Page 60 of Bossing My Holiday
“Santa, Satan. It’s all in the lettering,” Waverly teases with her flour-dusted hands in the air. “That’s all I’m saying. You like to give gifts, and you’re evil to work for.”
Tristan rolls his eyes. “I can’t tell if you’re calling me Santa or Satan?”
She shrugs. “Both. I thought that was obvious.”
Francine chokes on a small laugh and covers it with her champagne. “I believe our boy might have finally found his match.”
Tristan groans. “No more with the match stuff.”
Francine winks at Waverly, making me chuckle. They don’t know how to quit, but then again, Tristan is their only child and the heir to the Ouest fortune and company, so I also kind of get it.
The scent of vanilla and cinnamon fills Tristan’s parents’ kitchen. This morning at breakfast, Waverly brought up the idea of baking, and Francine jumped all over that. Now here we are. I watch Waverly’s hands, dusted with flour, press cookiecutters into rolled dough, and try not to think about where those hands were last night. Beside her, Tristan raises an eyebrow at me over his grandmother’s head, and I suppress a laugh. Clearly my thoughts are spread across my face.
This game we’re playing is getting more complicated by the hour.
Especially since all I want to do is kiss the hell out of Waverly so I can taste the bits of cookies she’s been nibbling on along with the champagne she’s sipping.
“Braxton, dear, you’re daydreaming again.” Francine’s voice pulls me back to the present.
“And staring at Waverly’s backside as you do,” Grand-mère notes.
Shit. My head snaps up, and I chuckle in a self-deprecating way. “Sorry. I was lost in thought thinking about the Smithfield drug.”
Tristan’s mother slides another tray of baked cookies toward me. “Well, now that you’re back, would you sprinkle half with the cinnamon and sugar and frost the others? You always have such an artistic touch, and Tristan just tends to blob it all on it.”
“I do not,” he protests, his hip against the counter as he watches us work. “I just don’t see why we have to decorate them to such extremes. They’re cookies. You eat them.”
“Pretty is part of what makes them special,” Waverly tells him. “Not everything has to be practical.”
I accept the task with a nod, hyperaware of Waverly’s eyes on me from across the marble island. In all the years I’ve been coming home with Tristan for holidays, I’m not sure I’ve ever spent this much time in the kitchen. They have a personal chef who makes all their meals, but there is no denying that everyone is enjoying this, even Tristan.
“In my day,” Grand-mère announces, her accent thickening as she moves her nasal cannula away from her mouth, “wedidn’t use store-bought vanilla. We made our own. With real beans and good French cognac.” She narrows her eyes at the bottle of extract. “American shortcuts are for wimps.”
Tristan laughs, his shoulder brushing Waverly’s even as he talks to his grandmother. “Grand-mère, we bought that vanilla at the little gourmet shop around the corner. The one you love and always send Jolie to.”
Jolie is their chef, who is likely taking a much-needed nap right now. Or crying that we’ve taken over her kitchen and dirtied it up.
“Pah! Still not as good as mine.” She turns her shrewd gaze to Waverly. “You, my dear, you have baker’s hands. Strong but gentle. Good for many things, oui? Like keeping men in their place.” Her eyebrows wiggle.
Waverly doesn’t miss a beat. “I’ve been told I’m quite good at that.” Her eyes flick to mine for the briefest moment, and heat crawls up my neck.
“Ha!” Grand-mère claps her hands together. “I like this one, Tristan. Much better than that ex-wife of yours with the laugh like a horse.”
“Agathe!” Francine admonishes, but she’s smiling. “Don’t embarrass them. And we don’t need to bring up Dianna. I know neither Tristan nor Waverly wants to talk about her.”
“She did laugh like a horse,” Tristan states and kisses Waverly’s cheek, and again, I hate how I can’t do the same.
I concentrate on my decorating technique, carefully creating patterns on the star-shaped cookies while trying not to think about last night. Waverly between us, her sighs and moans, the way Tristan and I moved together with her like we’d been doing it our whole lives. But it wasn’t enough. After we ate dinner and had another round in my bed, they both left and went to his room to sleep. And I was alone again.
“Braxton, I’m so glad you’re here. Christmas wouldn’t be thesame without you.” Francine squeezes my arm, and something in my chest aches pleasantly. Sixteen years of friendship with Tristan, and his family have never once made me feel like an outsider, even when I was the scholarship kid in old clothes flying to Paris on their dime because they wouldn’t hear of me spending the holidays alone.
“Wouldn’t miss it,” I tell her honestly, kissing her temple.
“And Waverly is delightful,” she continues. “Tristan never brings anyone special to our family gatherings. We always have to force women down his throat. It must be serious. Please tell me it’s serious.”
I swallow hard. “She is special, and I hope it’s serious.” More than she knows. It feels odd to think about how it’s supposed to be fake between them. A contracted relationship. In many ways, it still is. Nothing has been worked out. Right now it’s simply sex, and truth be told, I have no idea where Waverly’s head—or even Tristan’s—is with that.
Waverly giggles lightly, and Tristan once again groans like the child he becomes around his family.
