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

with Jorge, her private secretary. Jorge, skinny and always impeccably dressed, had an effeminate air and was, as far as I could tell, utterly ageless. He’d looked and dressed exactly the same since he’d started in this post over twenty years ago. Arriette used to joke that he was a vampire. My mother’s house manager, Albert, was part of a husband and wife team that did everything from groceries to maintenance and lived on the property. Albert had aged. But he still looked fit and strong.

I threw the line up to Albert and he tied us up to the heavy iron mooring cleat before giving us a hand up.

“Right on schedule,” Jorge praised after we’d all said our greetings. Albert and I grabbed Dauphine’s bags and headed up the stone steps cut into the cliff.

My mother waited at the top by the wrought iron gate to her villa. She wore white palazzo pants, a brightly colored tunic top, and pearls at her throat. Her hair, still expensively blonde and shot through with silver, was perfectly wound up in her signature chignon. She threw out her hands in welcome. “Ma petite!” she exclaimed, grabbing my daughter into a tight embrace and then kissing her on each cheek. She set her back and looked her up and down. “You are a treat for these eyes. I’ve missed you!”

After Dauphine had returned the sentiments, my mother turned to me and kissed me on both cheeks. “Come. Lunch is served.”

We wound up to the terrace with a stone balustrade that overlooked the rocky bay below and my yacht anchored a short distance away. Her housekeeper, and Albert’s wife, Astrid greeted us and poured us some wine and water.

Dauphine and my mother chattered away as they found their seats. Lunch was smoked salmon, salad, and baguette.

“Please pass your father the breadbasket, dear,” my mother addressed Dauphine.

“I’m not speaking to him. He’ll have to get it himself.”

My mother’s eyebrows gently raised. “And what did he do to deserve this?” she asked, giving me the eye.

I should have known we’d have to talk about the nanny again.

“He fired Josie and sent her away. And she did nothing wrong, Mémé!”

“And who is Josie?” my mother asked.

“She was the American nanny I hired. She had no experience.” I bit into a piece of bread. “It all happened so last minute. And I didn’t fire her, she resigned. Unfortunately, Dauphine grew rather fond of her. I’m afraid I didn’t realize how much.”

“Oh.” My mother patted Dauphine’s hand sympathetically. “There’ll be others.”

My daughter sniffed. “She was my best friend.”

“Did something happen?” my mother asked me.

I took a gulp of rosé wine—larger than I’d intended. It almost went down the wrong way and I coughed. I shook my head. Now she was going to draw conclusions.

“Ah,” my mother said, her head cocking to the side as she studied me. I couldn’t tell if she was amused, disgusted, or simply empathetic. “That’s unfortunate,” she said, her mouth curling. Perhaps she thought Josephine had come on to me or something. “Evan should have said something.”

“It wasn’t her. I—” my gaze flicked to Dauphine, then back to my mother. “She just wasn’t suited. Wait, what do you mean about Evan?”

“As I said. Unfortunate. Because she’s on her way.”

This time I did cough. “What?” The little minx had been playing dumb. I scowled at my mother.

“Truly?” Dauphine asked, then looked over my shoulder toward the house. “Josie!” She jumped up and ran past me.

I whipped round, and there were Josephine and Evan being shown out the patio doors by Jorge. Josephine’s face was all smiles to see Dauphine, but by the way her skin beat bright red all the way to her ears, I could tell she was embarrassed at being here.

I was fucking embarrassed. I glared at Evan.

“Been trying to call you, Boss. Gave up and called Madame Pascale. The train workers strike has shut down all the lines. She won’t get to Paris in time for the flight tonight. I’ve called Marie Louise to try and get her on tomorrow’s flight. The strike should end in a few days, so we’ll have better luck later this week.”

I’d forgotten about the planned strikes and immediately felt like shit for putting Josephine in this position. Well, even shittier than I’d felt not two minutes ago. And then suspiciously annoyed because he could have easily gotten her on a flight to Paris.

“Come, you must meet Josie,” Dauphine said to her grandmother. Then to Josie, “Mémé speaks English.”

My mother stepped forward and smiled in welcome. “I’m Madame Pascale.”

“Josephine Marin,” my daughter’s ex-nanny responded. “Lovely to meet you. I’m so sorry for the unexpected intrusion.”

“Nonsense. You’ll join us for lunch. We have plenty. You too, Evan.”

“Thank you, Madame. But I will grab a bite with Jorge inside, we need to discuss some security details.”

Then he gave me a stony look before turning to go inside. Great. Did everyone who worked for me plan on taking Josie’s side over mine?

“As you wish.” My mother headed back to the table and motioned to Astrid who was already hurrying out with another set of silverware and glasses for the round table. Astrid moved Dauphine and me apart and put Josephine’s place setting right between us. Of course.

“These ridiculous strikes,” my mother snapped in French. “It’s irresponsible.”

“Well,” I said as I pulled out my mother’s chair to avoid having to do Josie’s. “They have a point, if they need more pay.”

“I didn’t take you for a unionist,” she said, placing her napkin back on her lap.

“Well, as a product of a privileged upbringing,” I waved my hand at our surrounding, “and knowing how good we have it, I can say that they are right to feel pissed off when the world around them gets more expensive and they never get a salary increase.”

“Bof.” My mother flicked her wrist and switched to English. “Josie. Are there lots of strikes in America?”

“Um. Not really. I mean there are labor unions for manufacturers but not so