Broken French: A widowed, billionaire, single dad romance

by Natasha Boyd

  “Hold on, hold on,” I said. “Aren’t you getting a little carried away here? I’m an architect, not a qualified child minder. I don’t know the first thing about being a nanny and watching kids. I don’t even think I like kids—”

  “That’s because you’ve only met my brother’s kids and they’re little shitheads,” Meredith explained gravely.

  I pointed at her. “That’s a true story. But I’m being serious.”

  Tabs suddenly grabbed my pointing hand. The look in her brown eyes turned her into a puppy. At the shelter. On Christmas Eve.

  “Oh, no. Tabs.” I shook my head side to side. “Don’t give me the eyes.”

  “You’d be doing me a massive favor,” Tabs pressed. “Saving my ass and helping my business. I’d really like that commission. It’s great money for you too. Especially while you look for another job. And I know you. I trust you. You’re responsible and loyal. I know this family. They need a good person. A nice person. They’ve been through a lot. Think of it as doing a really good deed for several people at once.”

  Meredith leaned forward and took my other hand. “You need a fresh start. A place to lick your wounds and figure out your next steps. Somewhere you can’t wallow. You can send your resume out from France just as easily as from here.”

  That was true at least. The thought of waking up every day realizing my dream had just been flushed into the sewer and I was going to have to dig around down there and pull it out and try to get the stench off was almost too much to think about right now. I’d worked so freaking hard. For so many years. I was fucking exhausted if I was being truthful. And worse, I realized, I’d been running without moving forward for quite some time. That was why this promotion mirage today had hurt all the more. Never mind the sleaze factor. That was just topping on the shit pie.

  “What have you got to lose?” asked Meredith.

  Nothing, I answered mentally.

  I needed to leap off the edge and trust the universe.

  It was France. Somewhere I’d always wanted to go. Somewhere I thought I’d go with my dad one day. He would want me to go.

  But there was no way I could be that impulsive.

  Could I? That wasn’t me.

  The idea grew and grew in my chest—a bubble of nerves, but mostly excitement, until I found I could hardly breathe. “Hell, yes,” I suddenly burst out. “I’m going to France!”

  “Please, Josie, I—wait, what?” Tabitha blinked twice and a cloud parted across her face. “Josephine Marin, did you just say, yes?”

  “Yes,” I confirmed and felt my heart rate triple. I wasn’t an impulsive person and yet today, I’d upped and quit a job without thinking it through and now I was agreeing to—“Wait. I’m not saying yes, yet,” I backtracked in a panic. “But hypothetically, where would a nanny be going exactly?” I’d seen pictures of the industrial areas around the cities. This guy was a billionaire. Which meant he probably needed a nanny while he worked. What if he lived high up in a penthouse in an ugly city, and I never got to experience the France of my dreams? “And I need straight truth right now. Am I going to be nannying next to a smokestack? And are you sending someone to childmind the demon spawn? Is that why no one else will take the job?”

  She gave a smirk. “South of France, no and no. They are an amazing family. At least they seemed to be when Arriette—Mrs. Pascale—was alive.”

  My heart rate wasn’t slowing down. South of France? I’d taken French in school and always meant to do a refresher. I’d thought I had plenty of time. What if I couldn’t speak to anyone? And what about nannying experience? Was I really going to do this? I grabbed my gin and took three hearty gulps.

  Meredith seemed to realize I was freaking out. “Hey there. Breathe,” she demanded.

  “I—I don’t have enough experience, do I?”

  “You babysat tons growing up,” Meredith assured me, then frowned. “Didn’t you?”

  “I have an in at the YMCA,” Tabs cut in before I could answer. “I’ll get you in tomorrow’s Child and Adult CPR and First Aid class. No problem. You need that anyway to be covered under my company’s insurance policy.”

  “Insurance policy? Like if something happens to the child on my watch?” The magnitude of responsibility was growing bigger. “Oh my God, I can’t breathe. What did I just do? How old is the kid again?”

