Taja Wilson doesn't belong on a yacht in the South of France. She's not supposed to be a nanny. And she's definitely not supposed to fall for her hot, brooding, single-dad boss. But even if she can resist Micheal's growling accent, his sweet daughte...
(There's no way I'm on a train in France right now.) I pinch myself, but the sparkling sapphire waters of the Mediterranean don't disappear. I'm really here. (A week ago, I was a Louisiana girl. A Fashion/Makeup Designer. Then, I had to go and blow up my life.)
~One week earlier~
I sped walked down the sidewalk, nursing the iced tea I bought to clear my head. (I just threw away eight years of training. But I had to tell off my terrible boss. Right?!) Text roll in from my best friend.
~Texts~
Alexis: You quit?!! Weren't you supposed to be promoted today?
Me: I was. But my skeevy boss gave the job to his SON.
Alexis: Omg, JAXSON?! That prick?!👿👿👿Tell me everything over wine later.
~End of texts~
(Typical Alexis - always supportive. I just hope I can pay my half of our rent this month.) My mom's text aren't quite as understanding.
~Texts~
Mom: It won't be easy to get another job. People still remember your stepfather, you know.
~Texts end~
I'm sipping anxiously on my tea as I type my reply, staring at my phone - and bump straight into another person. My drink flies out of my hand and onto him. "Zut alors!"(Was that... French?) It would fit- with the man's perfect outfit and hair, he could have stepped off the pages of a Parisian magazine. Except now, his shirt is covered in sweet tea. "Oh my God! I am so sorry." The stranger watches, bemused, as I rummage around in my purse. "What are you looking for? "Do you have a spare chemise in there?"
"I'm sure I have something." I press a napkin into the stranger's hand. He stares at it and back at me as if he's not sure what to do with it. "Don't just stand there!" Without thinking, I grabbed his hand and guided it to the wet spot on his chest. I let a small gasp out when I feel how firm his chest is - like it's cut from marble. "I think I can take it from here." (Yup. That is definitely a French accent. And I am definitely staring.)
The stranger dabs at his shirt with the napkins. It's not doing much - the fabric is plastered to his abs. "I do believe the situation is hopeless." "Please, send me the dry cleaning bill. It's the least I can do." He shakes his head at me and chuckles. "I wouldn't dream of it. The blame is all mine. But if you're very sorry, you could make up for it by joining me for a drink." He indicates the nearby wine bar with a confident little smirk.
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(Am I reckless enough to quit my job AND accept a drink from a stranger on the same day. Yes, yes I am.) "I bump into you, and I get a free drink? This must be my lucky day." "Of the two of us, I suspect I'm the lucky one. Just give me one moment to make sure we aren't interrupted." The stranger pulls out a smartphone and speed dials.
