried on was a simple but stunning short dress in a golden silky material that seemed to float around my body like a “wisp of sexiness,” to use Andrea’s expression. It was so thin, it ought to be see through but wasn’t quite.

“It’ll be a crime if you don’t buy that,” she said persuasively.

“You know,” I said wryly. “I think you’d get on with my friend Meredith. I can almost hear her telling me to buy the dress even though I have absolutely no idea when I’d ever wear such a thing. Are you sure you’re not channeling her right now?”

“Ha. Clearly a sensible girl.”

“But not a very sensible dress.”

“Wear it now.” She shrugged, her eyes gleaming. “Nothing is sensible in St. Tropez.”

“What? No.”

“Yes!” She clapped her hands excitedly. “There’s no better time. You’re all tan and gorgeous. It’s your last night.” Her smile dimmed a little. “We should make it count. I don’t normally party, but I think we should at least go hit up Les Caves. It’s famous. All the celebrities have visited over the years. You can’t be young and beautiful in St. Tropez and not go to a nightclub. Now that’s a crime.”

“Um. What happened to sensible, chief steward, Andrea?” I asked, an eyebrow raised.

“She hasn’t had a night out in a long time. And in case you haven’t noticed, hasn’t had much female companionship lately either. And I’m seething that this could be your last night. So I say we make it one to remember.”

“I don’t have the right bra for this. The material, while not see through, felt thin as gossamer. The delicate spaghetti straps were marred by the black bra straps underneath.

“So take the bra off.”

“Andrea. Wait. Are you Andrea? Meredith, is that you?” I stepped forward and rapped lightly on her head with my knuckles. “You are insane.”

“You’re young, you’re perky, and you know no one here. Not that anyone would judge you. People sunbathe topless here, for God’s sake. Come on. I’ll get this emerald