Broken French: A widowed, billionaire, single dad romance

by Natasha Boyd

  “Ha. He normally gets what he wants. But yikes, sorry about your promotion. Wow. An architect.” She laughed, seemingly with discomfort. “I’m impressed. A bit overqualified for this, no?”

  Xavier Pascale had said the same thing. I looked her straight in the eyes. “I’d never treat it as something beneath me.”

  She nodded. “I never had a chance to go to college.”

  I didn’t know what to say to that. Maybe she thought I’d feel above her or something. I wasn’t sure how to fix that. I’d just have to work hard to make sure she knew she called the shots and try not to second guess her like I had at dinner the first night about the wine. “Do you have anything you’d like help with. I’d like to be of use if I can.”

  She looked around, and I could tell our easy camaraderie might have taken a blow. But I was sure we’d get it back.

  “Not really. You guys should go and enjoy the market. She handed me a small flip phone. “Been meaning to set you up with this. Mister P seems to trust you already,” she went on, and I inwardly cheered. “Which I have to say I’m relieved about. I don’t know what I’d do if we hadn’t found someone. I have my own work to do, you know? Although Dauphine seems more laid back this year than she has been before. But anyway, Mr. Pascale needs us to stay put near Antibes a few days. Things have come up.” Her mouth turned down.

  “Oh?” I asked, not liking the expression on her face. I took the phone and slipped it into the pocket of my shorts.

  Her eyes cut nervously sideways and she gave another nervous laugh, her finger running around the lip of her coffee cup. “Antibes is where Mrs. P’s family lives. It’s, well … for a while after Mrs. P died, there was a lot of denial and blame by all parties. Things have always been tense. But more so after.” She took a sip while I wondered what this had to do with me. “Anyway, when we come to Antibes, it’s usually because Mr. Pascale has to go and see things regarding his wife’s estate, and in particular regarding her stepbrother, Michello.” Andrea shuddered. “I never liked that guy. But he’s in prison for drugs right now, so that’s a relief at least. I shouldn’t be telling you all this, but I guess it’s good you have the lay of the land.” She shook her head. “Anyway, I wanted to talk to you because you’re being thrown in at the deep end, there might not be a day off this week, and I need to make sure you’re okay with it.”

  “I’m not sure I have a choice. I wanted to quit the first day because he accused me of being attracted to him, and I couldn’t stand his arrogance. But then I got to know Dauphine, and …” I lifted a shoulder.

  “Are you?”

  My eyebrows pinched. “Am I what?”

  “Attracted to him?”

  My throat immediately clogged. “He’s gorgeous,” I admitted. “It was a bit difficult not to have a reaction. But also he acted like an ass the first night. Turn off.”

  “I appreciate your honesty.” She smirked. “And do you still think he’s an ass today?” she asked, knowingly.

  “No,” I admitted. How could I be after learning the things I had at the lunch table yesterday about what a good guy he was. I guessed they could all be making it up, but I doubted it.

  “Still turned off?”

  I met her gaze, steady. “I’m professional. It won’t be a problem. Plus, let’s just say I have a trust issue with men in general. It won’t be a problem,” I repeated.

  She held my stare, appraising, but with a small smile playing around her mouth.

  “What?” I asked, amused and relieved we were somehow inching back to our initial rapport.

  “Nothing.”

  “Seriously. It won’t be a problem.”

  “I know. I don’t think you’re the one who’s having a problem.” She took a sip of coffee with a smirk. “Sure you don’t want another?”

  I shook my head and slipped out of the bench to put my plate in the dishwasher. “Wait. What does that mean? Have I upset someone?”

  “God, no. Not at all.” She shrugged. “Nothing. Really, I misspoke. Just … be yourself.”

  I tilted my head, but when she offered nothing more I sighed. “You’re strange.”

  “Probably,” she said. “Have fun with Mr. Pascale and Dauphine at the market.”

  The three of us were going? I swallowed. That didn’t feel intimate and happy-little-family-ish. Not at all.

  Maybe I could hang out with Chef.

