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

“Been meaning to set you up with this. Mister P seems to trust you already,” she went on, and I inwardly cheered. “Which I have to say I’m relieved about. I don’t know what I’d do if we hadn’t found someone. I have my own work to do, you know? Although Dauphine seems more laid back this year than she has been before. But anyway, Mr. Pascale needs us to stay put near Antibes a few days. Things have come up.” Her mouth turned down.

“Oh?” I asked, not liking the expression on her face. I took the phone and slipped it into the pocket of my shorts.

Her eyes cut nervously sideways and she gave another nervous laugh, her finger running around the lip of her coffee cup. “Antibes is where Mrs. P’s family lives. It’s, well … for a while after Mrs. P died, there was a lot of denial and blame by all parties. Things have always been tense. But more so after.” She took a sip while I wondered what this had to do with me. “Anyway, when we come to Antibes, it’s usually because Mr. Pascale has to go and see things regarding his wife’s estate, and in particular regarding her stepbrother, Michello.” Andrea shuddered. “I never liked that guy. But he’s in prison for drugs right now, so that’s a relief at least. I shouldn’t be telling you all this, but I guess it’s good you have the lay of the land.” She shook her head. “Anyway, I wanted to talk to you because you’re being thrown in at the deep end, there might not be a day off this week, and I need to make sure you’re okay with it.”

“I’m not sure I have a choice. I wanted to quit the first day because he accused me of being attracted to him, and I couldn’t stand his arrogance. But then I got to know Dauphine, and …” I lifted a shoulder.

“Are you?”

My eyebrows pinched. “Am I what?”

“Attracted to him?”

My throat immediately clogged. “He’s gorgeous,” I admitted. “It was a bit difficult not to have a reaction. But also he acted like an ass the first night. Turn off.”

“I appreciate your honesty.” She smirked. “And do you still think he’s an ass today?” she asked, knowingly.

“No,” I admitted. How could I be after learning the things I had at the lunch table yesterday about what a good guy he was. I guessed they could all be making it up, but I doubted it.

“Still turned off?”

I met her gaze, steady. “I’m professional. It won’t be a problem. Plus, let’s just say I have a trust issue with men in general. It won’t be a problem,” I repeated.

She held my stare, appraising, but with a small smile playing around her mouth.

“What?” I asked, amused and relieved we were somehow inching back to our initial rapport.

“Nothing.”

“Seriously. It won’t be a problem.”

“I know. I don’t think you’re the one who’s having a problem.” She took a sip of coffee with a smirk. “Sure you don’t want another?”

I shook my head and slipped out of the bench to put my plate in the dishwasher. “Wait. What does that mean? Have I upset someone?”

“God, no. Not at all.” She shrugged. “Nothing. Really, I misspoke. Just … be yourself.”

I tilted my head, but when she offered nothing more I sighed. “You’re strange.”

“Probably,” she said. “Have fun with Mr. Pascale and Dauphine at the market.”

The three of us were going? I swallowed. That didn’t feel intimate and happy-little-family-ish. Not at all.

Maybe I could hang out with Chef.

Dauphine opened the door. “Dépêche-toi s'il te plaît!” she whined. “We are leaving soon. Hurry!”

Chapter Seventeen

The streets of the village of Antibes were even better than I’d imagined a French town to be. From the boat, I could see the medieval sea wall that surrounded the village, and now that we’d come into port, the streets were close and ancient. The old stone and stucco buildings valiantly supported new and improved shopfronts. In the streets, there were awnings in red, and blue, and every color imaginable, providing shade over the offered wares. Baskets of all shapes and sizes, some lined and filled with varieties of olives, trays of cheese, some tall filled with baguettes, crowded covered tables. There were barrels of fresh garlic, bundles of lavender, cases filled with pungent truffles. I walked with my mouth open, Dauphine dragging me along to look at dresses. It was a good thing I’d just eaten breakfast. Xavier trailed behind us, unwilling to hurry like his daughter, or perhaps not wanting to be grouped with us. He’d waved us ahead as we stepped off the tender and slipped on dark sunglasses and a ball cap pulled low. A disguise of some sort, I imagined.

“This is amazing,” I muttered, inhaling the scent of spicy salami, and noted the endless array of different types and lengths. Back home, salami was just salami. Unless you counted the odd fancy, over-priced charcuterie board that served to educate us that there might be more than one type. But even the most well-trained chef in Charleston would do his nut seeing the array of food in this market.

“Viens!” Dauphine whined as a cute guy in a white chef’s jacket offered a piece of fresh baked bread with soft cheese and dripping honey on it in my direction.

I reluctantly shook my head, with a mouthed merci, non.

But behind me, my boss’ voice cut in. “Try it,” he commanded, though his tone was soft.

I glanced back at him and wished I could see his expression behind the shield of his sunglasses.

“Go on, it’s worth it. Dauphine, attend,” he said past me.

I flicked my eyes back to the earnest young chef and reached out for the morsel he laid gently in my palm. I heard the chef offer a bite to Xavier, but I blacked out to everything around me the moment the flavors hit my tongue. Letting out an audible groan, I chewed, my mouth flooding with saliva.