by Natasha Boyd
I chuckled. “Nope. I would love to, I promise. But I won’t. We can play other games.”
Her lips pursed off to the side of her mouth as if I was a problem to solve.
“Come on, princess. Let’s go upstairs. I’m ready to eat my own hand.”
“What does this mean?”
“It’s a joke.”
“Hmm.”
“Race you.” I took off ahead of her.
She squealed behind me. “Non!”
We sailed past the bridge, Captain Paco nowhere to be found. I pounded up the last few steps with a laugh. Behind me Dauphine yelled, “Attention!”
As our heads emerged on the upper deck, I was thankful her yelled warning was unneeded since no one had been on the stairs at the same time.
Night had settled fast.
I bent over for a moment to catch my breath as Dauphine joined me, giggling. A glow came from the table. There were two hurricane jars enclosing a candle each on the table.
Andrea was standing over Mr. Pascale at the head of the table, one hand behind her back and the other pouring him a glass of pale pink wine. She gave me a quirked eyebrow.
Mr. Pascale looked less than pleased.
“Papa,” exclaimed Dauphine and rapid fired French at him.
He let out an uncomfortable chuckle, and his shoulders relaxed a notch.
A strong smell of buttery garlic wafted toward me, and my mouth flooded with saliva.
I caught my boss’s hooded eyes as they moved to me from his daughter. I pulled out the chair to his left with Dauphine to his right.
The plate in front of Dauphine had prosciutto-wrapped melon artfully placed on it. It was one of my favorite dishes with its salty-sweet flavor.
Dauphine clapped her hands together when she saw it.
“San Daniele di Parma avec melon. Chef made it specially for you, love,” Andrea told her with a smile, then she turned to us. “And for you both, we have Moules Mariniere, followed by Loup de Mer with haricots verts and petites patates.”
Mr. Pascale shifted toward me. “The direct translation is Wolf of the Sea, it’s a type of—”
“Sea bass. Special to the Mediterranean.” I trailed off as I realized how I’d rudely cut him off. Nervously, I turned to Andrea and was actually thankful for my mother and stepfather’s craving for keeping up with the foodie-Jones’s in Charleston, which was known for its great food. “Thank you. And mussels to start?” I wanted Monsieur Pascale to realize that he hadn’t employed some clueless, provincial pushover. I was intelligent and knowledgeable, and for some reason, I needed him to know it.
Andrea nodded at me. “Yes, that’s right. Can I pour you water or a soft drink?”
“Water is fine. Thank you.”
“No wine?” Mr. Pascale asked, a dark eyebrow arching.
I glanced at my wine glass winking in the candlelight, and the bottle of seriously refreshing looking chilled wine. I’d bet it was delicious. I wasn’t supposed to drink on the job. Then again, I’d quit this job. I was hardly a lush, but I enjoyed a glass with dinner.
“That would be lovely, actually,” I said with a lift of my shoulders. “Thank you, Andrea. I quit today, so I don’t think it really matters, does it?”
“Um.” She glanced between me and Mr. Pascale.
He sat back and eyed me with a look of puzzlement. But as I stared back I also saw reluctant admiration at calling his bluff.
“You see,” I turned back to Andrea, “Mr. Pascale is negotiating with me to see if I’ll stay. And we definitely haven’t discussed whether or not I can have a glass of wine with dinner.” In my head, I willed Andrea not to be offended by the way I was acting. I wanted to tell her I quit because he’d insulted me. I’d have to explain and apologize later. But frankly, having made the decision that I was willing to leave, it was easier to stick to my principles.
Andrea filled my wine glass. “Thank you,” I told her meaningfully.
“Non, Papa. She must stay,” Dauphine pleaded, her gaze also darting between us. Thank you, Dauphine.
Mr. Pascale patted his daughter’s hand. “Prends ton dîner.”
Dauphine dove into her plate, and I smiled at her enthusiasm and obedience.
