Page 61 of Bossing My Holiday
“You can’t ask my best friend that, and definitely not in front of me or Waverly.”
“I’m a mother. That’s what we do. We don’t care about things like boundaries, and we say things and apologize later. Am I right, Agathe?”
“That’s always been my motto.”
Across the counter, Waverly is teaching Tristan how to properly roll the dough. She stands behind him, guiding his hands, and I can see the moment his playful resistance melts into genuine affection, regardless of the audience. He turns his head slightly, and their faces are inches apart. Something passes between them, and he dips his head and kisses her.
Francine sighs, and I smile even if my insides twist a bit with uncertainty.
“You’re rolling it too thin,” Grand-mère criticizes, breaking the moment. “While you’re busy kissing, the cookies will burn. Did I teach you nothing, boy?”
“You taught me to delegate to professionals,” Tristan quips, stepping away from Waverly with a self-conscious laugh.
“True. That’s why you’re so successful with your little pills.” Grand-mère waves her hand dismissively at our pharmaceutical empire. Tristan and I exchange grins. OuestHicks Pharmaceuticals is hardly little, especially after acquiring Smithfield, but Grand-mère remains unimpressed by anything that isn’t at least a century old. Before she married Tristan’s grandfather, her family owned a lot of real estate in Paris, including this land where Ouest Hotel stands.
“Speaking of success,” Francine interjects, wielding a spatula like a weapon as she gesticulates with it. “Your father wants to speak with you later about your next steps now that you’ve acquired Smithfield.”
Tristan’s shoulders tense, but he masks it quickly. “I’m officially on holiday. Let’s focus on cookies since my girlfriend is making me bake,” he deflects.
“Oh, really, Scrooge? It looks like I’m doing most of the work here.” Waverly breaks a piece of cookie off and chucks it at him. It lands in his hair before dropping to his sweater in a sugary, crumbly mess that immediately has her cracking up, her hand over her mouth.
“Oh shit.” I cough a laugh.
“Braxton,” Grand-mère tuts, but her eyes twinkle.
“Apologies, but that was a nice shot.”
Tristan pulls the piece of cookie stuck to his sweater off and chucks it at me. It pings right against my chest, but I’m smart and manly enough to be wearing an apron, so I give him an unimpressed,was that your best shotexpression.
“That didn’t have the desired effect I was going after.”
“Clearly,” Waverly teases. “If we weren’t in your parents’ lovely kitchen, I’d show you how a real food fight is done.”
“Is this how Americans spend their time?” Tristan teases.
“It’s the best way to grow up.”
Waverly gives me a smile.
Tristan seizes the opportunity, flicking flour at Waverly. “If you’re going to make a mess, do it properly.”
Waverly gasps in mock outrage and retaliates, but Tristan dekes left, and she misses him entirely and hits me instead. The flour catches in my face and hair, coating my eyelashes and lips. I blink through the white haze to see her hand over her mouth, eyes wide with suppressed laughter.
“Oh, crap.” She coughs out a laugh, and so does Francine. “I’m so sorry.” Her hands go up in surrender, but there’s no stopping her smile. “Really. I meant to get Tristan. Not your face.”
Tristan cracks up. “Looks good on you, brother. You’re like a cute little snowman. All you need is a carrot for your nose.”
“Oh, it’s war now,” I declare, going for the box of powdered sugar.
“No!” Francine shrieks with delight as she grabs it from me. “We’re baking cookies, not making messes.”
“I will get you back for that later.”
Waverly scoffs. “We’ll see about that, boss.”
She grabs a washcloth, wets it, and comes over to me, using it to wipe the cake of flour off my face. Our eyes lock, and for a breathless moment, the kitchen disappears. It’s just us. Just her hands on my face and the cold cloth as she cleans me up. Then Tristan is there, ostensibly helping by handing her some paper towels, his hand on the small of her back, creating a circuit of connection between the three of us.
“When I was a young woman, we did not play with our food. We played with our hearts. Much messier.” Grand-mèrelooks pointedly at the three of us, and I swear she can see right through our pretense.
