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

but I needed a second to myself in the fresh air. We were the only boat on the one long pier, side-to, probably due to the depth of the water available and the size of the boat.

Rod was moving around, tying things up and righting things that had fallen. He and Chef would probably take a while to get off the boat. Andrea must have pulled the long straw because I watched her stride down the concrete jetty away from us to the gate at the end.

After my shower, I’d checked my email again for any responses to my applications. There was an email from my mom. She’d sent me her contact’s name at the Charleston Historic Foundation. I was pretty sure I might even enjoy working there for a while. Certainly, the contacts in the city would be invaluable. People who valued what I did and weren’t out to make the fastest buck. Then after that, who knew? I hadn’t heard from anyone else, but for some reason, I still resisted applying.

I’d keep in touch with Madame too, regardless of what happened here with Xavier. There was a lot I could learn from her that could be useful in my work back in Charleston. Besides, I genuinely liked her. So to that end, I’d messaged her and formally asked her if I could stay and shadow her for a week before returning home while I figured out my next steps. I’d give myself one more week in France, not the weeks she’d suggested, so I could minimize my run-ins with Xavier after this two-day affair was over. She responded immediately with the word: Absolument! Which I took to mean absolutely in French.

Then she sent a cute selfie of her and Dauphine holding up some freshly painted nails. Dauphine’s were tangerine with little mermaid stickers, and Madame’s were a classy French manicure. I’d meant to ask Andrea what the French called a French manicure. Was it even French? French fries weren’t French, so what did I know?

A whistle drew my attention.

I looked up.

Xavier was casually leaning over the top deck rail, looking like an Instagram model. “Will you be joining me?” he asked and let out his megawatt smile that was like a shock starter to my chest.

Everything inside me was a complicated mess of emotion. I was upset at the things he’d said as we lay on my bed after the most incredible sexual experience of my life. Annoyed and hurt. And I had no right to be.

Why couldn’t I shut off my stupid brain and heart and just enjoy this for what it was? He’d made no promises. I didn’t want promises anyway. And just because it had been earth shattering for me, didn’t mean his sexual experiences weren’t always like that for him.

But, shit.

I was crazy about him. Beyond attracted to him. Addicted to getting him to laugh or smile. And the way he’d cried out my name as he climaxed? Well, that would haunt me soul deep for pretty much ever. And his daughter. God, I loved her. And I was enamored with the way he loved her. I had to make sure I didn’t confuse my love for his family with being in love with him. But I feared the waters were already too muddy.

My stomach, utterly empty, growled.

“Well?” he asked

“On my way.”

Chapter Thirty-Five

Xavier Pascale and I walked side by side from the concrete jetty down to the small fishermen’s huts that clustered in a semi-circle around the port. The heat of the day hadn’t ebbed fully yet, but a breeze had picked up.

“So, this is Calvi?” I asked.

“Yes. The quieter part of the port. More fishing boats, less tourists. And I know it better here.”

“And is this where your meeting is tomorrow?”

He stopped at the entrance of a narrow cobblestone alley we were about to head down and pointed up past the hulking citadel wall that overlooked the rocky bay and to the top of the cliff. “Up there.”

I raised my eyebrows. “Okay.”

He gave me a side grin. “Long story. Maybe I’ll tell you over dinner.” His hand brushed against mine and then he clasped it, his fingers sliding between mine.

My belly gave a flutter of pleasure. The handholding came just in time as my flip flop caught on a cobblestone and I tripped. Or maybe it was the distraction of the action. “Whoa!”

His arm wrapped around my back as he caught me. “Attention. I’m sorry. Be careful. Are you okay?”

I winced and wiggled my foot. “Tripping in flip flops is painful.”

“Will you be all right?” he asked, his brow furrowed in concern. He dropped to his haunches and inspected my foot before his fingers trailed up the back of my calf. “The restaurant is not far. Perhaps a foot massage when we get back tonight?”

I knocked on his forehead. “Are you real?”

“Ah.” He rubbed his head, a funny smile on his face.

“Sorry. It wasn’t too hard, was it?” Who was this sweet, smiley, playful man?

“For this head? No.”

“Ha.” I wiggled my toes. “I think I’m fine, let’s go. Did I mention how hungry I am?”

He stood and leaned forward. What was he—? Oh. His lips pressed against mine. Soft, persuasive, and over too quickly. He stepped back.

My eyes fluttered open. “What was that for?”

He suddenly looked unsure.

“I’m sorry. That was just unexpected.” I glanced around. “And the handholding too. I thought you were worried about people seeing you. Recognizing you?” Pedestrians went on their way around us. Shopkeepers were hanging out on their front steps smoking and chatting to each other, paying us no attention. It reminded me of St. Tropez, but less flashy, and less groups of perfectly dressed catalog families.

“No one knows I’m here. And people here don’t care who I am. Mostly. It’s not like on the mainland.”

“Wait, we’re not technically in France? I feel so stupid. I mean, I thought we were. I just didn’t think. No one wanted to see my passport.”

He chuckled and brought my hand