Andrea pulled the lid off a bowl on the table and revealed black-shelled mussels swimming in a creamy sauce, sprinkled with fresh green herbs. Then she set down a breadbasket of cut baguette. “I’ll let Chef know to begin the next course,” she directed at her boss, and then melted away and down the stairs.
“Moules?” he asked.
I dragged my gaze to his. “No, thank you.”
“You are hungry, no? Why not?”
How could I explain to him that while I loved cream and shallots and garlic sauce—who wouldn’t?—I couldn’t bring myself to eat a tiny orange vagina? I’d blame Meredith for the rest of my life for pointing that out to me when I was thirteen. Now I couldn’t ever unsee it. “I’ll have some bread and sauce. Thank you.”
He nodded and passed me the breadbasket before helping himself to the fragrant mussels.
I tore off a hunk of the crusty, warm, soft-centered bread, almost swooning with delight at the feel of it in my fingertips. Why couldn’t America make great bread?
Monsieur Pascale had a piece of bread too and dunked it into the sauce in the shared bowl between us. I followed suit, trying to ignore the intimacy of sharing a bowl together and allowing a second for maximum absorption. Then I slipped the piece between my lips and groaned as the flavors exploded across my tongue. I couldn’t hold in my sound of appreciation. My senses melted into the rich, creamy, garlicky flavor. Even my shoulders sank into them.
I hastily prepared another. And another.
Suddenly feeling self-conscious, I looked up to find his eyes on me, his body stiff, his mouth working slowly as he ate his helping.
“You need a spoon just to drink the sauce,” I said to cut the strange tension. “It’s so delicious.”
He held up a mussel shell and then dipped it into the bowl like a spoon, allowing a healthy portion of broth to flood into it. Then he raised it to his mouth and drank. As he pulled the shell away, his lips glistened and he licked them.
I clenched my thighs together and wrenched my gaze to his daughter.
Dauphine was finishing up her melon and prosciutto. “Was it good, Dauphine?”
She looked up. “Oui.”
“Do you eat dinner with your papa every evening?” I pounced on a topic.
“This summer, yes. When he does not have a business dinner.” She rolled her eyes, making me smile. “I like it, but only when I get food good for me to eat. Sometimes Papa makes me try things I already know I do not like.”
“Have you ever been surprised?” I exchanged a quick glance with her father, seeing his eyebrow twitch.
She sat back and folded her arms. “This is a trick?”
I lifted a shoulder. “I’m interested in the answer. Do you know that once upon a time, I hated prosciutto? True story. I cried too. My mother was making me try it and I was so mad. I took the first bite with tears running down my face and a headache from crying so hard.” I widened my eyes for effect and Dauphine giggled. “The ham was salty and chewy just like I’d known it would be,” I went on. “And I ran to the trash can and spat it out.”
Dauphine gasped.
I dared not look at her father. “I got in sooo much trouble. I was sent to my room with no more food. I was very hungry and so tired from my tantrum that I fell fast asleep. I woke up when the house was quiet and snuck downstairs and found the leftover prosciutto in the refrigerator and finished it all.”
Dauphine stared at me with a look of shock before bursting into a delighted laugh.
“But I don’t recommend raiding Chef’s fridge,” I went on before she got any ideas. “Evan tells me he’s fierce about his food.”
There was a masculine snort from my right.
I looked up. Mr. Pascale was actually smiling. It was devastating. Like clouds parting
to reveal the sun. My breath caught, and I swallowed and looked back to the little girl. “So, the moral of the story is you never know unless you try.”
Her father said something to her in French that sounded like it could be a similar phrase. She glanced at me warily, as if it had been a trick after all. “Papa tells me that lesson sometimes.”
“Wise man.” I lifted a shoulder. “It’s not just food either. I didn’t like horseback riding until I tried it. Horses scared me.”
“I love horseback riding!” she exclaimed then frowned. “But yes. Horses can be scary. They are so big.”
“Exactly,” I said.
“What else?”
“What else did I think I hated that I’m glad I tried?”
She nodded.
I looked up at the night sky as if deep in thought. “Hmm. Let’s see. Licorice, avocado, karate—”
“You can do karate?”