  Tabitha was now stroking my hand like I was a wild horse about to bolt. “You’re not as qualified as some of my girls. Actually, at all. I’m going to tell Xavier Pascale you’re not normally a nanny. But that you’re good with kids. He just needs someone he can trust. Dauphine is ten. She’s hardly a baby. It will be a walk in the park. A walk in paradise even. I’ll tell him I’m staking my reputation on you. That I trust you. And I do.”

  I swallowed.

  In through the nose, out through the mouth. In through the nose. Out through the mouth.

  “Josie,” Mer cooed softly. “Tabs was so desperate, I almost quit the bank and took the job myself. But with what happened to you today, I believe it was divine intervention. If you hate it, call us and we’ll figure something out. But give yourself a chance, Josie. Go grab a slice of paradise and get some perspective. Work on your resume from there. Shit, go look at a shit ton of European Architecture.”

  Chills raced over my skin at that. “It really is an architectural mecca. So many influences. So much history. I never thought I’d have a chance to go for years at least.”

  Meredith nodded. “And it doesn’t hurt that you’ll get to look upon Xavier Pascale’s face every day,” she said dreamily. “Have you Googled him? You should.” She fanned herself.

  “Mer,” Tabitha snapped. “She can’t see him like that. She can’t. He’s off-limits.”

  “Fine.”

  “I’m serious. This is my business.”

  “Yes, yes. When was just looking a crime?”

  “It’s fine, Tabs. You can trust me.” I slid my eyes to Meredith with a cheeky smirk. “I’ve never been attracted to the family man type.”

  Meredith gasped with feigned drama. “Again. Low blow, Marin. I’m keeping score.”

  “You do that. But you’ll have to do it from across the ocean.” I grabbed a chip and a chance. “Coz I’m going to France, baby!”

  Chapter Five

  My neck ached as I straightened it and blinked my eyes open. I flexed my jaw. Ouch. My hand rubbed at the offending area. I was leaning my head against the glass of the train window, and the pressure was now spreading into a dull headache. Having only fallen asleep half an hour before landing, I’d been a zombie getting through customs and finding the train station. Somehow, I’d found a place that sold baguette sandwiches and fallen upon one like a woman possessed before passing out on the train to Nice. I wiped at some drool on my chin.

  “Nous arrivons dans trente minutes,” the man across from me said gruffly, punctuating the sentence with a jab of his chin in the direction of the window.

  I turned to look where he pointed and gasped, my mouth dropping open. “Wow,” I mumbled under my breath.

  There was nothing but blue at the edge of the tumbling rocks of the shoreline. The sky, and the incredible blue of the Mediterranean Sea, stretched as far as I could see. It was the kind of blue that was hard to tell someone about. Definitely the kind you didn’t need an Instagram filter for. It was vivid, deep, bold, vibrant shades from bright turquoise to midnight ink, almost cartoon-like in its color palette. The ocean gave way to the sky that stretched away into another endless cerulean dream. My chest grew tight, and I sighed, almost brought to tears. I was in France!

  “Alors. C’est beau, non?”

  I looked back at the man, trying to process what he’d said with my tired brain and high school French. Beau. It’s beautiful?

  “Um, uh, oui.”

  He grunted, clearly unimpressed with my conversational skills. “Vous êtes américaine?”

  American?

  “Oui,” I answered.

  “Bienve
nue.”

  He shook out his paper with a welcoming smile and went back to reading. My cell phone buzzed with a text. I’d been lucky to get on the train Wi-Fi because I didn’t have an international data plan. I hadn’t had a chance before I left.

  Mer: Hey, you get to Nice yet?

  Still on train, I typed. Getting there in about 30. Double clicking away from messages, I opened the email application. Then I searched Meredith’s name. There was a thread to me from Meredith and Tabitha, outlining the details. A driver would pick me up at Nice Ville Train station. I would be taken to the family home in Valbonne before we boarded the yacht the day after tomorrow. Wait. A yacht?

  OMG, I typed to Meredith. Tabitha didn’t mention I was babysitting on a boat. I hate boats! WTF?

  Mer: She didn’t know until after you left. I know you hate boats. But do you hate yachts? French yachts?

  Same thing.

