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.
“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