  Dauphine opened the door. “Dépêche-toi s'il te plaît!” she whined. “We are leaving soon. Hurry!”

  Chapter Seventeen

  The streets of the village of Antibes were even better than I’d imagined a French town to be. From the boat, I could see the medieval sea wall that surrounded the village, and now that we’d come into port, the streets were close and ancient. The old stone and stucco buildings valiantly supported new and improved shopfronts. In the streets, there were awnings in red, and blue, and every color imaginable, providing shade over the offered wares. Baskets of all shapes and sizes, some lined and filled with varieties of olives, trays of cheese, some tall filled with baguettes, crowded covered tables. There were barrels of fresh garlic, bundles of lavender, cases filled with pungent truffles. I walked with my mouth open, Dauphine dragging me along to look at dresses. It was a good thing I’d just eaten breakfast. Xavier trailed behind us, unwilling to hurry like his daughter, or perhaps not wanting to be grouped with us. He’d waved us ahead as we stepped off the tender and slipped on dark sunglasses and a ball cap pulled low. A disguise of some sort, I imagined.

  “This is amazing,” I muttered, inhaling the scent of spicy salami, and noted the endless array of different types and lengths. Back home, salami was just salami. Unless you counted the odd fancy, over-priced charcuterie board that served to educate us that there might be more than one type. But even the most well-trained chef in Charleston would do his nut seeing the array of food in this market.

  “Viens!” Dauphine whined as a cute guy in a white chef’s jacket offered a piece of fresh baked bread with soft cheese and dripping honey on it in my direction.

  I reluctantly shook my head, with a mouthed merci, non.

  But behind me, my boss’ voice cut in. “Try it,” he commanded, though his tone was soft.

  I glanced back at him and wished I could see his expression behind the shield of his sunglasses.

  “Go on, it’s worth it. Dauphine, attend,” he said past me.

  I flicked my eyes back to the earnest young chef and reached out for the morsel he laid gently in my palm. I heard the chef offer a bite to Xavier, but I blacked out to everything around me the moment the flavors hit my tongue. Letting out an audible groan, I chewed, my mouth flooding with saliva. “Oh my sweet heaven,” I managed when I came to.

  “Lavender honey.” Xavier’s voice was gruff. Then he bought three baguettes, two rounds of cheese, and two pots of honey before Dauphine managed to get us moving again.

  I seriously hoped he was going to share his bounty with me. That was why he bought it right?

  Around us people shouted out greetings and hummed with oohs and aahs, and others called out for separated friends and family members. There were colors everywhere you looked. Smells ran from melting cheese, to fish, to rotisserie chickens and fresh herbs and spices. Under foot, the uneven cobblestone streets were cast in multicolored shade from the sun beating through the awnings.

  I’d never been a big social media user, but suddenly I wanted to take pictures and post everything I saw. But none of the pictures would capture the sounds and smells and the utter feast for the senses. I was in awe, and only when I looked over my shoulder and saw Xavier Pascale still following us, keeping pace, his hands stuffed stoically in his pockets, did I become self-conscious enough to realize how like a gawking tourist I must look and snapped my mouth shut.

  Dauphine dragged me to several stalls where even I had to admit the dresses were gorgeous. I bought a couple of linen summer dresses at Dauphine’s urging, one in white and one in black, as well as a jade green halte
r neck bikini. “I’ve never bought a swimsuit without trying it on.” I grimaced, wishing at least Meredith were here to give me advice. Even Andrea. The sizes made no sense, so I held a bikini top up and fitted the strap around my chest. Dauphine grabbed the sales lady’s hand to get her attention and garbled something to her. The no nonsense sales lady gave me a look up and down, then suddenly grabbed my boobs in her hands, letting go before I could even gasp in shock. Then she grabbed me by the shoulders and whipped me around side to side and back to face her. Heat plumed along my chest and cheeks. She muttered something, sounding irritated or unimpressed, and then grabbed my hips and waist.

  Dauphine giggled, her small hand covering her mouth.

  “What just happened?” I managed.

  “She measured you.”

  “With her hands?” I whisper-squeaked.