“Of course. A girl must learn self-defense.”
Her large eyes grew rounder.
“It’s true,” her father said, then he turned back to me. “What about boats?” he asked, eyes steady on mine as he took a sip of rosé. I realized I hadn’t touched mine yet. “Are you glad you tried boats?”
I narrowed my eyes at him. Was he … teasing me?
“You don’t like boats?” Dauphine gasped. “Even Papa’s boat? But it’s the best boat!”
I laughed at how incensed she was. “Is it? I wouldn’t know. I have never been on another because, well, I don’t like them.”
“But now you do,” she stated as if it was decided. She wiggled in her seat, and then huffed out a breath. “Uh. Je vais aux toilettes. Excusez-moi.” She pushed back her chair and darted down the stairs, leaving me and Mr. Pascale alone over an extremely romantic-looking candlelit dinner.
On a yacht.
In the South of France.
But it felt more like being left inside the leopard cage at feeding time.
This time I did reach for my wine and took a healthy sip as blue-eyes-turned-navy glittered in the near dark.
Chapter Eleven
“You said you do not have much experience as a nanny,” Mr. Pascale asked, clearly cutting to the interview we never had as soon as his daughter had left the upper deck. “I looked at the resume Tabitha Mackenzie sent. You worked at an architectural firm?”
As uncomfortable as I was to talk about my career, the wound so fresh, it was better than the weird tension that had suddenly bloomed out of nowhere as soon as we were alone. My shoulders relaxed, and I realized how tense I’d been. “Yes.”
“In what capacity?” he asked, lifting his wine glass.
“As an architect.”
His glass stopped midair.
Inside, I did a victory high five and a couple of backflips. Take that, you arrogant, gorgeous, piece of work. Being an architect is hard work. It takes years of study. Both math and creativity and a boatload of patience and attention to detail.
His head cocked to the side, his eyes studying me.
I waited, silently gloating. Though I hoped that didn’t show.
“You’re a little overqualified, non?”
That was it? That was what he had to say? Irritation rumbled through me, and my ego got a bruised backside.
“Alors, you will not even try a mussel after that talk you gave my daughter?” Mr. Pascale asked, reaching for one of the remaining shells.
And so we were done with me and my career. I took a slow sip of wine, letting the aromatic and rich liquid slide over my tongue.
He was baiting me and I was … enjoying it?
There were three mussels left swimming in the bowl. It had been an appetizer, so there’d been just enough for both of us to have some without ruining our appetites completely, but I was abstaining. “You can have those,” I said. The bread was finished anyway.
“You don’t want the broth?”
“I don’t have a spoon.”
“If you have just one moule, you can use the shell as a spoon.”
“Or you could give me one of your shells.”
“Ahh. But where’s the adventure in that?”
Maybe he did have a lighter side after all. This couldn’t be flirting, could it? Not after the awful start to the evening. And not since he was my boss.
I lifted a shoulder.
“Is it the flavor? The—how do you say—the texture?” he questioned, using a fork to spear his bounty from the shell. “With all this sauce, you could eat anything.” He swirled it around in the bowl for maximum flavor before bringing it to his mouth.
“It’s not the flavor or texture, it’s what it looks like.”
He paused and looked down, studying the morsel on the end of his fork, his brow furrowed.
Then his confusion gave way to surprise, and he erupted into laughter. Moments later, the laughter still hadn’t subsided and his fork clattered to his plate. He pushed back from the table, a hand on his chest as his shoulders shook, and he lost himself in hysterics.
It was contagious, though I tried really hard to hold it in. But the sight of this carefully controlled serious man, losing his shit like a twelve-year-old boy in biology class, just busted me up, and before long I was laughing too. Especially when his eyes started to water, and he gasped, “Mon dieu.”
There was a noise from the stairwell, and I turned to see a group of shocked faces. Andrea, Evan, and even Paco’s head peeped over the top of the stairwell.
Another face appeared that I didn’t recognize, maybe the chef. And then Dauphine wiggled her way through them.
“What is funny?” she demanded.
