Broken French: A widowed, billionaire, single dad romance Natasha Boyd (i read books .TXT) 📖

There was no God. Then I turned. “Xavier,” I managed, my voice feeling like sandpaper.

Chapter Fifty-One

“It is you.” Xavier’s face was alight with wonder and relief and joy—emotions I simply didn’t understand or expect.

“Why do you look like that?” My hand came up and vaguely waved at him.

His eyebrows pinched together slightly. “Like what?”

“Happy to see me.”

“Because I came to America to see you, and here you are.”

I looked at Sylvie, who had one perfectly plucked eyebrow arched as she took us both in. “So you didn’t come to see Sylvie and check on your yacht? Because apparently you didn’t just arrive today.” Bitterness crept into my tone.

“No. I mean, I did, but there were some things I had to take care of.” His blue eyes pinned me. “Is there somewhere we can talk?”

“Now? I—” I cut myself off. “No. I’m actually late for work.” Or would be if we continued to talk. Besides, my shock was wearing off, and I was beginning to feel weak and dazed. I shook my head. “Sorry. I … this is a shock. I have to go.”

“Wait.” He reached out a hand for me, and I flinched back. Surprise and hurt flashed across his features. “Josephine …” He lowered his voice. A lock of dark hair dropped across his brow.

Sylvie said something in French, which I belatedly understood as her going to wait for him inside. She tucked her unused cigarette back in its silver case and went back in the shop.

“Xavier,” I started, shifting my weight nervously. My gaze lowered to his white shirt buttons revealed between the lapels of a dark linen blazer, anything but look at his eyes. Over the untucked tails of his shirt, his distressed jeans and pristine navy and white sneakers. God. He was so euro. And so fucking hot. Could he not just look like a slob for one second so I could get my bearings? “Please don’t do this. I have to move on. I have to get over you. Please just sort out your fancy boat and go back to France.”

“What if I say no?”

“No?”

“No, I’m not going back to France. Not right now, anyway.” Both his hands came up and raked through his hair, leaving it untamed. “And no, I don’t want you to move on, and I don’t want you to get over me. I—Merde!” he bit out the curse. “This is not how I wanted to see you.”

I pinched my damp exercise shirt off my chest. “Trust me, me neither.”

His eyes were drawn back to me, raking over my face, my hair, down my body. “You are beautiful, Josephine. Always. But your heart, your heart inside you is the most beautiful thing about you.” His hand reached out, and his palm pressed hot against my chest.

I froze. And burned. And stared.

“And I surely don’t deserve it,” he said and let go just as quickly, leaving me wildly bereft. “I know this. S’il te plaît. Please let us talk. If not now, then later. A place of your choosing. But hear me. Please hear me.”

He stared at me for long moments. Around us the city bustled, and people walked past and around us, oblivious to our moment and us to theirs. His gaze was bottomless, and I struggled not to sink into it. Into him.

Shaking my head, I took a step back.

“Josephine,” he pleaded, his voice going hoarse. “Please don’t—”

“Don’t what?” I snapped, trying to fight the emotion crawling up my throat.

“Don’t … break me.” He flinched as the admission left his lips.

My breath left my chest. My eyes were filling, my nose burning, and a golf ball increasing in size in my throat.

He swallowed, audibly, and stepped toward me, closing the distance I’d created.

Trying to breathe with him invading my senses was torture. I stepped back again and he followed, his hands coming up and cradling my face and tilting my face up. My legs weakened and I leaned against the side of the building. My hands grasped his wrists, meaning to push him away but not letting go. His lash fringed eyes roamed over my face. And behind him curious glances moved over and past us. “Mais, if you mean to do it, do it properly,” he begged, his voice low, his eyes burning. “Destroy everything that’s left of my heart. Leave nothing behind. I can’t do it again. There will be no one after you. Be thorough. Merciless. Finish me.”

‘“Wh-what are you saying?”

“I’m in love with you, Joséphine.” His eyes pinned mine, delivering all his secrets openly and helplessly.

The sound of my name uttered in that way, his accented French falling from his lips, curled into my insides.

“You have given life to a dead heart and soul. You brought me back to life. Hungry and gasping and desperate … for you. My heart beating … for you. No.” He frowned. “It’s as if it didn’t exist before you. I’m alive now in this world that might not have you in it? No. It’s impossible. I don’t want the world to turn another day, the sun to burn another day without you.”

“Xavier,” I whispered, my voice failing me. Liquid spilled hot down my cheeks and my heart pounded.

“I’m sorry it took me so long to see. To see you. To feel you. To believe you could love me. To believe my own heart. Mon dieu.” His forehead fell forward to rest against mine. His thumbs brushed my tears. Our breath mingled, stuttered.

My hands gripped his wrists tighter, his pulse strong and yet erratic beneath my fingertips. His mouth was so close. His tongue darted out to wet his lips.

“So please,” he said, whispering now. “If you mean to break my heart, leave nothing left. I beg you. Leave nothing left. I will not survive it, otherwise. But do not break my heart, Josephine. I’m offering it to you. Completely. Take it. Take it … or destroy it.”

And then his hands slipped to the nape of my neck. His mouth, hungry