“But now you do,” she stated as if it was decided. She wiggled in her seat, and then huffed out a breath. “Uh. Je vais aux toilettes. Excusez-moi.” She pushed back her chair and darted down the stairs, leaving me and Mr. Pascale alone over an extremely romantic-looking candlelit dinner.

On a yacht.

In the South of France.

But it felt more like being left inside the leopard cage at feeding time.

This time I did reach for my wine and took a healthy sip as blue-eyes-turned-navy glittered in the near dark.

Chapter Eleven

“You said you do not have much experience as a nanny,” Mr. Pascale asked, clearly cutting to the interview we never had as soon as his daughter had left the upper deck. “I looked at the resume Tabitha Mackenzie sent. You worked at an architectural firm?”

As uncomfortable as I was to talk about my career, the wound so fresh, it was better than the weird tension that had suddenly bloomed out of nowhere as soon as we were alone. My shoulders relaxed, and I realized how tense I’d been. “Yes.”

“In what capacity?” he asked, lifting his wine glass.

“As an architect.”

His glass stopped midair.

Inside, I did a victory high five and a couple of backflips. Take that, you arrogant, gorgeous, piece of work. Being an architect is hard work. It takes years of study. Both math and creativity and a boatload of patience and attention to detail.

His head cocked to the side, his eyes studying me.

I waited, silently gloating. Though I hoped that didn’t show.

“You’re a little overqualified, non?”

That was it? That was what he had to say? Irritation rumbled through me, and my ego got a bruised backside.

“Alors, you will not even try a mussel after that talk you gave my daughter?” Mr. Pascale asked, reaching for one of the remaining shells.

And so we were done with me and my career. I took a slow sip of wine, letting the aromatic and rich liquid slide over my tongue.

He was baiting me and I was … enjoying it?

There were three mussels left swimming in the bowl. It had been an appetizer, so there’d been just enough for both of us to have some without ruining our appetites completely, but I was abstaining. “You can have those,” I said. The bread was finished anyway.

“You don’t want the broth?”

“I don’t have a spoon.”

“If you have just one moule, you can use the shell as a spoon.”

“Or you could give me one of your shells.”

“Ahh. But where’s the adventure in that?”

Maybe he did have a lighter side after all. This couldn’t be flirting, could it? Not after the awful start to the evening. And not since he was my boss.

I lifted a shoulder.