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

up to his mouth for a quick kiss before tugging us on our way. “Actually, this is France. Though, it wasn’t always. And Paco sent our passports ahead to the port master.”

“Oh?”

“You never used to have to do that. But we have so many refugees in Mediterranean waters from the genocide in Syria. Every country is feeling the strain, so officials are checking credentials of boats. And I have a good relationship with people here.”

“You do? How come?”

“Another long story.”

“Hmm. What language do locals speak here? French?”

He guided me up a hill and into a small stair-filled alley that was only a person wide, and guided me ahead of him. “Yes. But many consider themselves Corsican, not French. They have their own customs.” His voiced floated up from behind me as I climbed. “Their own dialect in many areas. Lots of Italian influence. It’s actually closer to Italy. France stole it from the Genoese in the 1700s. And putain, it’s really hard to be going up the stairs with your ass in front of me.”

I whipped around, catching him staring at the area in question. He raised his eyes to mine guiltily, his palms up and a smirk playing around his sexy mouth.

“Well, now I can’t walk ahead of you.”

“Yes, you can.”

“No. I can’t.” I folded my arms.

He bit back a smile. “That’s a pity. I’ll just enjoy it later.” He took my hand. “Besides, we’re here. Though a bit early.” We’d stopped outside a green door. It was set into a chipped stucco wall, the paint of the door peeling to reveal ancient wood. All of a sudden it swung open and a small man came out and propped it open and laid a blackboard against the wall. Then he looked up, and his graying face morphed into a wide tobacco-stained grin. “Pasqual-ey!” he erupted.

The tiny man rushed forward, grabbing Xavier by the hand and slapping his back in a half embrace. It was returned with big smiles. “Cristo.” Xavier greeted the small man who came up to his elbow, if that.

“Venga! Venga!” the man named Cristo commanded excitedly. Xavier and I were ushered inside. Before my eyes had adjusted there was a fuss of greetings from staff in the kitchen and a few introductions made to waiters Xavier didn’t know. It was clear they were being told royalty had arrived. I hung back, letting Xavier catch up. He was responding in what sounded like rough Italian, definitely not French. And then slowly everyone kind of remembered I was there. I swallowed as one by one curious eyes turned to me. Xavier stepped back and took my hand. He held it up and said something, something, Joséphine.

There were some collective sighs and sounds of surprise. “Josephine,” a few people whispered reverently. Okay. Weird. And then my other hand was grasped and kissed and shaken and we were ushered to a couple of stools by an upturned wine barrel. “Um?” I asked. “What just happened? Are you like a secret soccer star or something?”

He chuckled, then scratched his nose. “Something like that. Not the soccer thing. I wish. Not that I was half bad in school.”

“And? Get there faster,” I encouraged.

He looked around. “They are getting us a table ready upstairs,” he evaded.

“And this is another long story?”

“Oui.”

“We might need more than one dinner together,” I quipped.

“We might,” he said, his voice dropping to a low octave and his eyes finding mine in the dim interior light.

Suddenly we were presented with a basket of bread, olives, and an earthen-ware jar of red wine with two short stubby glasses. For some reason I’d pegged Xavier Pascale as someone who frequented extremely fancy places. This was as basic and as charming and as real as they came. “You are full of surprises,” I told him and bit into a tart and firm green olive, the smooth bitter flavor zinging across my tongue. Heaven. I moaned. “We don’t get olives like this back home. Wow.”

He smiled enigmatically and took a sip of red wine.

Cristo arrived back at the table saying something to Xavier that sounded like the words ten minutes in my European Romance language basic understanding. Then he poured some dark green yellow oil onto a saucer and kissed the tips of his fingers. He was so sweet.

“Our table upstairs will be ready in ten minutes,” Xavier told me. “He said he wants it to be perfect.”

“Mind if I gorge myself on bread and olive oil in the meantime?”

He tilted the basket toward me in offering. I took a piece of bread, tore a chunk off, and set it to absorb the oil Cristo had just poured. “Thank you.”

“I love watching you eat. I have from the very first night. It became impossible. I had to avoid it whenever I was able. I had to tell Andrea you needed to eat with the crew.”

I paused mid-chew, staring at him. “Uh.” Oops. Mouthful. I hastily chewed and swallowed. Too big. I took a swig of wine and almost choked. Nice. Someone tells you he likes watching you eat, and you decide at that moment to choke on your food. Great.

“But save some room. Cristo’s food is the best. Simple. But the best. And there’s a lot of it.”

I had one more bite of bread, and then reluctantly put it aside and took a sip from my glass. “The wine is amazing,” I said. “What type is it?”

“Just a local blend that’s left over from the vineyards, probably. They sell it as a house wine. It can vary slightly from year to year, depending on what’s exported.”

We locked eyes.

I set my glass down. “What do you do exactly?”

His gaze flicked to his glass where he trailed a finger down the side of it, then back to me.

“Long story,” we both said at the same time. Mine a question, his a statement.

He smiled, and I laughed into my wine.

“I love that you don’t know.”

I frowned. “And you want to keep it that way?”

He blew out