Broken French: A widowed, billionaire, single dad romance

by Natasha Boyd

  For all of you still here to love again.

  BROKEN FRENCH

  Tasha Boyd

  Copyright © 2021 by Natasha Boyd, writing as Tasha Boyd

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  All characters and situations in this book are entirely fictional, and any parallel to real life is entirely accidental. There are some real places mentioned, and any mistakes in their description is entirely the fault of the author.

  Content edit: Judy-Roth.com

  Proofread: karinaasti.com

  Cover Design: hearttocover.com

  Cover image © Erin Gianni

  First eBook Edition April 2021

  ISBN 978-1-7322385-9-6

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Acknowledgments

  ALSO BY TASHA BOYD

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  JOSIE

  Charleston, SC, USA

  I pulled a pillow over my head to block out the sound of an early alarm beeping incessantly through the thin wall in our downtown Charleston apartment. When the sound didn't stop, I flung the pillow off my head and blinked my eyes open. "Tabitha!" I huffed on a moan. "Why?"

  There was no answer, but the clinks and bangs of antique pipes running water to the shower down the hall in our only bathroom answered for her. Tabs must have forgotten to turn off her alarm clock. It was a good thing I was getting up early anyway. Today would be a turning point for me. I felt for my phone and squinted at the screen. It was way earlier than I’d normally get up, but there were two missed calls from my mother. She was as anxious about my presentation today as I was, and she’d transferred that agitation to me without even trying. No amount of “I got this, Ma,” could stop her motherly worrying.

  I padded through to our tiny kitchen and sighed with relief to see Tabs had started the coffee before showering. I’d call my mother back as soon as I could think straight.

  The water in the shower turned off and while I poured coffee, there were the sounds of makeup bag rummaging, and then the hairdryer. She must have a fancy client meeting today. Something dropped, and she hissed a curse. I poured a second cup and knocked on the door. “Seven a.m. wake up? Who’s the client?”

  The door opened and she poked her face out, brown skin shining and vibrant. “Coffee? Josie, you goddess.”

  “You’re welcome.” I leaned on the doorjamb as she took the cup.

  “My girl in France quit yesterday. She was supposed to start in three days. I have a video conference call with the family in a couple of hours. Well, the dad. He’s a single dad. Filthy rich. A filthy rich Frenchman who probably wants his money back.” She grimaced.

  “So, you’re dolling yourself up to get him to what? Change his mind? Ask you out?”

  “Hey!” she protested with a grin. “To look professional, of course.”

  I smiled. “Okay.” It was no secret that Tabitha, in running her own agency providing exclusive, highly vetted nannies to the rich and famous, was hoping that one day she’d find her own happily-ever-after. A single dad would definitely fit the bill. She wanted a successful business and then a family, in that order. She’d accomplished the first within several years of us graduating college.

  “Stop, Josie.” She rolled her eyes good-naturedly. “I was hoping to find him another nanny, but I’ve exhausted all my available people and it’s so last minute. I’m about to let him and his daughter down. I’ll ask Meredith if she knows of anyone when she wakes up. Anyway, I’ll be out soon.”

  “Good. I also need to look professional today.”

  “You always do.” She turned to the mirror to finish her eyeliner as she talked. “You’re going to do great. You know you’re going to get this promotion. You’ve put in the time and the work, and from what you’ve shared with me, you always have the best designs. I don’t know what historic Charleston would do without you looking out for its aesthetic.”

  “Ha ha.”

  “I’m serious! It actually came up in conversation yesterday. I meant to tell you. I was at the bank and some big wig was congratulating them on renovating while enhancing the historical elements and the bank manager mentioned your firm. So you can guess I immediately jumped in and told them your name and how you were the architect to watch.”

  “You didn’t!”

  “Of course I did. No point in letting that old lecherous boss of yours get all the credit when it’s your designs getting him the praise.”

  “That’s what being a part of a prestigious firm is about. It’s a team effort. Besides, my immediate boss is a sweetheart, it’s the other partner, Mr. Tate, who holds the lecherous distinction.” I’d adored that project. Most of our projects these days were new construction though.

  She snapped open a case holding the fake eyelashes she always wore for video conferencing. “And that’s another reason you need your name on the team door. So you can start changing the workplace culture.”

  “We’re only as good as the work we all put forward,” I said, parroting the company motto. “And name on the door? Hold your horses. I’m trying to make senior associate, not buy in to partner. It will be a while until I can afford that.”

