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

car park of all things.” Her face twisted in disgust. “Honestly, nothing is sacred with these people. Thank goodness we had the sense to insist on the archeological team being involved in the site preparation. You know they would have just bulldozed right through it, none the wiser. Anyway, I’ve put it on the agenda. We need to raise funds to preserve the thing and then put it on display. I don’t suppose you feel like being a patron again this year?”

“As always simply let me know how big of a check to write and where to send it.”

“You’re a good son to your maman,” she said affectionately.

“Yes, and I’m sure it makes you the favorite board member.”

She lifted a shoulder in tandem with her eyebrow. “It’s not the only reason. But it sure does help. On that note, I’m on the host committee again for the gala. If you could buy a table, I’ll find the other nine people.”

“Sure. Of course. But no matchmaking.”

“Xavier, how am I supposed to invite a spare lady to make up numbers and not hope that you might hit it off? But lucky for you, I have no one in mind right now.”

“Good. Don’t think too hard on it. I’m not ready.”

She gave me a steely look. She’d never gotten on well with Arriette, and I suppose she thought I should be over her faster. “It’s been two years—”

“I’m not ready,” I reiterated. “Besides, I thought you were my date.”

She glanced off toward the ocean, the breeze blowing a strand of her perfect chignon free. “I—I may have met someone,” she said, her voice getting quiet, unsure.

“Really?”

She smoothed the errant strand back behind her ear, her fingertips pressing it back into her do. “I haven’t wanted to say anything. Not until I was sure. Of my feelings. But, yes. I think so.”

“Anyone I know?”

“I hope not. No offense. But he’s … Italian. I met him through some acquaintances in Monaco. He lives in Sanremo.” Sanremo was just a bit farther along the coast across the Italian border. “He’s nice. Uncomplicated. Kind. He hasn’t been here yet.”

“Does he know who you are?”

“He knows I have a son.”

“Are you hiding your money?” I asked, my disbelief obvious even to my own ears. My mother loved to live a level above everyone else. At least, I thought she did. “And hiding me?”

“Well, look at you.” She gestured her hand up and down. “You’re a behemoth in business. God knows you didn’t get that from your father. I’m happy to take credit. But I think you could perhaps … intimidate an ordinary man. Not that I’m saying Giuseppe is ordinary. Not in that way. He’s remarkable in so many ways …”

My mother trailed off under my scrutiny.

I pulled down my sunglasses to really study her. “Are you blushing?” I asked.

“Nonsense!” She tossed her napkin at me. “I don’t blush.”

“You are.” I laughed.

“You’re laughing. That’s good, no? I expected you to be more protective.”

“I am protective. I’m still going to have him investigated.” I tossed a remaining piece of cucumber that was on the edge of my plate into my mouth.

“Okay.”

“I was joking. I trust your judgment.”

“I don’t. Not in matters of the heart. Not after your father.” She looked back out to sea.

I inhaled deeply through my nose. That was the thing, wasn’t it? One could have all the good judgment and intuition in the world, and be successful in business, but those you chose to give your heart to, who had power to hurt you the most, that was where the Pascale family seemed to have a blind spot.

I was aware of all the dark spaces in my heart. Never more than right now. They’d grown comfortable, those dark spaces. But I suddenly realized, over the last couple of weeks, they’d become like grit in the cracks, broken and irritating. And I definitely wanted to brush them out of the way and let the light in. Looking at my mother, noticing the glow I’d missed when I arrived today, it looked as though she was living again.

I wondered how that felt.

I wondered if I’d ever feel brave enough to try it.

Dauphine came running across the grass to the stone patio, Josie trailing behind her. She’d been smiling at something Dauphine said, but it slipped a bit on seeing me. She refocused on my mother instead. God, why did I feel so shitty about her?

“You have a beautiful home,” Josephine addressed my mother. “Belle Epoque Architecture?”

“That’s right. Built in the 1880s. You like history?”

“I do. And architecture, of course.”

“Josie is an architect!” Dauphine said with pride.

My mother looked at me, her eyebrows raised again before turning back to our visitor. “My goodness! My son didn’t tell me.”

“No,” Josephine said, her eyes trained solely on my mother. “I don’t suppose he did. I’ve been qualified for several years now. Some of my favorite courses in college were the architectural influences in this part of France. I also have some French heritage. It’s always been on my list to come here in person.”

“Well, I know you’re headed home but hopefully you were able to see some of the architecture along the coast. It spans from before Roman times.”

“Um, no. I wasn’t able to see that much actually. Not up close anyway.” Her eyes flicked to mine briefly. “I’ll have to plan a trip here some other time.”

“What? Have you been a prisoner on that boat?” my mother admonished.

She’s the fucking nanny, I wanted to protest. That’s where her job is. Was. Whatever.

Josephine gave a small, tight laugh. And while I knew I wasn’t required to provide day trips and excursions for people I hired to look after my daughter, I was suddenly filled with guilt and remorse. Which felt like just about the stupidest thing ever. My mother was leading Josie to the table to sit and motioning for Astrid to bring us coffee after she’d cleared the table. “So,” she was saying, “how does an architect find herself working