Broken French: A widowed, billionaire, single dad romance

by Natasha Boyd

  “Sure thing.” I turned on my heel.

  “Josie?” she called, and I turned back. She lowered her voice. “Stick to your guns. You deserve this.”

  A smile broke through the tense muscles of my face. “Thank you.”

  I arrived at the open doorway of Mr. Tate’s office. His nephew Jason, my co-worker, was in there. Conversation stopped abruptly.

  “Am I interrupting?” I asked

  Mr. Tate stood. He always wore pastel colored button down shirts tucked into his suit pants, or into pressed and pleated khaki’s on Fridays, and seersucker suits on Sundays for church. Today, he wore a mint green shirt that clashed with his slightly ruddy cheeks and fleshy jowls. “Jason and I were just catching up.”

  Jason smirked at me then turned back to his uncle as he stood. “Yeah. So glad you were able to come by and meet the new commissioner,” he said to his uncle. “You two hit it off. See you for our eight a.m. tee off tomorrow?”

  “See you there.”

  Jason, blond hair slicked back, passed me. “Josie.”

  “Jason,” I returned, my expression as bland as I could make it in the face of his supercilious smirk.

  I shut the door behind him. I didn’t like being in a closed room with Mr. Tate either, but I hated the thought Jason might listen in. I ran through the words I’d just heard. “The commissioner?” I asked.

  “The PPS commissioner,” he answered and gestured for me to sit, not at one of the chairs at his desk but in the seating area where he had a low couch. Low couches were the enemy of skirts. I lowered myself gingerly and angled my legs to the side.

  Mr. Tate couldn’t help himself, his gaze still slithered down my legs to my shoes and back to my thighs and then quickly to my face.

  “The PPS?” I pressed.

  “Planning, Preservation, and Sustainability.”

  “Oh,” I said. “I haven’t met the new commissioner.” I had adored the woman, Carole, who’d been in the position before. She’d worked for the mayor’s office and the zoning department for thirty years. She and I definitely saw eye-to-eye on curtailing some of the more egregious development plans greedy investors had for our small coastal city.

  “He went to school with Jason’s father, my brother. Same fraternity. He’s Jason’s godfather. Good to have contacts in the city government when you’re trying to get things approved, am I right?”

  “Sure. Though, there shouldn’t be a problem with any approval since we all stick to the historic and preservation guidelines, right?”

  “Of course, of course. But you never know.”

  My eyebrows had pinched together, and I made the effort to relax them. Mr. Tate had fingers in a lot of pies, and I had an inkling he was one to err on the cheaper and uglier side of design if it meant a small kick back for him from a supplier. I had no proof of that obviously. But call it a gut feeling. I had a lot of gut feelings about Mr. Tate. And the way he came to sit next to me on the couch rather than take one of the chairs didn’t help.

  “Well.” I forced a bright smile and brought out my plans. “Here are my designs for the exterior of the proposed East Bay Street Hotel. I think you’ll see that even though it might be slightly more costly, we’ll make up for it in other ways, and it will have no trouble being approved by—”

  “The hotel has already been approved.” He waved his hand dismissively at my rolls, and surprise and dread hit me square in the belly. “The commissioner already saw Jason’s plans at dinner last night,” he went on.

  “Jason’s plans?”

  “This hotel will be a huge coup for the commissioner in his new role. It will bring in lots of construction jobs for the city. They’re salivating.”

  “But—”

  “Look, honey.” He leaned forward and almost put a hand on my knee, stopping himself just in time.

  I stiffened at both the aborted action and his condescending address. His words played over in my head. If they’d already approved Jason’s designs, did that mean I was off the project?

  “I know you get your panties in a wad over the historical fancy-schmancy stuff.”

  My mouth dropped open, but he continued. “And I get it, I really do. This is Charleston. But we also need to show the world we’re a modern city. We can accomplish that with a few flourishes and detailing to keep the history buffs happy, but at the end of the day we’re a business. The developers are a business. And the builders are a business. The cheaper and quicker we can get things built the better off we’ll all be.”