  Mer: Er, no. Not the same thing.

  Same

  Mer: Not.

  Same.

  Mer: Not.

  Ugh!

  Mer: You have to let me know if he’s as hot IRL.

  Who? I typed, being deliberately obtuse.

  Mer: The pope.

  I do believe we went over this. And please don’t stress Tabs out.

  Mer: I know, Tabs would freak. But you can look, right? NOT that I’m endorsing you lusting after your boss, but it can’t hurt to have a beautiful work environment. And I don’t mean the Mediterranean. Wait, I can never spell that. Two r’s or two t’s.

  Seriously?

  Mer: I know. I know. Also, maybe he’s too pretty for you? Like, too perfect, you know?

  Stop. Can we stop talking about him? I don’t want you putting ideas in my head.

  Mer: You haven’t Googled him yet, have you? Stop the fucking train and do it RIGHT NOW.

  Mer: Girl. Do it. Unrelated, we should have gotten you laid before you left. How long has it been anyway?

  Stop! I rolled my eyes.

  Mer: You need to be prepared. Thank me later. Did you pack your vibrator at least?

  I shook my head, biting back a laugh. A link came through text. Clearly Meredith didn’t trust me to follow her orders.

  Outside the train window, the mesmerizing view of the Mediterranean was starting to disappear as the tracks wove into the outskirts of Nice. I looked back at my phone. My thumb hovered for about two seconds before descending.

  The page loaded slowly, revealing Xavier Pascale.

  I swallowed heavily.

  Holllllly shit.

  Screw Meredith and Tabitha right now. And Mr. Tate. And everyone who’d played a part in me being here.

  Oh, Xavier Maxime Pascale was hot all right. No, not hot. He was breathtaking—beautiful in a kind of magazine-ad-that-you-can’t-turn-the-page-from kind of way. Rugged and icy in his glare. But with suntanned skin and lazy, glossy dark hair swept off his face. He couldn’t be more than thirty-five. Not an old man, then. I don’t know why I’d thought a widowed French billionaire needing a nanny for his kids might be older, but I had. I clicked through to a news story about him.

  In this photo, he was standing on a sidewalk in front of a flashy looking hotel entrance, hands in his navy shorts, athletic legs disappearing into those sock-less moccasin things European men could get away with wearing. He was next to an even more flashy looking car. I squinted. A Maserati. Matte black if I was guessing. On the main Google page was image after image of him being spied on—candids taken of him through windshields, from between potted palms, and through restaurant windows. Poor guy. People seemed obsessed with him.

  The article itself was taken from the French version of a tabloid site. He was basically a French Kardashian. There was an article that included another, older photo of him with a dark-haired and sleek gazelle of a woman. The epitome of French chic. I blew out a long slow breath and clicked away from the article, I wouldn’t understand the French text anyway, and went back to my email.

  I scrolled past the logistics of my pick up to Tabitha’s message.

  Hi Josie ~

  Thank you sooo much for doing this. I’ve worked for this family before. Sadly though, I think I told you, it was when Monsieur Pascal’s wife Arriette was alive. Such a terrible tragedy. Their daughter, Dauphine, is scrumptious! She’ll be around ten years old now, I think. I can’t imagine how sad it’s been for her to lose her mother. Apparently, it’s still tough two years later.

  Normally, I’d take you out to lunch to have a frank discussion about the family. But it was all a little crazy yesterday, I have to email it all to you.

  Okay, standard rules apply for the girls I position - I’m just pasting these in. I know you and know this won’t be a problem. But I have to cover my ass.

  1)Follow the family’s rules for care, don’t make up your own (mealtimes, bedtimes, routines etc).

  2)No friends (romantic or otherwise) on an employer’s premises without written consent from employer. (Best idea is to email employer and cc me, and then we have it in writing. Actually, best of all idea is just to avoid visitors for the length of the contract.)

  3)No smoking, drinking alcohol, or drug taking.

  4)No fraternizing in any romantic capacity with any of the employer’s family, friends, or acquaintances. You should mostly be invisible.

