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.
“Bienvenue.”
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
