Page 70 of Bossing My Holiday
I bring us all down to the rug, not giving a fuck if we make it messy. “Are you all right?” I ask, brushing damp hair from her forehead.
Her smile is slow and satisfied. “Wow.”
I kiss her temple, and Brax chuckles. “Wow, is fucking right. I think I’m dead.”
When my legs regain function, I lift her and carry her into the bathroom. We need a shower, and Brax follows, helping me care for our girl. And once we’re clean and in pajamas, back on the sofa with Waverly between us, her head on my chest, her feet on Brax’s lap with his hand holding hers, I finally allow my mind to drift to places I’d rather it not go.
“Merry Christmas,” Braxton murmurs, his voice thick with exhaustion.
“Merry Christmas,” she says softly, a little distantly, lost in her own thoughts I don’t dare question.
I stare into the flames, thinking of my father, of the family legacy waiting for me here in Paris. Then I look down at Waverly’s face, peaceful and trusting against my chest, at Braxton’s hand protectively holding hers, and something shifts inside me.
Whatever comes next, whatever decision I make about the future, I know one thing with absolute certainty: I don’t ever want to let this go. And I have no idea what to do about that.
24
BRAXTON
Iwake to the sound of Paris church bells, muffled by triple-paned windows and heavy drapes. The winter light sneaks through a crack in the curtains, painting a thin golden line across the Egyptian cotton sheets. My bed feels cold, empty, and alone. Not uncommon for this day, but a bitch of a reminder all the same.
We thought it would be best if Tristan and Waverly slept in his room since his mother had already woken them once this week. So for the last five nights, I’ve slept in here alone while he’s had her beside him.
I’m not gonna lie. My Christmas wish might have been to swap places with him. To be able to touch and kiss and smile at Waverly the way I want. To wake up with her in my arms and be able to sink inside of her. To see her sleepy, happy smile and wish her a Merry Christmas.
Tristan’s apartment smells of pine, cinnamon, and Waverly. A scent I’m growing more accustomed to as the days progress. It’s Christmas morning, and somewhere beyond these walls, the Seine flows past Notre Dame just as it has for centuries,indifferent to the bizarre love triangle that’s unfolding in this apartment above the city.
Is it even a triangle when both men have the same woman? I have to remember patience and persistence. But soon this could come to an end, and I don’t want it to, and I feel a little petulant.
I slip out of bed, the hardwood floor cold against my bare feet despite the undoubtedly state-of-the-art heating system. The guest room has its own bathroom with heated marble tiles and a shower with so many jets and settings that the first time I used it, I nearly drowned. This morning, I keep it simple—hot water, shampoo, and soap. My reflection shows shadows under my eyes and the smile I can’t seem to scrub off.
Last night was... this week has been... everything.
I dress in what I hope passes for casual-but-festive in dark jeans and a cashmere sweater. The formal event comes tonight, but Christmas breakfast is usually easy and light.
In search of coffee, I head for the kitchen and nearly collide with Waverly coming out of Tristan’s room. Her hair is damp at the ends, her cheeks flushed pink from the shower. She’s wearing a cream-colored sweater dress that hugs her curves in a way that makes my mouth go dry.
“Morning,” she whispers, a smile playing at the corners of her lips. “Sleep well?”
“Not particularly,” I reply, and her smile slips.
She steps into me and wraps her arms around my neck so she can reach up on the balls of her feet and kiss me. “Merry Christmas.”
I sigh and sink into her. “Merry Christmas.” I nod toward Tristan’s closed door. “Is he up?”
“Getting dressed.” She leans in, her voice dropping. “You missed a good shower.”
I feel heat creep up my neck. “There’ll be others.”
Her hand cups my face. “I hope so,” she says, and it has ameaning that isn’t lost on me. Waverly is one of those women who, no matter how well you think you know her, there’s always something out of reach. She holds her mind and her heart close, and attempting to unravel them both feels like a secret gift only you get to unwrap.
But I also know she’s been holding back, and I get it. She doesn’t know what this is because we haven’t talked about it. Because I haven’t told her.
I lean in and kiss her. Not the same kiss she gave me before, but one with more urgency.
“I’m crazy about you,” I breathe into her and swallow as nerves hit me.
She pulls me closer and slides her tongue between my lips, one hand on my bristly cheek, the other over my pounding heart. I’ve never told a woman I care for them, let alone am crazy about them. I still can’t manage the three words that have been burning a hole in my brain for the last two years. Not yet, at least.
