Broken French: A widowed, billionaire, single dad romance by Natasha Boyd (books like beach read txt) 📕

“Oof,” he huffed out a puff of air, his arms catching me.

The smell and heat of him rushed in, and before I could even get my scattered wits together to peel myself off him, his strong hands gripped my upper arms and roughly set me away from him.

“Watch yourself,” he snarled.

I almost stumbled backward from the force of action and his words. I blinked in shock. My cheeks burned with heat. “I didn’t—I’m sorry, I—”

“Careful down there,” called Paco from behind Xavier. And I realized he could see us from up on the bridge. “I should have warned you. I thought I saw a piece of wood in the water. Must have been a trick of the light.”

Anger fought with my embarrassment. Had Xavier honestly just thought I’d purposefully fallen into him? God. I yanked the canvas tote open and stowed my other sketchbook in with the new stuff. “Thank you for the supplies,” I said stiffly, unable to look at him. Then I brushed past him.

His hand reached out and took my arm, stopping me.

I swung around. “What?” I snapped, though my voice felt choked up, and I prayed to God I didn’t burst into tears.

He let go but said nothing.

I stared at him, both of us locked in a battle of God knew what. Was he so emotionally constipated he couldn’t fucking apologize for acting like an arrogant tyrant?

“I’ll be downstairs if Dauphine needs me,” I gritted out, hoping I didn’t sound like a woman unhinged.

He gave a small nod, his face devoid of any recognizable emotion, and I raced down to my room.

Alone in my cabin, I angrily refreshed my email. God, maybe I’d just get an amazing job offer to, I dunno, redesign the façade of Charleston’s ugliest building, the Holiday Inn in West Ashley. Though honestly, that building should just have some carefully laid charges and be put out of its misery. I dialed my mom’s number, unsure if she’d answer. It had been weeks since we’d spoken. Meredith had set her up with an app so I could call over Wi-Fi.

“Hello?” Her voice sounded small and vast at once. She sounded like home.

My ears and nose stung with instant homesickness. “Ma?”

“Josie. Sweetheart. Is that you? Hello? Hello?”

“Yes, Ma. I’m here.” I smiled, my eyes flooding. “I’m here. How are you?”

“Gosh, darling. I almost didn’t hear this blasted thing bleating at me. I thought it was another weather report. How do you all live with these constant beeps and buzzes going on telling me about everything. I’ve got no interest in whether Wappoo Cut is going to flood its banks in high tide. Wait, I’m so sorry, this is probably costing you a fortune and I’m prattling on. How are you, love?”

My face hurt from smiling so wide from the joy of hearing her voice. I grabbed a tissue and wiped my eyes and nose. “It’s good to hear your voice, Ma. I’m good. It’s beautiful here. And I’m calling over the internet so it’s free, okay? Don’t worry. Though, there might be a bad signal sometimes because we’re on a yacht.”

“You hate boats!”

“I do. But this one … well, it’s as big as a house. Let me tell you about Dauphine, the little girl I look after.” I picked at the cuticles on my toes as I told her all about Dauphine and the water in the Mediterranean, the food and the crew.

“Sounds like a fun little diversion,” my mother said when I was done, and I smarted a bit at her dismissal. “Have you been working on your resume? I spoke with a lady in my bridge club. And she thinks her husband might know of a position at the Historic Charleston Foundation. I know it’s not an architectural firm. But it’s respectable and it fits well in your resume … unlike this, this, what do you call yourself? An Au Pair? A nanny?”

“Either.”

“Yes, well, we’ll pretend you took a long vacation or something, and then after a while maybe no one will notice the gap on your resume.”

“Ma. I appreciate you trying to help. But I’m concerned enough for the both of us. You trying to get me a job is just stressing me out more. I’ve actually applied for several positions at real architectural firms. And it’s my career, okay?”

“I’m just trying to help.”

“Don’t, okay?” It came out harsher than I’d meant it. “I’m sorry, I—”

“It’s embarrassing,” she hissed. “I don’t know what to say to people when they ask.”

I blinked, my voice hardening. “Well, you tell them Ravenel Tate is a misogynistic asshole, and your darling daughter couldn’t work there anymore.”

My mother gasped. “Josie—”

“I’m kidding,” I said, annoyance in my tone. “Not about what he is, but that you should say that.” My throat closed up on the last few words. It wasn’t that I was homesick necessarily.

“That’s not funny, young lady.”

I blew out a breath and squeezed my eyes closed against the slight pricking. It was not homesickness, it was simply that I suddenly felt very far from home. Xavier Pascale’s coldness had me feeling adrift. And like I’d mentioned to Xavier about his father, there was something about talking to my mom that made me feel twelve years old again. We reverted to old patterns. It was partly comforting. It also drove me nuts.

I rolled my eyes. “No. You’re right. It’s not. Because it’s true. Anyway, why do you have to discuss me?”

“Because you’re my daughter, and I’m proud of all you’ve accomplished.” Her tone suggested an unfinished thought.

“But?”

“But I don’t understand why you had to run away. That’s not what we do, Josephine. You didn’t see me running away from Charleston when your father died. Nor when all that unpleasantness with Nicolas happened.”

I snorted at her word choice. Unpleasantness?

“No,” she went on. “We stay. We look people in the eye, and we hold our heads up high.”

I tore at tiny piece of dry skin next to