  “The better off you’ll be. Not the city,” I snapped, then immediately dug my teeth into my lip. I shouldn’t be speaking to my boss this way. My palms were damp with panic. “I’m sorry. I …” I looked down at the roll tubes at my feet containing my vision for another unneeded Charleston boutique hotel that was heartbreakingly being built on a site that had once held a residence built by a freed slave. The lost building in question had arguably been built by the first African American architect and had been lived in by the legendary Eliza Lucas Pinckney who’d freed him from slavery. The residence had been destroyed by fire and a subsequent hurricane over a hundred years ago. Sadly, an archeological dig had been held up in municipal haggling, but I’d designed a facade to go with the interior that would pay homage to all those elements. I’d worked on it for months and months. “So to confirm, you don’t even want to see what I’ve drawn up. You’re going to go with Jason’s exteriors?” I asked, my heart slowly cracking. Months and months of research and hard work and the only person who’d probably see it would be the janitor.

  His hand went for my shoulder and I jerked back.

  “Look, honey,” he said, and I felt a shudder roll through me. “I know you’re a good architect. And I know you’ve been with us some time, and Donovan, well, he has a soft spot for you. But you have to know that I’ll be giving the promotion to Jason. I mean, I started this firm. It’s going to stay in the family. Jason will be Senior Associate, and in time, he’ll be partner. And then it will be Tate and Tate. Donovan is fixing to retire. And look, I’m not saying you don’t have a position here. It’s great, fantastic even, to have a female architect on board. And you’re easy on the eyes. Great to put in front of clients. And talented, of course.” He smiled magnanimously, believing he’d given me a sincere compliment. Then his eyes turned somber again. “But even if it wasn’t a family decision, which it is, I assure you, I don’t know how you could have thought you’d ever really make it to the top in the company and have your name on the door. Not in Charleston.”

  “Wh-what… why?”

  “Nobody has forgotten Nicolas de La Costa.”

  I was cold, my skin prickly, as all my blood seemed to drain away from head to toe. God. “You know I didn’t have anything to do with my stepfather’s business—”

  “That’s good to know,” he said as if it was news to him. “Regardless. You know Charleston. A small city with an extremely long memory. Of course, we value you here. And I’m sorry that Jason got this project, but there’ll be others. You’ll have a job here as long as you want it.”

  “But not a career.”

  “What?”

  “You said I’ll have a job here, but not a career.” My voice warbled slightly as I tried to rein in my devastation. “You’ll never promote me, and I have no way to move up.” And after losing the opportunity to work on the East Bay Street project, that seemed insignificant. But damn it. My job. I really needed that promotion. I had to get a grip and focus on what was important. History was being lost. It was more important than my job in the grand scheme of things. I could appeal. As a citizen of the city—

  Mr. Tate leaned forward again. “Oh, Josie,” he said, tilting his head slightly. “It’s not as bad as all that.” His finger reached out and then before I knew it his whole hand was on my knee. His hot, clammy, chubby hand.

  I froze.

  He squeezed gently, his face genial. Comforting, even. “I’m not saying you could never be promoted. At least to S
enior Associate. Loyalty and dedication to the team is always appreciated. And rewarded.” Another squeeze. My stomach churned. “Just not … today.”

  I lurched to my feet, and his hand slid off my knee. “Don’t touch me again.”

  “Now, now,” said Mr. Tate, palms up. “We’ll have none of that nonsense. I was just comforting you. I know you’re disappointed about being passed over.”

  My breath seesawed in and out of my chest, my heart pounded in my throat. I couldn’t stay here another second. My chest cinched up tight, and I blinked to try to mitigate the stinging in my nose and eyes that preceded tears of anger and frustration. I dug my fingernails into my palms, my balled-up fists. “I can’t stay here.”

  “Sorry?”

  “I quit.”

  There was a long silence.

  “Well, there’s no need to be hasty,” Tate said, looking surprised.

  “I quit,” I repeated, though my voice shook.

  “Right. Well. If you’re sure.” He held out his hand.

