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

a breath, his eyes growing serious. “I find myself wanting to tell you everything. You are so easy to be with.” He picked up his glass and took a healthy sip. Now that he was letting himself be with me was the unspoken follow up.

“I wish I could say the same.”

His head cocked to the side, wordlessly asking me to explain. A faint look of hurt rippled behind his poker mask.

“I mean this, here, you, right now. It’s … great. But on the same day you tell me women want too much of you. I can imagine, I know,” I corrected, “how they could fall into that trap of wanting more of you than you’re willing to give them. To give me. This version of you is …” I took a small sip of wine, wondering how honest to be and deciding I’d said enough. What I wanted to say was “this version of you is easy to fall in love with.” But the truth was every version of him was.

I couldn’t look at him. I picked at a small piece of my bread. Then Cristo was there, gesticulating and pointing to a small rickety wooden stairwell.

We got up and followed him. At the bottom of the stairs, Xavier waved me after Cristo and ahead of him. After what happened outside, this should have been funny. But I’d ruined the vibe. I moved ahead of him. But the moment my foot touched the first stair, he took my arm stilling me, and stepped up behind me, his mouth at my ear. “I was talking about other women,” he whispered.

“What am I?” I turned my face to his.

His dropped his forehead to my shoulder for a second, then he looked up at me, his expression helpless. “You’re … you.”

I nodded at his non answer, knowing it was probably all I’d get, then I continued following Cristo upstairs.

Chapter Thirty-Six

After following Cristo up four flights of ancient wooden stairs, that got narrower, and more rickety, I was seriously ready to question the safety of this adventure. “How old do you think this building is?” I asked Xavier over my shoulder.

At each turn, we passed closed wooden doors set into whitewashed stucco and kept climbing.

“Five hundred years, give or take. Maybe more.”

“Wow. Do they not have termites in this part of the world?”

“Normally, I’d say ‘what are you talking about?’ But I just read a frightening article. They are going to become more prevalent in Europe with the average temperature rising every year. We’ll lose so much history.”

“That’s so sad, I—” My words died on my lips as we reached the top and climbed through a trap door where I’m sure I flashed Xavier my black thong, and then we were on a roof terrace. It was strung with twinkling lights and potted plants. Full grown orange and lemon trees in halved wine barrels created a sanctuary but left the view open down to the harbor and the ocean. There was even a grape vine over our heads. The last of the day’s light had spilled mercury across the blue ocean. On the terrace in front of us was a single linen covered table for two with a candle in a glass jar in the middle. Soft classical music played from somewhere unknown.

Cristo fussed and moved us toward the table. My mouth was open and I closed it. “It’s beautiful,” I told him sincerely.

Apparently he knew what that meant. “Beautiful, beautiful, si, si,” he said, delighted. He turned to Xavier, gesturing to the wall in the corner, explaining some kind of dumb waiter contraption and a bell before turning back to us and filling our wine glasses with the last of the carafe. Apparently, the upstairs table got the fancy cut crystal. It was old and heavy. Beautiful. After seating us, Cristo disappeared back down the stairs.

I looked around, still in awe. “This is … stunning.” The breeze was cooler up here and caressed my bare arms.

“It is. I had no idea.”

“Wait. This isn’t your special romance table?”

“I think I covered how much romance I’ve had recently,” he said tightly.

My gut thumped. “I’m sorry. They seem to have known you a long time. I—didn’t you bring your wife here?”

“I take it back about you being easy to be around. You’re challenging me tonight.” He chuckled and picked up his crystal glass. “Chin chin.”

“Cheers,” I returned carefully.

We both set our glasses down.

“The truth is I did bring her here. Not up here. This was never offered to me before. I didn’t know it existed. Arriette, she didn’t enjoy when I came to visit Corsica. Perhaps Cristo could tell.” His voice was low, and his eyes strayed to the left as if lost in memories.

“What really happened to her?” I whispered. “How did she die?”

His shoulders moved, and he slowly unfolded his arms, setting his palms on the table edge as if steadying himself. He looked down at his fingers. “The sordid stories say she partied too hard and overdosed.” His voice carried shame.

“And you?” I managed. “What do you believe?”

He looked at me with hesitation, with so much pain that my chest cinched tight. “I … I believe she took her own life,” he said. “I believe it was … deliberate.”

Shit. I let his truth hang out in the air between us, fighting the urge to refute it, to reassure him, to crawl across the table and hold him so fucking tight. “Today, when you saw me in the bathroom, you thought of her, didn’t you?” I asked quietly when I could breathe again.

He nodded then lifted his palms from the table with an inhale and reached for his wine. “So. Now you know. And I would like for you not to discuss it with anyone.”

“Of course,” I croaked and cleared my throat. “I would never. I’m so sorry.”

“Not your fault.” He grimaced. “If Dauphine had to think about the fact her mother didn’t love her daughter enough to stay alive, well, you can