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

I picked at the hem of my dress as I quaked inside at his painful truth delivered so bluntly. And I’d bet he felt the same way—that she hadn’t loved him enough to stay alive either. No wonder he had trust issues. This was more than someone lying to you. This was trusting someone with your heart. With your life. With your daughter’s life. And it not being enough. My eyes stung and filled. I shook my head, blinking and looking out at the dark night view. I swiped a quick hand to my eyes before he could see. “Dauphine said you told her that sadness was a disease that people could die from. I think you have handled it well with her. It’s not that people who suffer don’t love their family enough,” I said slowly. “It’s that the disease is stronger.”

He gazed at me for a beat, and an understanding seemed to pass between us. “Are you real?” he asked softly, tossing my words from earlier tonight back at me far more poignantly.

There was a clang at the wall where the dumb waiter was. Cristo materialized out of the small roof door as if summoned, bearing a tray of goodies and breaking the morose atmosphere.

He set the food down on a cart that he wheeled over and began laying some of the dishes out on the table. Heavenly scents rose up, making my mouth water. Herbs, garlic, something lightly fried. By the time he’d also retrieved what was in the dumb waiter, my stomach gave a loud growl. Cristo’s eyes darted to me, startled.

“Excuse me,” I said, my cheeks blazing, sucking my lips between my teeth. I glanced up to see Xavier, head down, shoulders shaking as he tried to hold in a laugh.

He caught my eye, and we both cracked up.

Cristo was smiling his stained and gap-toothed grin and started talking to me.

“He’s saying he’s flattered that the food they’ve prepared will be so enjoyed.”

“Tell him you’ve been starving me in preparation to experience his cooking.”

“Je—no. Mon dieu.” Xavier flashed a semi amused and semi shocked glance at me before relaying some sort of message to Cristo. Cristo seemed gratified, and then began pointing and explaining.

Some didn’t need too much explanation. There was a charcuterie board with a selection of meats and cheeses, some more olives, small fried squid, large glistening pink prawns lightly dusted with something and surrounded by big, fat, juicy lemons. There was some type of lighter colored meat, surrounded by round balls and carrots. “Wild boar and roasted chestnuts,” Xavier explained when I stared at it too long.

All the dishes looked sumptuous but small so we could taste everything.

Cristo opened a dusty bottle of red wine and set it to the side for now, and then shuffled away and disappeared.

“My mouth is watering.” I pointed at a bowl. “To be honest this looks like southern grits.”

“Grits?”

“Made of coarse cornmeal.”

“Ah, like polenta. Yes, this is Corsican though. So it will be made of chestnut flour. It’s to be served with the lamb or with anything you like.”

“Served the same as grits too, then. Breakfast, lunch, or dinner. Certainly in South Carolina. And people either love them or hate them. There’s no in between.”

“How are they prepared?”

“Simple butter and salt, sometimes with cheese, sometimes with sausage gravy,” I listed. “Definitely with shrimp and bourbon gravy. You name it. Some people even have it sweetened with syrup.” I made a face. “Though that’s a sin in my household.”

Xavier served my plate with a little bit of everything, and I began eating. The flavors were incredible. No herb was overpowering, but everything tasted fresh and bursting with flavor. I identified fennel, garlic, rosemary and, of course, chestnut.

“Tell me about growing up,” Xavier asked after we’d all but decimated the initial offerings, neither of us able to talk for too long before putting something else in our mouths. It was hard not to moan aloud.

Cristo had just been up and ladled out some kind of seafood bisque that was making me delirious. I was getting so full, and the now finished carafe of wine had made us both languid, relaxed, and laughing freely.

I answered Xavier, telling him about growing up in downtown Charleston and going to private school. We shared similar stories of what that was like and the kind of friends who lasted from that time.

He told me about the nuns at his Catholic private school and how he credited them with keeping him on the straight and narrow.

I talked about losing my dad. And I told him about the morning I woke up at boarding school and was summoned to the principal’s office. I was told my stepfather had been arrested, and I was being asked to leave due to the fact my fees hadn’t been paid since the beginning of the school year. “I wasn’t even allowed to go back to my room and pack my own things. Or even say goodbye. Everyone was in assembly.” I swallowed the ball of shame and humiliation that always lodged in my throat when I thought back. “My mother was there to pick me up, and she was so shocked and humiliated by everything she couldn’t even talk to me. We said nothing the whole drive home. When we got there, there were press at the gates. We could hardly get through. The police arrived so we could get through the gate but had to endure walking to the front door with that audience. I left all my stuff in the car rather than unpack in front of them.”

Xavier reached for my hand. “I know what wolves they can be.”

Blinking away some moisture in my eyes, I continued. “I remember asking as we closed the front door behind us, ‘Is this house even ours, or will we be kicked out of here too?’ The answer was, of course, yes, we would be kicked out. The mortgage had not been paid