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

were alone. My shoulders relaxed, and I realized how tense I’d been. “Yes.”

“In what capacity?” he asked, lifting his wine glass.

“As an architect.”

His glass stopped midair.

Inside, I did a victory high five and a couple of backflips. Take that, you arrogant, gorgeous, piece of work. Being an architect is hard work. It takes years of study. Both math and creativity and a boatload of patience and attention to detail.

His head cocked to the side, his eyes studying me.

I waited, silently gloating. Though I hoped that didn’t show.

“You’re a little overqualified, non?”

That was it? That was what he had to say? Irritation rumbled through me, and my ego got a bruised backside.

“Alors, you will not even try a mussel after that talk you gave my daughter?” Mr. Pascale asked, reaching for one of the remaining shells.

And so we were done with me and my career. I took a slow sip of wine, letting the aromatic and rich liquid slide over my tongue.

He was baiting me and I was … enjoying it?

There were three mussels left swimming in the bowl. It had been an appetizer, so there’d been just enough for both of us to have some without ruining our appetites completely, but I was abstaining. “You can have those,” I said. The bread was finished anyway.

“You don’t want the broth?”

“I don’t have a spoon.”

“If you have just one moule, you can use the shell as a spoon.”

“Or you could give me one of your shells.”

“Ahh. But where’s the adventure in that?”

Maybe he did have a lighter side after all. This couldn’t be flirting, could it? Not after the awful start to the evening. And not since he was my boss.

I lifted a shoulder.

“Is it the flavor? The—how do you say—the texture?” he questioned, using a fork to spear his bounty from the shell. “With all this sauce, you could eat anything.” He swirled it around in the bowl for maximum flavor before bringing it to his mouth.

“It’s not the flavor or texture, it’s what it looks like.”

He paused and looked down, studying the morsel on the end of his fork, his brow furrowed.

Then his confusion gave way to surprise, and he erupted into laughter. Moments later, the laughter still hadn’t subsided and his fork clattered to his plate. He pushed back from the table, a hand on his chest as his shoulders shook, and he lost himself in hysterics.

It was contagious, though I tried really hard to hold it in. But the sight of this carefully controlled serious man, losing his shit like a twelve-year-old boy in biology class, just busted me up, and before long I was laughing too. Especially when his eyes started to water, and he gasped, “Mon dieu.”

There was a noise from the stairwell, and I turned to see a group of shocked faces. Andrea, Evan, and even Paco’s head peeped over the top of the stairwell.

Another face appeared that I didn’t recognize, maybe the chef. And then Dauphine wiggled her way through them.

“What is funny?” she demanded.

I shared a look with her father. There was no way we could tell them. It was beyond childish. And for some reason, it set us both off again.

Dauphine stomped her foot. “Papa!”

“Sorry,” I managed, trying to sober.

“Je suis desolé,” Monsieur Pascale said at the same time, also apologizing.

Grabbing my napkin, I dried my eyes.

Evan and Paco had disappeared downstairs, but not before they both looked from one to the other of us in utter bafflement and speculation.

Looking at us both warily, Dauphine took her seat, but she was an extremely subdued version of the girl who had left the table minutes earlier. Her father’s mouth kept twitching as he reined in his humor, but his eyes briefly seared me with intensity. It was gone so fast I thought I’d imagined it.

Andrea and the chef brought the main course to the table. Sea bass for the grown-ups and spaghetti for Dauphine. After a brief introduction to Chef, he left too. When Andrea went to top up my wine glass, I stopped her with a small hand motion and smile. “Thank you, but I think I should only have one when I’m working.”

Across the table, I felt rather than saw Xavier Pascale’s shoulder relax. He wanted me to stay. And I surprised myself by wanting to stay too. And I’d allowed him not to have to apologize or beg me. I hoped he appreciated it because I wasn’t normally in the habit of giving men free passes to be arrogant buttheads. But of course, he’d also overlooked me losing my temper earlier.

After Andrea left, we ate our meal in silence for a while. The sea bass was melt-in-my-mouth delicious, slightly salty and bursting with delicately herbed flavor. And by the time we were done, I was stuffed and happy. The grueling exhaustion of travel and ebbing adrenaline dragged at my muscles.

“What time do you normally go to bed?” I asked Dauphine.

“Eleven,” she said at the same time her father said, “Nine o’clock.”

She pouted and I smiled. Her father rolled his eyes. “And only because it is summertime. On special occasions perhaps ten.”

“Come on,” I said after checking my wrist watch. “I’ll help you get ready and tuck you in. Do you have animals you sleep with?”

“Des animaux?”

“Yes, like teddy bears?”

“Of course.”

“Maybe you can introduce them to me. My favorite growing up was a stuffed snow leopard my great aunt from New York City gave me. I miss that cat terribly.”

I held out my hand while her mind was distracted with trying to unpack all the elements I’d just told her. I helped her out of her chair.

“Say good night to your papa.”

She let go of me and threw her arms around his neck. “Bonne nuit, Papa.”

“Bonne nuit, mon ange.” He stroked her curls, and eyes closed, pressed a hard kiss to her head where it was tucked under his chin. His angel.

I reached for my plate and glass.

“You may leave it,” Mr. Pascale said.

Then Dauphine grabbed my hand again and tugged