I shared a look with her father. There was no way we could tell them. It was beyond childish. And for some reason, it set us both off again.
Dauphine stomped her foot. “Papa!”
“Sorry,” I managed, trying to sober.
“Je suis desolé,” Monsieur Pascale said at the same time, also apologizing.
Grabbing my napkin, I dried my eyes.
Evan and Paco had disappeared downstairs, but not before they both looked from one to the other of us in utter bafflement and speculation.
Looking at us both warily, Dauphine took her seat, but she was an extremely subdued version of the girl who had left the table minutes earlier. Her father’s mouth kept twitching as he reined in his humor, but his eyes briefly seared me with intensity. It was gone so fast I thought I’d imagined it.
Andrea and the chef brought the main course to the table. Sea bass for the grown-ups and spaghetti for Dauphine. After a brief introduction to Chef, he left too. When Andrea went to top up my wine glass, I stopped her with a small hand motion and smile. “Thank you, but I think I should only have one when I’m working.”
Across the table, I felt rather than saw Xavier Pascale’s shoulder relax. He wanted me to stay. And I surprised myself by wanting to stay too. And I’d allowed him not to have to apologize or beg me. I hoped he appreciated it because I wasn’t normally in the habit of giving men free passes to be arrogant buttheads. But of course, he’d also overlooked me losing my temper earlier.
After Andrea left, we ate our meal in silence for a while. The sea bass was melt-in-my-mouth delicious, slightly salty and bursting with delicately herbed flavor. And by the time we were done, I was stuffed and happy. The grueling exhaustion of travel and ebbing adrenaline dragged at my muscles.
“What time do you normally go to bed?” I asked Dauphine.
“Eleven,” she said at the same time her father said, “Nine o’clock.”
She pouted and I smiled. Her father rolled his eyes. “And only because it is summertime. On special occasions perhaps ten.”
“Come on,” I said after checking my wrist watch. “I’ll help you get ready and tuck you in. Do you have animals you sleep with?”
“Des animaux?”
“Yes, like teddy bears?”
“Of course.”
“Maybe you can introduce them to me. My favorite growing up was a stu
ffed snow leopard my great aunt from New York City gave me. I miss that cat terribly.”
I held out my hand while her mind was distracted with trying to unpack all the elements I’d just told her. I helped her out of her chair.
“Say good night to your papa.”
She let go of me and threw her arms around his neck. “Bonne nuit, Papa.”
“Bonne nuit, mon ange.” He stroked her curls, and eyes closed, pressed a hard kiss to her head where it was tucked under his chin. His angel.
I reached for my plate and glass.
“You may leave it,” Mr. Pascale said.
Then Dauphine grabbed my hand again and tugged me toward the stairs. “Good night,” I said to her father.
“One more question, Miss Marin?”
I turned back. “Yes?”
“Do you like them now? Boats?” he clarified and cast a hand around him.
Cocking my head to the side, I pretended to ponder. “I’m still deciding.”
He raised his glass with a smirk.
I turned and went downstairs with his daughter, hating how my pulse seemed to be ticking in my throat, and that sea bass was doing a tap dance in my belly. Careful, I told myself.
In her cabin, Dauphine showed me her favorite pajamas and began introducing me to her stuffed animals.
“Do these travel with you between the boat and home?”
“Yes. But I have more. Papa said I cannot bring them all here.” Her shoulders sank.
“Hey, that’s okay. You need some to remain at home to look after your bedroom there.”
“But they get lonely.”
“Are you kidding? They are having a party every night.”
“I’m not a baby, I know my toys are not having a party.”
“But they have feelings. You told me they get lonely. If they get lonely, they can just as easily be happy.”
She humphed. “Being happy is not as easy as being sad. That’s what my maman used to tell me. She said she tried very hard to be happy all the time, but sometimes it was too difficult.”
God. My chest ached. I really needed to know what had happened to her mother. “It’s true that some people have a harder time being happy than others,” I said carefully, reaching for her toothbrush. “Just like some people get headaches more than other people.”