  “I know, love. Student loans will kill us all. But seriously, you are the best young architect they have. You can’t tell me that frat boy nephew of Mr. Tate’s has one ounce of your talent.”

  I took a sip of coffee to hide my grimace at her accurate assessment of our most recent hire, Jason. “I don’t like to speak ill of people. Anyway, hurry up, glamor puss. I need to shower.”

  She tutted before dabbing some gloss on her lips and giving herself a side-to-side preen in the mirror.

  “You look great,” I said.

  She came out the doorway and pointed at me. “And you’ll have your name on that masthead before long. But in the meantime, after you get this promotion, maybe we can all move to that new building by the marina and finally have a view.”

/>   Our main picture window looked over a cobblestone alley and faced the brick side of the next row of homes. It was a beautiful brick wall as brick walls went. Antique, built hundreds of years ago, and adorned with earthquake medallions. But it was still a wall. A view could be nice.

  I grinned. “Thanks for the pep rally. And I’m all for a view, but don’t sell me on a view of boats, you know how much I hate boats.”

  Tabs closed the door to her bedroom but not before poking her head back out. “You hate being on a boat. Looking at boats is not the same thing.”

  “Fine,” I conceded with a laugh.

  I showered quickly, tying my hair out of the way, glad I’d had the foresight to wash and blow it out the day before.

  Meredith, Tabitha, and I had moved in together after college. I’d still had a year of architecture grad school, but Tabitha was already earning a decent income from the agency she’d started out of her dorm room, and Meredith had just started at a small investment firm courtesy of her family connections. We’d lucked out when we’d found this apartment on the top floor of a converted row house in downtown Charleston. It was in the historic district. I loved the historic district. There were some of the best restaurants in the South on our doorstep, architecture to admire, and history to steep in. And girls’ night with some dancing and a couple of martinis was never more than a few steps away. But we were definitely cramped and still all sharing one bathroom. Almost four years later and the other two could afford more, but I’d been paying off student loans, with plans to then save every nickel in order to one day buy in as a partner at my firm. I was determined to be the youngest partner in the city. Before then though, I had a promotion and pay raise to negotiate. After that, I might consider moving.

  I still worked at the same firm that had sponsored my architecture residency right out of college. Meredith and Tabitha had tried to get me to shop around. They said it was my aversion to change. But I called it being unfailingly loyal.

  I finished up in the bathroom in record time and realized when I came out that Meredith still wasn’t up. She’d had bad cramps the night before, so she was probably exhausted. I poured a cup of coffee for her into an insulated camping mug, added her favorite vanilla creamer, and tiptoed into her room. She was a lump of pale pink duvet topped with streaky, dyed blonde hair poking out the top. I put the cup on her bedside table for when she woke up.

  Within twenty minutes I’d done my makeup and run a flat iron over my waves to combat the Charleston humidity. I dressed in a navy pencil skirt, blue linen blouse, and stuffed my most comfortable pair of heels into my bag. I hated the archaic dress code at work that women had to wear skirts. It was ludicrous in this day and age. Especially when we went to job sites. But working at such a highly respected firm made me keep my mouth shut.

  I took my bag and roll tubes full of my latest plans into the kitchen so I could make breakfast. The sun had finally come up, and golden rays of it slanted through the alley outside and through the window across our worn slip-covered sofa.

  “Hey, let’s do a girls’ night tonight.” Tabitha looked over the top of her laptop. “I haven’t been out for ever. Invite Barbara from your office. We can celebrate your promotion and me surviving that call. Oh, wait. Didn’t Mer want to set you up with a new guy from her office?”

  I gave a small eye roll. “Yeah. Jed or something.”

  “His name is Jed? No. Way too ‘dude bro’ for you.”

  I laughed. “You can’t judge someone on their name.”

  “I can. And I will. You wouldn’t date someone named Adolf, would you? Anyway,” she barreled on as she often did, waving a hand elaborately in the air. “You need to be with someone who sounds foreign and exotic. Josephine and … Xavier. I like that.” She pronounced it—Zav-ee-yeah.

  “Who the heck is Xavier?” I asked, pouring some granola and yoghurt into a bowl.

  “The filthy rich Frenchman I have a call with today. That name is … ahhh. I’m not saying him, obviously, but a name like that. Though, wow, he’s hot. You’re named after a queen. Your guy’s name should be just as awesome. Just saying.”

  I shook my head with a grin. “You’re hilarious. I believe she was an empress, not a queen. But the name obsession is better than when you were obsessed with matching everyone’s Chinese horoscopes in college.”

