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

cleared my throat. “I’ve never experienced anything like it. It was also a little overwhelming.”

A waiter appeared. Dauphine ordered an Orangina, and Xavier looked expectantly at me. “Uh …”

“May I order a drink for you?”

“Okay. Thank you. Nothing alcoholic.”

He nodded. “Un citron pressé,” he told the waiter. “Pour nous deux.”

“What am I having?” I asked.

He took his sunglasses off, and I was momentarily frozen in the snare of his blue eyes. “Wait and see?”

Swallowing, I nodded.

“Sorry if the saleswoman embarrassed you. I had a tailor measure my inseam at the market once. I know the feeling.” He gave a small grin, and my stomach unclenched slightly, grateful he was trying to make me feel at ease.

“It was certainly unexpected.”

He smirked, and I had a feeling he wanted to ask something else, but it never came.

“So, where’s Evan today?” I asked. “Isn’t he supposed to be your security?”

“He’s around here.” Xavier’s mouth twitched, and his eyes went over my shoulder. “Ah, here he is now.” Xavier leaned back and lifted a hand.

I turned to see Evan strolling down the street from the other direction.

“No room for me at the inn?” Evan said as he eyed our table. “Dauphine, there’s an acrobat I just passed. Shall I take you to go and see him?”

She jumped up. “Oui! J’adore!”

“I just ordered her a drink,” Xavier protested.

Evan smiled and looked at both his boss and me. “And it will be here when we get back.”

Xavier scowled, and I felt like I was missing something.

Dauphine grabbed Evan’s hand, and they disappeared into the throng of pedestrians, leaving Xavier and me alone. At the next table a woman with dark hair kept looking over at us. Xavier noticed and slipped his sunglasses back over his eyes. Silence stretched.

“I’m sorry about the Rod thing,” I said.

“What are you sorry for? It wasn’t your fault.”

“I know. I just mean sorry it happened. If it helps, I know he didn’t mean anything by it.”

“He didn’t. He’s young and doesn’t think sometimes. But still, I can’t have him making comments like that. He won’t learn if no one corrects him.”

“True. So how do you know Evan? I get that he works for you, but you seem to be friends too.”

Xavier leaned back, and his fingers drummed on the table. “I’ve known Evan on and off since we were kids. His father worked with mine. And after Evan joined the British military, I knew one day when he was ready, I’d hire him.”

I cocked my head to the side, waiting for him to elaborate.

“Since I was a boy, it was always a bodyguard who usually spent the most time with me.” He paused, his jaw setting. “Apart from nannies, of course. I figured out early on that it may as well be someone I respected and consider a friend. Real friends … are hard to come by the more successful my company becomes. Oh, I know a lot of people,” he responded to whatever he saw on my face, and I could tell he was uncomfortable talking but he didn’t stop, though he kept his voice low. “You don’t come from my family or get to where I have in my business life by not knowing a lot of people and cultivating every relationship you can. For the sake of the other staff who work with me, Evan and I are always simply boss and employee in public. But in private we are friends.”

“And I’d guess if anyone can understand the things you face, it would be him?”

Xavier shifted and ran a thumb across his bottom lip back and forth. “He’s been with me during the best and the worst times of my life. And now you have gotten more from me than most magazine interviewers.”

The waiter arrived with Dauphine’s drink as well as two tall glasses containing an inch or so of what looked to be pure squeezed fresh lemon juice, a jug of water, and a small carafe of something else clear.

“Sugar water.” Xavier motioned toward it. “What do you call it? Simple syrup?”

“Oh. Yes.”

“This is very French. It used to be my favorite as a boy.” He showed me how to add the sugar and water and make my own lemonade to taste. We clinked glasses and sipped. It was tart and delicious.

“Do you like it?” he asked.

I nodded.

The dark-haired woman laughed loudly, flipping her hair, her eyes raking over my table-mate again.

I leaned forward with my elbows on the table. “Does she know you?” I asked.

“Who?” He sat up.

“The hungry woman at your nine o’clock.”

He pressed his sunglasses against the bridge of his nose and pretended to stretch and look down the street both ways. Then he leaned back. “She may know me. But I don’t know her. But I think you may be aware that I have some following here and there. People like to know what I am doing and make judgments about me.”

“You’re famous, you mean.”

“Well-known, perhaps.”

“And will it be strange for you to be seen sitting at a table with me? Will they wonder who I am?” Oh God, what was I implying?

His lips flattened. “Because they might think we’re … together?”

A strangled laugh broke from my throat. “No, no. Just—”

“People will think what they think.”

And what will they think? I wanted to ask. What do you think? “So it doesn’t bother you what people think?” I asked instead.

“It does. And it doesn’t. It is beyond my control. And there are other things that are … easier to control. Does it bother you?” he asked.

“I don’t know. I had a brief brush of notoriety when some stuff with my stepfather went down.” I traced a drop of condensation down my glass, and then took another small sip and swallowed. “It turned out he’d been investing huge sums from Charleston families—our friends and neighbors—in an elaborate Ponzi scheme. It was hard to escape the press and the shame. Even though my mom and I had done nothing wrong. I don’t think I’d like to