  Numb, I reached out and without thinking, shook it.

  Mr. Tate pursed his lips. “Actually, I need your badge and secure ID.”

  “Oh.” I blinked and then fumbled the clip off the buttonhole of my jacket with trembling hands and handed it over. Immediately, I wished I’d thrown it in his bland, jowly face.

  “You can leave your roll tubes here too. Your designs belong to us.”

  I looked down to where they lay at my feet and felt a surge of tears rising up the back of my throat and nose. Not here, I told myself.

  “Anything else you need from your desk?”

  I shook my head, not trusting myself to speak any more. Holy shit. What had I just done?

  “Well, if there is, I’ll ask Barbara to pack it up.” He gestured to the door. “Bye, Josie. Good luck.”

  I took a breath and lifted my chin. I’d done the only thing I could do. I was a damn good architect. And if they didn’t see it, someone else would. I had contacts. I had some meager savings and could temporarily defer my loan payments. I could get a reference from any number of previous clients and Mr. Donovan. I couldn’t protect East Bay Street, but at least I had my pride. Feeling only a fraction of a percent better after my rationalizing, I turned to the door, then stopped. “Mr. Tate?”

  He looked up as he rounded his desk, a placid look on his face like the last ten minutes hadn’t even phased him. “Yes?”

  “Fuck you very much,” I said sweetly and spun on my heel and walked out, putting an extra sway in my step.

  Chapter Three

  XAVIER

  Valbonne, Provence, France

  The afternoon sun slanted across the wooden farm table, bleached and worn from decades of use on the sunny patio. The scent of lavender from the fields in the valley wafted across the lawn, mingling with honeysuckle.

  “Can I get you anything before I leave?” The gruff voice of Martine, our longtime housekeeper and sometime child minder, roused me from where I’d been in a semi-meditative state after my pre-lunch laps in the pool.

  I glanced to the spread of lunch waiting for my daughter to join me. In years past, when my wife was alive, this table had been filled with friends, acquaintances, and extended family almost every week. These days it was a party if Evan, my bodyguard and best friend, joined us.

  “Non, merci,” I thanked her. “Just send Dauphine down when she’s changed out of her swimsuit.” A wet towel was still on the chair next to me from where Dauphine had abandoned it. She’d spent the morning in the pool begging me to join her while I took calls and tried to organize childcare. I adored spending time with her, but it was impossible when she was out of school for the summer and I still had a business to run. Of course, in a month or so business would be slower. It was almost August, and practically everyone would be on vacation for les grandes vacances. But for now it would be tricky to manage without help.

  “Any luck?” Martine pressed, glancing down at my laptop. “I’m sorry I have to leave before you found a replacement nanny.”

  “I have a call with the American agency this afternoon. Hopefully they’ll have someone else for us.”

  “Keep me informed. I can try to shorten my trip if necessary.”

  I waved my hand. “No, no. You must go and see your family. It’s not your fault our summer au pair fell through at the last moment.” She’d very unprofessionally cancelled her contract three days before arriving. “The American agency will have someone else, I’m sure of it. They’ve always come through for us in the past.”

  She gave a brief nod. “D’accord,” she said, looking unconvinced.

  If it wasn’t for knowing that Martine’s sister had been diagnosed with cancer, I’d insist she stay until I had someone else lined up. But Martine disliked coming on the boat, always butting heads with our chef, and I wanted us to head out on my yacht for at least a month. It was time we did something together, Dauphine and I, that didn’t involve rattling around this big old house with all its memories. If I wasn’t working on one of the biggest deals of my business life, I’d suggest we go overseas somewhere and reset.

  “J’arrive!” Dauphine spun out the door. Her lanky ten-year old body was dressed in a t-shirt and denim shorts, her hair unbrushed.

  “And I’m leaving,” responded Martine and pulled her into a tight hug. Then she set her at arm’s length. “You be good for your papa, you hear? I will see you in two months. Try not to get sunburned, brush your hair and teeth, and don’t forget to keep up with your reading. Less YouTube, more words. Okay?”

