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

I dragged my gaze to his. “No, thank you.”

“You are hungry, no? Why not?”

How could I explain to him that while I loved cream and shallots and garlic sauce—who wouldn’t?—I couldn’t bring myself to eat a tiny orange vagina? I’d blame Meredith for the rest of my life for pointing that out to me when I was thirteen. Now I couldn’t ever unsee it. “I’ll have some bread and sauce. Thank you.”

He nodded and passed me the breadbasket before helping himself to the fragrant mussels.

I tore off a hunk of the crusty, warm, soft-centered bread, almost swooning with delight at the feel of it in my fingertips. Why couldn’t America make great bread?

Monsieur Pascale had a piece of bread too and dunked it into the sauce in the shared bowl between us. I followed suit, trying to ignore the intimacy of sharing a bowl together and allowing a second for maximum absorption. Then I slipped the piece between my lips and groaned as the flavors exploded across my tongue. I couldn’t hold in my sound of appreciation. My senses melted into the rich, creamy, garlicky flavor. Even my shoulders sank into them.

I hastily prepared another. And another.

Suddenly feeling self-conscious, I looked up to find his eyes on me, his body stiff, his mouth working slowly as he ate his helping.

“You need a spoon just to drink the sauce,” I said to cut the strange tension. “It’s so delicious.”

He held up a mussel shell and then dipped it into the bowl like a spoon, allowing a healthy portion of broth to flood into it. Then he raised it to his mouth and drank. As he pulled the shell away, his lips glistened and he licked them.

I clenched my thighs together and wrenched my gaze to his daughter.

Dauphine was finishing up her melon and prosciutto. “Was it good, Dauphine?”

She looked up. “Oui.”

“Do you eat dinner with your papa every evening?” I pounced on a topic.

“This summer, yes. When he does not have a business dinner.” She rolled her eyes, making me smile. “I like it, but only when I get food good for me to eat. Sometimes Papa makes me try things I already know I do not like.”

“Have you ever been surprised?” I exchanged a quick glance with her father, seeing his eyebrow twitch.

She sat back and folded her arms. “This is a trick?”

I lifted a shoulder. “I’m interested in the answer. Do you know that once upon a time, I hated prosciutto? True story. I cried too. My mother was making me try it and I was so mad. I took the first bite with tears running down my face and a headache from crying so hard.” I widened my eyes for effect and Dauphine giggled. “The ham was salty and chewy just like I’d known it would be,” I went on. “And I ran to the trash can and spat it out.”

Dauphine gasped.

I dared not look at her father. “I got in sooo much trouble. I was sent to my room with no more food. I was very hungry and so tired from my tantrum that I fell fast asleep. I woke up when the house was quiet and snuck downstairs and found the leftover prosciutto in the refrigerator and finished it all.”

Dauphine stared at me with a look of shock before bursting into a delighted laugh.

“But I don’t recommend raiding Chef’s fridge,” I went on before she got any ideas. “Evan tells me he’s fierce about his food.”

There was a masculine snort from my right.

I looked up. Mr. Pascale was actually smiling. It was devastating. Like clouds parting to reveal the sun. My breath caught, and I swallowed and looked back to the little girl. “So, the moral of the story is you never know unless you try.”

Her father said something to her in French that sounded like it could be a similar phrase. She glanced at me warily, as if it had been a trick after all. “Papa tells me that lesson sometimes.”

“Wise man.” I lifted a shoulder. “It’s not just food either. I didn’t like horseback riding until I tried it. Horses scared me.”

“I love horseback riding!” she exclaimed then frowned. “But yes. Horses can be scary. They are so big.”

“Exactly,” I said.

“What else?”

“What else did I think I hated that I’m glad I tried?”

She nodded.

I looked up at the night sky as if deep in thought. “Hmm. Let’s see. Licorice, avocado, karate—”

“You can do karate?”

“Of course. A girl must learn self-defense.”

Her large eyes grew rounder.

“It’s true,” her father said, then he turned back to me. “What about boats?” he asked, eyes steady on mine as he took a sip of rosé. I realized I hadn’t touched mine yet. “Are you glad you tried boats?”

I narrowed my eyes at him. Was he … teasing me?

“You don’t like boats?” Dauphine gasped. “Even Papa’s boat? But it’s the best boat!”

I laughed at how incensed she was. “Is it? I wouldn’t know. I have never been on another because, well, I don’t like them.”

“But now you do,” she stated as if it was decided. She wiggled in her seat, and then huffed out a breath. “Uh. Je vais aux toilettes. Excusez-moi.” She pushed back her chair and darted down the stairs, leaving me and Mr. Pascale alone over an extremely romantic-looking candlelit dinner.

On a yacht.

In the South of France.

But it felt more like being left inside the leopard cage at feeding time.

This time I did reach for my wine and took a healthy sip as blue-eyes-turned-navy glittered in the near dark.

Chapter Eleven

“You said you do not have much experience as a nanny,” Mr. Pascale asked, clearly cutting to the interview we never had as soon as his daughter had left the upper deck. “I looked at the resume Tabitha Mackenzie sent. You worked at an architectural firm?”

As uncomfortable as I was to talk about my career, the wound so fresh, it was better than the weird tension that had suddenly bloomed out of nowhere as soon as we