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

the staff stairwell, passing Chef who was on his way up.

I frowned and made myself an espresso and asked Chef to make me an egg white omelet.

He grunted. “No problem, Monsieur,” he said in a tone that made me wonder if he would spit in it.

“Great. I’ll take it on the top deck in fifteen minutes. Everyone all right this morning?” I asked.

“Oui,” Chef responded in a decidedly “no,” tone.

“Okay, then,” I muttered sarcastically. “I’ll just go get cleaned up.”

I’d just gotten out of the shower when Dauphine came slamming into the room.

“Excuse me,” I grumbled. “I’m getting dressed.”

Her face was thunderous, and she stamped her foot. “I don’t care!” she screamed. “Why did you let her leave?” Her face collapsed into a loud sob and she ran forward to bury her face against my stomach.

“What are you talking about?” I hugged her to me with one hand as I held up my towel with the other.

“It’s all your fault!” She pushed off me and began pummeling my stomach. “Ow,” she complained. “Your stomach is too hard.”

I laughed. “I’m tensing so you don’t hurt me.”

“Stop laughing. It’s not funny. I knew you didn’t like her. I knew it. Why, Papa? Why?”

“Christ.” I let out a long exhale and tightened my towel firmly around my waist and then padded into the bedroom. I pointed at the couch. “Sit.”

My daughter stomped over and sat.

“What are you talking about?”

“Josie has gone away.”

My stomach dropped to my toes, and my heart felt like ten tons of concrete. “She … left?”

That’s when I noticed a folded letter crumpled in Dauphine’s small fist. She smacked it on my leg. “It’s in English. Read it to me.”

“Dauphine! Do not speak to me like that,” I warned and took the letter.

Instead of her normal chagrin when she knew she’d pushed me too far, I got a look of pure sparks. I sighed and looked at it. Monsieur Pascale was written in delicate cursive. She even had beautiful handwriting. “This is to me. So I think I should read it.”

“Andrea and Evan both already read it so it’s not private.”

My eyebrows shot up. “Oh, they did, did they?” I was going to have words with both of them. “Well, you are not reading it. It is addressed to me. Not you. Did she not say goodbye to you?”

“She did.” Dauphine nodded dumbly, her tears still streaking hot and fast down her cheeks, her small chin wobbling.

I hugged her closer with one arm.

“I knew you did not like her,” Dauphine warbled. “You were mean to her sometimes. You are not mean, Papa. Why were you mean to Josie?”

“I liked her just fine. And I wasn’t—” I broke off. “Maybe I was gruff sometimes.”

Dauphine dissolved into tears again.

Fuck me. My heart was twisting in my chest at the thought of Josie leaving and at seeing my daughter so distraught.

“I did like her.” I winced. “I like her a lot.” God, if I could only explain the half of it.

“She’s so nice.”

“She is.” I nodded.

“And kind.”

“Oui.”

“And smart.”

I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Oui.”

“And she makes me laugh.”

Me too.

“And she teaches me things. And I can tell her my secrets and she doesn’t laugh. And she makes me feel safe in the night. And she knows how much I miss Maman, and she doesn’t say the stupid stuff.”

“What stupid stuff?”

“Like everyone says. My teachers, you, the doctor you made me talk to. They all say, it will get better. They say they’re sorry. Why are they sorry? Sorry doesn’t bring Maman back.”

“No. It doesn’t.”

“And … she’s my friend. My best friend. If you don’t bring her back, I will never speak to you again. Never.”

I sucked in my lips. “Okay. Well. Now we’re going to sail around to Cap Ferrat and you can tell Mémé all about it.”

“I’ll tell Mémé you made Josie leave. I heard Evan and Andrea talking. You fired her!”

I squeezed my eyes closed, then let out a long breath. I wanted to deny it, but I’d as good as done it. Firstly, with sending the email a few weeks ago to Tabitha Mackenzie and never retracting it. And secondly by acting like a fucking beast last night. But in the end, her leaving was the best thing for everyone. Maybe not Dauphine, but … “You’ll get over it,” I said gently to Dauphine. “You will make new frie—”

“I hate you!” She ran to the door and slammed it behind her.

“I guess I have a tweenager,” I muttered, and then stared hard at the letter, my guts twisting.

Three hours later, as the yacht made its way around the headland and into the small bay where my mother’s villa was, Dauphine hadn’t spoken a single word to me. She’d packed almost all her animals, which told me she was making a statement that she wouldn’t be coming back on the boat any time soon. My chest was aching with guilt. Despite the businesslike and light tone of Josie’s resignation letter, letting me know what a wonderful time she’d had with Dauphine and that a job opportunity awaited her back home, I couldn’t help feeling like I was doing the wrong thing by letting her go and also that she was probably really upset. Did I believe she had a job offer? Certainly, it was possible. Anyone would be a fool not to hire her. But somehow, I knew that wasn’t the reason. The reason was all me. And I couldn’t help the grudging respect I had for her drawing a line in the sand and leaving in the wake of what had happened between us.

Evan had apparently taken Josie to the train station on the way to Sofia Antipolis, and they’d left early to beat the traffic.

My mother was expecting us for lunch on her terrace, so as soon as Paco dropped anchor, Dauphine and I, and her bags, took the tender to the small concrete jetty where one of my mother’s house managers who doubled as security, stood waiting