  Mr. Pascale stood loitering, dark glasses still on and phone in his free hand. For a moment I thought he hadn’t seen until I saw him sucking in his cheeks, trying really hard not to laugh.

  Before I could process whether he was actually laughing at me or something on his phone, since I couldn’t see his eyes, the woman was back. She twisted me around again and nodded.

  “Um,” I tried, my eyebrows practically in my hairline.

  “Bon,” she said and ripped the original bikini out of my hands, replacing it with another the same color.

  “You needed a bigger size, she said,” Dauphine told me.

  “Uh, okay.”

  The woman rattled off something else.

  “She says it’s eighty euros for the dresses and the bikini, but I think you can offer her fifty.”

  “Wait. Really?”

  Dauphine shrugged. “I think it is okay. Papa always says they charge more to Americans.”

  I reached into my small cross body purse to get some cash and timidly handed the woman a fifty euro note. She snatched it out of my hand and then said something terse to Dauphine.

  “Okay, she said she’d take sixty. Do you have ten more?”

  I dug around and found a twenty. “Here,” I told the woman, feeling bad. “Make it seventy.”

  “Bon,” she snapped and took it, looking less than impressed with my bargaining, even though it was in her favor. Then she was off helping someone else.

  “You’re welcome,” I whispered under my breath, feeling like I’d just been in some kind of battle where I’d also been violated. “Not sure that was worth the discount,” I told Dauphine. “She wasn’t very friendly.”

  “They never are,” Mr. Pascale’s voice cut in. “They do six market mornings a week, traveling every day. I think they gave up being charming a long time ago.”

  I looked up at his profile but couldn’t get a read on his face with his mouth set so sternly.

  “Come,” he said with a shrug. “Let us go and find a cafe. I have to make some phone calls, and it is too noisy here.”

  “Uh, thank you Mr. Pascale, for letting us stop to shop. Sorry it took so long.”

  He waved me off and took Dauphine’s hand. “If it means you have a proper swimsuit and I don’t have to worry about Rod making inappropriate comments, then it is nothing.” His neck flushed. “And call me Xavier, please. Mr. Pascale is my father.” He strode ahead.

  I let out a breath and followed them, feeling again as if I’d just been reprimanded for the Rod thing. I hung back as Dauphine pointed out things here and there, and Xavier pulled out his wallet again and bought her a pink summer dress, a set of sparkling scrunchies, and some beaded bracelets. I admired everything I passed but didn’t dare stop to admire too long in case I lost sight of the two of them or got caught up with another scary sales lady. My earlier awe for the market had morphed into a bit of sensory overload.

  Finally, they took a right turn out of the market and down a side street. We approached a super cute street cafe with small wooden tables spilling onto the sidewalk. A trellis wound with some kind of flowering plant, and there were bright tangerine-colored umbrellas. There was a single table with two seats available and Xavier pointed Dauphine toward it before speaking briefly with a nearby table and stealing an extra seat. In seconds, we were all closely seated.

  “What did you think of the market, Josie?” Dauphine asked.

  “It’s amazing.”

  “You see? Je l’ai dit, non? I told her, Papa. She did not believe me.”

  Xavier gave a small smile, and I wished I could see his eyes. “Is that right?”

  I lifted a shoulder, then cleared my throat. “I’ve never experienced anything like it. It was also a little overwhelming.”

  A waiter appeared. Dauphine ordered an Orangina, and Xavier looked expectantly at me. “Uh …”

  “May I order a drink for you?”

  “Okay. Thank you. Nothing alcoholic.”

  He nodded. “Un citron pressé,” he told the waiter. “Pour nous deux.”

  “What am I having?” I asked.

  He took his sunglasses off, and I was momentarily frozen in the snare of his blue eyes. “Wait and see?”

  Swallowing, I nodded.

  “Sorry if the saleswoman embarrassed you. I had a tailor measure my inseam at the market once. I know the feeling.” He gave a small grin, and my stomach unclenched slightly, grateful he was trying to make me feel at ease.

  “It was certainly unexpected.”

  He smirked, and I had a feeling he wanted to ask something else, but it never came.