  “Hey, that’s a real thing.”

  Tabs ducked into her room and I called my mother back.

  “Ma.”

  “Josephine. I thought you were going to forget to call me before you left for work.” Her voice was a mix of relief and accusation with a healthy side of guilt-tripping. Ah, mothers.

  I took a deep breath. “Nope. Just trying to get showered and dressed. I’ll call you as soon as I get out of the meeting.”

  “I’m so proud of you, Josephine. If I don’t say it enough, I just want you to know it. After Nicolas—” her voice hitched. “Well, I’m so thankful our family name will be prestigious once again. Your father, God rest his soul, is so proud of you. I know it.”

  “Thank you. And Mom, I’m not making partner yet. That’s a few years away. No pressure or anything. ”

  “You know I don’t mean it like that.”

  “I know.” And I did.

  “Good luck, my darling.”

  “Thanks. I love you, Ma.”

  We hung up, and I gobbled down granola, brushed my teeth, applied lip gloss, and headed out.

  The streets were just waking up. Street sweepers were finishing their shifts, and garbage trucks tipped last night’s bottles and trash from the alleys behind all the bars and restaurants.

  I stopped in at my favorite coffee shop, Armand’s, and ordered an espresso with a shot of cream. It was served in a tiny paper cup, and it was just the bolt of energy I needed before a day like today. I swung onto East Bay Street, taking a hit of the marsh and sea breeze coming in off the water, and passed by Rainbow Row, the colorful historic townhomes that faced the Charleston Historic Foundation building and the Charleston Yacht Club. I waved at the French lady, Sylvie, who worked at the yacht showroom on King Street as she passed me on the opposite side of the road. Most mornings I ran into her at Armand’s, and we sometimes exchanged small talk.

  Finally, I arrived at the plate glass doors of Donovan and Tate, FAIA, CPBD, NSPE, one of Charleston’s most prestigious architecture firms. With my hand on the stainless steel bar that served as a door handle, I paused and thought of my conversation with my mom. Without her believing in me as hard as she did, I doubt I would have made it this far this soon. It helped that I felt as though I was doing this for my father. Hopefully one day, there’d be another name on the door plate. Mine. I’d been so happy to be granted an interview after my graduate degree, and even more overwhelmed to have been offered a position at such a prestigious firm to complete my three-year residency requirement to get licensed that I’d jumped aboard and never looked back. I’d always loved architecture, ever since my dad would take me on long walks on Sundays around the city and point out all the various details people used that evoked the feel of this influence or that.

  I’d also been relieved to have Mr. Donovan instead of Mr. Tate as the partner overseeing my residency requirement. It seemed it was an unspoken understanding that it was best if Mr. Tate didn’t mentor young, impressionable women. Mr. Donovan, I knew, had my back. He respected my work and often made sure my contributions weren’t overlooked. However, a small niggling feeling had been bothering me for weeks about Mister Tate’s nephew, Jason, who’d joined the firm just last year after moving down from Virginia. No. Jason didn’t have near my experience with historical ordinances and designs. He was always submitting brash glass and concrete monstrosities better suited for big city tenements than the genteel low-profile look Charleston was desperately trying to save. I was the better designer and I had more experience, and after they saw my designs today, it would be a no-brainer to make me the Senior Associate.

  My phone dinged. It was Meredith
.

  Sorry I missed you this morning. Heard about girl’s night tonight. I’m in. We’ll celebrate your promotion. You’ve got this! HUGS

  I took a deep breath and pushed open the door to my office building with confidence.

  Chapter Two

  Barbara, my friend and Donovan and Tate’s longtime assistant, greeted me formally since she sat right outside both partners’ offices. “I’m afraid Mr. Donovan couldn’t come in today. Martha was taken into the hospital.”

  Mr. Donovan’s sweet wife who I absolutely adored had struggled with several cardiac incidents over the last year. “Oh no.” I frowned. “Is she … is it serious?”

  “I’m not sure.” Barbara grimaced. “Mr. Tate is doing your review,” she said with forced positivity.

  My heart sank further. “Oh. Are you sure?” I whispered. “I mean, I can just wait. We can reschedule.” I’d rather not be promoted today than have to have my review and associate presentation with Mr. Tate.

  “He’s already expecting you in his office.”

  I swallowed, then blew out a breath to steady myself. “All right. Thanks, Barb. Oh, I forgot, girls night tonight after work?”

  She made an exaggerated sad face. “Sorry, Jeff has a thing tonight. Have one for me?”