Page 64 of Bossing My Holiday
Tristan offers a tight smile but says nothing.
Walking back toward the kitchen, I find myself lagging behind. Will Tristan choose family obligation over what we’ve built? Will he choose Paris over Boston? And where does Waverly fit in all this?
All I know is that I’m not ready to let go of our company, our friendship, and whatever complicated thing is growing between the three of us.
22
WAVERLY
We stumble through the door of Tristan’s apartment, my laughter mingling with Braxton’s while Tristan fumbles getting the key out of the lock. The wine from dinner sits warm in my veins, turning everything slightly soft at the edges. Three glasses, I think. Or was it four? Enough that I’m feeling bold, but not so much that I can’t feel the weight of Tristan’s hand at the small of my back or miss the way Braxton’s eyes linger on my lips when I catch him looking.
“Someone had a good time,” Brax teases, his voice carrying that amused rumble that makes my skin prickle. He helps me out of my coat, his fingers brushing the nape of my neck. Not an accident. Never an accident with him.
“It’s Christmas Eve in Paris,” I say, turning to face him. “If that isn’t a fairy tale come true, I don’t know what is.”
“Do you like it more than Boston?” Brax asks, but there’s something else in his tone I can’t quite read.
“Paris is incredible. But Boston is home.”
A small smile curves his lips, making his dimples pop. They’ve both been a little… off or perhaps different since they went to Alain’s office yesterday. They also refused to answer my questioning looks, covering them up with smiles and acting the part of my boss and in-love boyfriend.
We spent the day meandering around Montmartre, and it was just so… natural. So perfect.
“But you like Paris?” Tristan asks, and Braxton turns toward the window just as I think I catch a frown.
“How could I not? It could also be the excellent company.”
Tristan flops onto the sleek leather sofa, loosening his tie with one hand while the other pats the space beside him. “Excellent company, she says. Hear that, Brax? We’ve been upgraded from tolerable bosses to excellent company.”
“Speak for yourself,” Braxton replies, moving to the bar in the corner and perusing the selection Tristan keeps here. “I was never merely tolerable. Or Satan, for that matter. I’m the likable one.”
I slip off my heels, sinking my toes into the plush carpet that probably costs more than three months of my rent. Tristan’s apartment is ridiculous in the best way. All clean lines and hidden luxury, with floor-to-ceiling windows that frame the City of Light like it’s a private show just for us. The Eiffel Tower winks in the distance, flashing with multicolored lights.
“Nightcap?” Brax asks, already pouring amber liquid into crystal tumblers without waiting for our answer.
“Are you trying to get me drunk, Mr. Hicks?” I quip, accepting the glass he offers. I snort a laugh. “I still can’t believe your name is Braxton Hicks.”
He shrugs. “My parents were OBs. They thought it was funny since their last name was Hicks. And I think our princess is already a little drunk, so maybe just a small one for you since we have other things in mind for tonight and need you sober for them.”
Something hot and liquid pools low in my belly. Four daysago, he was just my hot, sexy, swoony boss. Four days and a lifetime ago.
Tristan pats the couch again, more insistently. “Come sit, Waverly. You look unsteady.”
“I’m always steady,” I lie, making my way to him with what I hope is elegant grace. I settle between them as Braxton takes the space on my other side, the leather cool against the backs of my thighs where my dress has ridden up.
“To unexpected gifts,” Braxton says, raising his glass, his brown eyes dancing with mischief as they meet mine.
“To taking what you want,” Tristan counters, his glass clinking against mine.
I drink, the scotch burning a path down my throat that matches the heat of their bodies flanking me. I’m not a Christmas ornament, I remind myself. Not a toy. I’m here because I want to be. Because something electric happens when the three of us are together. Something I can’t explain and don’t want to analyze too deeply.
“You’re thinking too hard again,” Braxton accuses, reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. “I can practically hear the gears grinding.”
“Just appreciating the view,” I deflect, nodding toward the windows.
“Liar,” Tristan chuckles softly, his breath warm against my ear. “But that’s all right. We appreciate our view too.”
His hand finds my knee, his thumb tracing idle circles that make my heart race and my skin tingle. On my other side, Braxton’s arm drapes across the back of the couch, his fingers toying with the ends of my hair.
