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

I felt eyes on us, in a sort of who’s who way. It gave me a weird, uncomfortable feeling, reminiscent of the days following my stepfather’s arrest. Glancing around in my sunglasses, I almost did a double take as I recognized a famous model who’d been big in the nineties and at a separate table the ex-governor of California who had also been a movie star at one point. My heart rate sped up. Meredith and Tabs would freak out. God, I missed them. Meredith, especially, would get off on star spotting.

Not that anyone cared who I was, but I suddenly felt extremely exposed being in such a high-profile place. My cheeks burned and I felt vaguely nauseous. Nothing like being given the once over and summarily discarded to remind one of how insignificant one’s life could be perceived. Even though it brought a feeling of relief. The eyes definitely followed Xavier Pascale though.

The maitre d’ made a quick fuss over Dauphine, and then pointed us to a table in a corner of the restaurant under the twisty branch of a tamarisk tree.

Before we could sit, we were joined by an older man I knew instantly must be Xavier’s father.

He had the same thick cowlick at his forehead, though his was dark gray, and his hair was cut almost identically, short but curling around his ears and collar. The man and his son were roughly the same height. Interesting that they didn’t hug upon greeting each other.

When it was time for my introduction, I inhaled, overcome by nerves. Pushing my sunglasses up to my head, I stepped forward and stuck out my hand. “Dauphine’s nanny. Josie. Nice to meet you.”

The older Monsieur Pascale took my hand in greeting and then pressed damp lips to my skin. “Enchanté. I’m Etienne Pascale.” I gave a fake smile, pulled my hand away, feeling slightly soiled.

Another man approached us, and Xavier’s tension seemed to ratchet up seventeen notches. “My friend here is Alfredo Morosto,” Etienne told me. Then he chuckled and said something in French under his breath that made our new arrival laugh too, but caused Xavier to wince.

“Come.” Xavier pulled the chair out at the closest end of the table, gesturing for me to sit, and I sat down opposite Dauphine. I expected him to sit next to her, but he came around and took the seat on the other side of me, protecting me from having to sit next to either of the two older men. My shoulders relaxed slightly, relieved to have him between me and our lunch companions. Glancing briefly at the menu in French, I told Dauphine to order me whatever she was having to make it easier.

We both ended up with Shirley Temples, which earned me another eyebrow raise from Xavier.

The three men were talking earnestly, though they kept their voices low. Alfredo Morosto was a beefy man with a massive gold Rolex on his wrist. His shirt was unbuttoned to halfway down his torso, and a heavy gold chain lay against his gray chest hairs and years of over-tanned flesh. He glanced around the restaurant at least every five minutes. I couldn’t tell if he was looking for something or making sure no one was listening to them. I gave up trying to follow the language because it suddenly seemed like they’d switched to Italian, and while Dauphine and I played a game of hangman on the paper table setting, I watched their body language instead. It took a while, but suddenly I realized why Alfredo Morosto kept looking around. I thought maybe he wanted someone to see him, or more specifically to see who he was having lunch with. That was confirmed when he finally saw someone he knew and stood and clapped a young man in a pink polo on the back as they shook hands. Brief introductions were made to Xavier and his father. Dauphine and I kept playing, ignoring the visitors. The first greeting seemed to open the flood gates of people stopping by the table. There were a few curious gazes my way, but when I didn’t smile or catch anyone’s eye and directed all my attention to Dauphine, they lumped me in as the help soon enough.

Next to me, Mr. Pascale outwardly portrayed a calm exterior, but under the table, his one leg bounced incessantly in tiny movements. Stress seemed to pour off him in waves, though I had a feeling I was the only one who noticed.

Under the table, his fingers were making quiet, destructive work of a small paper placard that had stated the table was reserved when we first arrived. He’d already destroyed his paper coaster. Then he moved to picking at the hem of his shorts against his thigh, surreptitiously checking his watch.

The urge to still his hand with mine beneath the table, or press my foot against his in the sand, to offer him some kind of comfort, was overwhelming.

I picked up my glass and took a long sip of ice-cold Shirley Temple. As I did so, I stealthily slid my paper coaster toward his place setting, earning a small surprised puff of air and acceptance as he casually picked it up and got to work.

Xavier drank sparkling water and didn’t touch a drop of the wine his father poured for him.

His father was watchful. Whenever I caught his gaze, I’d paste a quick placid smile and look away. Thank God for my sunglasses.

The whole lunch was awkward and seemed interminable. At least the spaghetti with clams Dauphine had ordered us was mind-numbingly delicious.

“Alors, where are you from, Jenny?” the elder Pascale suddenly asked me when Alfredo Morosto excused himself to go to the bathroom.

All eyes turned to me. I was down to the last few sips of my drink, and I’d reached the cherry. “Uh. I’m from America.” I didn’t bother to correct my name as I fished the cherry out of my glass. Actually, I was rather relieved he’d