  I stood and gave Martine a kiss on each cheek. She’d been a Godsend after Arriette died two years ago, filling as much of a motherly role as she could in our household. Not that my late wife had been an exceptional mother, I hated to admit, but Martine was a female presence at least when my mother couldn’t be around.

  Dauphine and I sat and ate the Pain Bagnat sandwiches and drank our sparkling drinks. Orangina for her and Perrier for me.

  “Do you have more work again, Papa?” Dauphine asked when she’d exhausted all her topics of chatter.

  “Mon chou, I always have work. I’m the boss. My work is never done.”

  She folded her arms. “I’m bored.”

  “Only boring people get bored.” I shrugged.

  She slitted her eyes. “I’m not boring!”

  “I know.”

  “Hmm,” she griped. “So what should I do? I’m bored of swimming, and you won’t let me be on a screen. You know I could learn something on a screen.”

  “Like what?”

  She gnawed her lip. “Like … baking?”

  I inwardly cringed, knowing that would lead to her wanting to cook something, and with no Martine here to supervise, that was an impossibility.

  “How about drawing?”

  “That’s boring.”

  I raised my eyebrows, unwilling to be pulled into a disagreement over that particular hobby. She loved to draw. “What about coding your own video game?”

  Her head cocked to the side. Her nose, slightly pink and peeling, was dotted with tiny freckles. I needed to be better about sunscreen.

  “Truly?” she asked.

  “Yes. Find a YouTube video about basic coding and see if you can make a game we can play against each other.” I pushed back from the table and stood, leaning down to kiss her forehead. “Or draw,” I suggested again, knowing that’s what she would probably pick. “Now, I have to get on a call to America. Please take our plates inside on your way.”

  After she’d left, I poured another water just as a movement caught my eye. Looking up, I saw Evan striding toward me, having come around the side of the house.

  “Christ. You’ll give a man a heart attack sneaking up like that,” I said, switching to English as I sat back down.

  He grinned, eyes hidden behind reflective Ray-Bans. “For your own safety, you should be more observant.”

  “I employ you for that, asshole.”

  We clasped hands l
ike an arm wrestle in the air across the table, then let go and he sat.

  “On est prêt?” I asked him, switching back to French.

  “We’re ready,” Evan confirmed. “The boat’s all stocked up and the crew is waiting.” His accent in French was atrocious. Normally I ribbed him, but today I let it go.

  “Did you have any luck finding a nanny?”

  “I have a call in twenty minutes. Hopefully we’ll have an American on a plane by tomorrow night.”

  “Amazing what enough money will buy. Dauphine will love that. She loves all those American shows.”

  I grimaced. “Banal teenage humor. She’s beginning to talk like she’s ten going on seventeen. But at least she’s improving her English.”

  “I hope you find someone. I have the itinerary planned for all the meetings you gave me, and you’ll be spending a lot of day times off the boat.” Evan shifted. “I, uh, took the liberty of speaking to Jorge.”

  I opened my mouth at the mention of my mother’s private secretary, but Evan spoke over me. “Just as a precaution. Your mother will be in Monaco for most of the month, but in a few weeks she’ll be in the Cap Ferrat house. Jorge says she’s been talking about reaching out and asking if Dauphine can visit for longer than just the occasional weekend.”

  “Did he now?”

  I leaned back in my chair, spreading my legs and resting my arms on each arm. “And I don’t suppose you then happened to mention we’d be on the boat and in the area?”

  Evan had perfected the art of non-expression. “I may have mentioned it.”

  We stared at each other.

  At least, I stared at his sunglasses through my sunglasses, giving him the stink eye. For all I knew he was taking a quick power nap.

  “Fine,” I ground out after a moment. “Did I mention how much of a nuisance you are?”

  “Not that I recall. You should tell me again.” Then he broke out his stupid Tom Cruise smile.

  I tutted in disgust, which only made him laugh.

  After a second, he sobered. “You have to see your mother more often. She misses you. You can’t just let her be a grandmother to Dauphine and not be a mother to you.”