  “So, where’s Evan today?” I asked. “Isn’t he supposed to be your security?”

  “He’s around here.” Xavier’s mouth twitched, and his eyes went over my shoulder. “Ah, here he is now.” Xavier leaned back and lifted a hand.

  I turned to see Evan strolling down the street from the other direction.

  “No room for me at the inn?” Evan said as he eyed our table. “Dauphine, there’s an acrobat I just passed. Shall I take you to go and see him?”

  She jumped up. “Oui! J’adore!”

  “I just ordered her a drink,” Xavier protested.

  Evan smiled and looked at both his boss and me. “And it will be here when we get back.”

  Xavier scowled, and I felt like I was missing something.

  Dauphine grabbed Evan’s hand, and they disappeared into the throng of pedestrians, leaving Xavier and me alone. At the next table a woman with dark hair kept looking over at us. Xavier noticed and slipped his sunglasses back over his eyes. Silence stretched.

  “I’m sorry about the Rod thing,” I said.

  “What are you sorry for? It wasn’t your fault.”

  “I know. I just mean sorry it happened. If it helps, I know he didn’t mean anything by it.”

  “He didn’t. He’s young and doesn’t think sometimes. But still, I can’t have him making comments like that. He won’t learn if no one corrects him.”

  “True. So how do you know Evan? I get that he works for you, but you seem to be friends too.”

  Xavier leaned back, and his fingers drummed on the table. “I’ve known Evan on and off since we were kids. His father worked with mine. And after Evan joined the British military, I knew one day when he was ready, I’d hire him.”

  I cocked my head to the side, waiting for him to elaborate.

  “Since I was a boy, it was always a bodyguard who usually spent the most time with me.” He paused, his jaw setting. “Apart from nannies, of course. I figured out early on that it may as well be someone I respected and consider a friend. Real friends … are hard to come by the more successful my company becomes. Oh, I know a lot of people,” he responded to whatever he saw on my face, and I could tell he was uncomfortable talking but he didn’t stop, though he kept his voice low. “You don’t come from my family or get to where I have in my business life by not knowing a lot of people and cultivating every relationship you can. For the sake of the other staff who work with me, Evan and I are always simply boss and employee in public. But in private we are friends.”

  “And I’d guess i
f anyone can understand the things you face, it would be him?”

  Xavier shifted and ran a thumb across his bottom lip back and forth. “He’s been with me during the best and the worst times of my life. And now you have gotten more from me than most magazine interviewers.”

  The waiter arrived with Dauphine’s drink as well as two tall glasses containing an inch or so of what looked to be pure squeezed fresh lemon juice, a jug of water, and a small carafe of something else clear.

  “Sugar water.” Xavier motioned toward it. “What do you call it? Simple syrup?”

  “Oh. Yes.”

  “This is very French. It used to be my favorite as a boy.” He showed me how to add the sugar and water and make my own lemonade to taste. We clinked glasses and sipped. It was tart and delicious.

  “Do you like it?” he asked.

  I nodded.

  The dark-haired woman laughed loudly, flipping her hair, her eyes raking over my table-mate again.

  I leaned forward with my elbows on the table. “Does she know you?” I asked.

  “Who?” He sat up.

  “The hungry woman at your nine o’clock.”

  He pressed his sunglasses against the bridge of his nose and pretended to stretch and look down the street both ways. Then he leaned back. “She may know me. But I don’t know her. But I think you may be aware that I have some following here and there. People like to know what I am doing and make judgments about me.”

  “You’re famous, you mean.”

  “Well-known, perhaps.”

  “And will it be strange for you to be seen sitting at a table with me? Will they wonder who I am?” Oh God, what was I implying?

  His lips flattened. “Because they might think we’re … together?”

  A strangled laugh broke from my throat. “No, no. Just—”

  “People will think what they think.”

  And what will they think? I wanted to ask. What do you think? “So it doesn’t bother you what people think?” I asked instead.

  “It does. And it doesn’t. It is beyond my control. And there are other things that are … easier to control. Does it bother you?” he asked.