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

green one.” She held up the first dress she’d tried on that I’d tried to persuade her to buy.

“You hustler,” I griped. “You were going to get that all along.”

“Nope.”

“Yep.”

“Okay, I was debating. But now I will if you will. Come on. We’ll tell Evan we’re going to the club so no one worries about us. But let’s go have a dance for a few hours. Let’s feel like the awesome powerful gorgeous women we are. Maybe we’ll even be hit on.”

“You ever thought about starting a motivational podcast?” I deadpanned.

“Is that a yes?”

“Fine. Yes. But I don’t care if I’m hit on. I’m over men right now.”

Andrea clapped again.

“I can’t believe I’m doing this.” I reached under the dress and tried to unsnap my bra. “And I’m still not convinced you are actually Andrea.”

“I’m going to get offended if you say that anymore. Am I really such a stick in the mud?”

“No. Sorry. Just … sensible?”

“This is the most sensible idea I’ve had in ages.”

I rolled my eyes with a laugh and slipped my bra out from the dress under one arm. I winced when I saw myself in the mirror. “Are you sure about this?” I asked.

“You are stunning,” Andrea responded from behind a curtain where she’d disappeared to put her dress choice on. “You need a stunning dress and a stunning last night. I can’t bear to think you’ll go home with such a bad taste in your mouth from one of the most divine places in the world and one of the loveliest families I’ve ever worked for.”

I snorted at the last one.

“No, seriously,” she said as she whipped the curtain aside. “I don’t know what’s gotten under Mister P’s skin lately. But he’s a good man. One of the best. Now, let’s call Evan and let him know the plan. I’m sure he’s back on the boat by now. His primary protection duty is to Mr. P and Dauphine after all. And then you and I can go get us a glass of champagne.”

We paid the sales lady, and she fussed around us a couple more times, clipping out a label and folding up our own dresses into shopping bags. Then I linked arms with Andrea and let her drag me out on the town.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

It was either the dresses or the intention to have fun, but from the moment we left the store, eyes followed us appreciatively wherever we passed. I collected the looks like gold shillings and felt like a million dollars by the time we made it back to the bars and restaurants along the quayside. We headed for where Rod and Chef were sitting at a café, so we could ask them to take our shopping bags back to the boat.

A loud wolf whistle pierced the air, making both Andrea and me jump and drawing even more eyes. In the same instant I realized it came from Rod.

“Gorgeous, ladies!”

“God, Rod. You are such a builder,” complained Andrea. “Can’t a girl walk down the street without being harassed?”

“You love it. Now come here and sit with us two geezers and make us look good.”

Chef chuckled at Rod’s antics, and I was glad to see they actually did seem to get along.

“Sorry, lads. We can’t. Josie and I are off to the nightclub. Les Caves.”

“Did you get enough to eat?” intervened Chef, like a gruff dad.

“We had crepes,” Andrea assured him. “Anyway, take our shopping, would you? I’ve texted Evan, but let him know you saw us and we’re fine, and if we’re not home by one a.m., would one of you come looking for us?”

“After midnight?” sputtered Rod. “What about my beauty sleep?”

“God knows, he needs it,” Chef muttered.

“Oi.”

“Boys, boys. Rod, you’re always up late. Yes or no?”

“Yes. Fine. Why can’t we come with you?”

Andrea laid a hand on Rod’s sandy hair. “Next time, yeah?” Then she grabbed my arm and we waved goodbye as we left them.

Tucked into a corner behind a row of restaurants off the main port was a small dark doorway flanked by two palms and a red rope with brass fittings. There was a line that snaked around the corner into the alley. A wide man with square shoulders, shaved head, and a non-existent neck stepped out of the darkness. His face was set in a hard scowl.

“Umberto!” Andrea greeted, and he burst into a grin that transformed him from scary mother fucker to ball of sugar.

They fired a string of greetings at each other in … “You speak Italian?” I asked Andrea. “That’s Italian, right?”

Andrea shrugged bashfully. “I know a few words. This is Umberto. Umberto, this is Josie. Dauphine’s nanny.”

“Of course.” He smiled and shook my hand. “And you, my dear. You are also bellissima, like my Andrea! Come in, come in!” He unhooked the heavy rope and ushered us past him, and we stepped into a dim and quiet vestibule where a heavy base beat was barely audible.

“How do you know the bouncer? I thought you didn’t party much,” I asked.

“Oh, we dock here off season too, and we let his kid come and hang out and play on the boat. Umberto and Paco know each other from way back. I think they crewed on the same boat back in the day. It’s a small world in the hospitality industry, especially in the mega-yacht world.”

“You call yourselves yachties, right?”

“Sadly, yes.” She pushed open an interior door. “Anyway, you ready?”

I nodded.

Music and laughter blared out. The music was something from the nineties but over a dance beat. Inside, the club was dimly lit. There was a central oval area surrounded by red velvet covered benches and round tables occupied by small groups of people. A long bar backed with smoky antique glass covered one end of the room and at the other was a white light-tiled dance floor and a DJ booth. It didn’t feel overly busy, but we still had to edge in at the bar. Andrea flagged down the bartender and in