  5)No using cell phone except during personal time or expressly to be in touch with employer if out with child(ren). He’ll probably give you a local phone.

  You are allowed two days off per week. Actually, a work week in France is maximum forty hours, but you can make the arrangement with your employer.

  In your case, since it’s mostly going to be on a yacht (sorry! I just found out. I feel awful. You’ll be okay, right?), I imagine you’ll have to work it out with Monsieur Pascale. I’ll check in with you at the end of the first week, third week, and then your final (sixth week) to see if they want to extend to eight. If anything comes up in the meantime, please don’t hesitate to call.

  Best of luck for the best job in the world—being a guardian angel to a small soul!

  Tabs xo

  I blew out the long breath I’d been holding as I read most of the email. I loved the invisible part. Invisible was exactly what I needed. But was it possible to be invisible when you were going to be sharing a tiny space, like a boat? And what about if we all ventured off the boat? I had a horrible feeling that came with a shit ton of very close scrutiny. Remembering how traumatizing it had been when my family had been in the news, I gave a shudder.

  Mer: Ok. Your lack of response tells me you are freaking out. Trust me, Josie. It’s going to be fine. Just keep your head down, and watch the kid, and six weeks will be over before you know it.

  I breathed out. My best friend knew me well.

  And then what? I typed.

  Mer: Then we’ll figure out your next step. Together. Love you

  Love you too.

  I closed the apps on my phone to save battery life and gathered my things as we pulled into the train station.

  What had I been thinking? There should be a rule to never make life altering decisions after a traumatic day followed by three gin cocktails.

  This job had disaster written all over it.

  Chapter Six

  I stepped off the train and walked through one of the ornate green double doors into the Nice Ville train station. The building was old and gorgeous, the main vestibule only about the size of a basketball court, but with ornate details on the walls and a roof dome of paneled glass that spoke of a bygone era. I stopped, and stared upwards, not realizing I’d come to a complete standstill with my mouth open until someone bumped into me with a muttered grunt.

  “S-sorry.” Nervousness pinched my belly, and I made my feet move. I wasn’t sure if I was expecting someone holding a sign, but as I looked left and right, trying to stay out of the way of the stream of passengers coming after me, I saw no one who looked like they were here for me.

  Someone jostled into me ag
ain. “Excusez-moi.”

  “Sorry,” I muttered and headed toward a small stand that sold newspapers, candy, and cigarettes so I could get out of the way. I should at least buy a bottle of water while I waited and figured out my next move in case no one showed up. I pursed my lips together and dug in my purse for my sunglasses and slipped them on my face. I pointed to a bottle of water and handed over some of my Euros I’d managed to get out of an ATM at the Paris airport.

  The sound of small feet running caught my attention. A small girl, dressed in a pink dress and Mary Jane shoes, and tangled honey-colored hair floating wild about her face flew around the corner of the newsstand and stopped dead when she saw me.

  I squatted and pushed my sunglasses up to my hair, frowning. “Are you okay?”

  “Dauphine!” A man’s voice boomed across the station, the sound panicked.

  “Dauphine!” The man rushed past, then whirled as he saw us. He dropped to a crouch, yanking the small girl into his arms. He held her tight, his head falling into her shoulder like he was inhaling her desperately.

  Oh my God. It was him. Xavier whatever. Monsieur Pascale. I could tell from the brief flash of his face before I was confronted with that incredible thick dark hair. And of course, the name of his daughter suddenly clicked into place. Expensive denim stretched tight over his strong thighs, and his white linen shirt and navy blazer, that screamed custom-made, dressed a torso that didn’t seem to have an ounce of expendable fat.

  I stood slowly and stepped backward to give them some space.

  My hands itched to drop my sunglasses back over my eyes as protection, but I resisted.

  After Monsieur Pascale had given his daughter enough of a hug, he set her at arm’s length and gave her a shake, his face thunderous, and his mouth sputtering all sorts of things I didn’t understand. I figured he’d thought he lost his daughter and now his fear was catching up. Christ, the man was attractive. Far more attractive than the French tabloid link Mer had sent me had managed to capture. His presence alone was like a vortex.