Page 19 of Bossing My Holiday
I snort derisively. “Ha! Okay. If you say so. Let’s go. Don’t want to miss our flight.” I cackle at that. Why does that seem so funny?
Tristan takes me by the arm and studies me. “Have you eaten today?”
I scrunch my brows. “You mean like food?”
He’s not amused with me.
“No. I couldn’t. I was too nervous, you know. First-time flyer and fake dating my grumpy boss and all that. Though in retrospect, I probably should have. The research I did said many flights don’t offer food, or if they do, it’s very expensive including water. How can they do that? Water is a basic human right. And what’s with all these people? Is this the one day everyone picked to fly?”
He doesn’t release my arm, and neither does Braxton. They’re both holding onto me as if they’re afraid I’ll slip throughtheir fingers and disappear. I’m practically dragged to the gate, but it affords me a minute to take them in. They’re dressed nearly identically. Both are wearing jeans and button-down shirts, though Tristan’s is black and Braxton’s is blue with stripes. They’re no doubt expensive and likely designer, but the way they fit them, molding to every muscle group known to man, is something else. I’ve never seen either dressed this casually.
Braxton’s hair is its usual delicious chaos of sandy mess, and Tristan’s isn’t its usual slicked-back perfection. The longer strands on top flop over his forehead and curl a little on the ends, giving him an almost boyish look.
It’s infuriating how beautiful these men are, and what Jennie said to me in the kitchen on Monday hits me dead center. Which incidentally is exactly where I am. Stuck between these two tall, strong, sexy-as-all-fuck men.
“You have dimples,” I tell Braxton, touching them. “Two, one in each cheek. Did you know that?”
He gives me a megawatt smile as if to show them off. “I did. Feel free to touch them anytime.”
“And you,” I turn to Tristan. “You have one too, but it’s in your chin and only one. Did I just say ‘one’ twice?”
“Huh?” His head swivels in my direction, and his eyes scan around my face.
“Dimples.” I smile as if to show him though I don’t have any. “Braxton has two when he smiles, but you only have one in your chin. They’re all pretty sexy, though. What other tricks do you men have that I don’t know about?” The room starts to spin a bit. “Do they have the heat blasting? Why is it so hot here?” I fan my face as we approach our gate, my skin hot and tingly. “Maybe I’m wearing too many layers? My weather app said it was five degrees in Paris, so I layered up, but now I realize that was more than likely in Celsius, right? Duh. That was pretty dumb of me. Is it colder there than here?”
“Are you having a panic attack on us?” Braxton asks, holding me closer and pressing two fingers into my wrist.
I glance up at him, at his soft brown eyes that are oddly filled with worry. “I doubt it. I’m not particularly known for them. I’m serious. Always so serious, and I can get through anything. So there’s no reason I shouldn’t be able to get through this, right? Though this one time when I was a little girl, maybe six or seven or so, I did pass out, but that was because Emory dared me to hold my breath for a minute.”
Tristan shifts until he’s right in front of me, moving my face over until our eyes meet. “Are you breathing?”
“I think so because I can smell your cologne. It’s one of the few things I like about you. You always smellsogood.” My breathing picks up as if to prove my point, and my nipples spring to attention.Stupid nipples. Stop it!
“Oh, look, first class is lining up. Let’s go.” Braxton holds me tighter and puts me in line ahead of him, his chest flush against my back with Tristan in front of me so I’m sandwiched between them. “Who’s Emory?” he whispers, his arm banding around my waist and holding me closer to him.
“What? Oh, my childhood best friend. Why are you holding me like this?” He moves us until we’re in some partitioned-off area in front of the gate with a sign that says “Section 1” above us.
“You’re strangely adorable when you’re panicking,” he says, the soft purr of his voice against my ear making me shiver despite the sweltering heat. “That said, I don’t want you to pass out. Try to calm down. Deep breaths. Come on, Waverly. I mean it, take some slow, deep breaths for me. I’ve got you. I promise. You’re going to be absolutely fine.”
I nod, doing as he says and taking slow, deep breaths. It helps, and my heart rate slows along with my breathing. “I’m fine.” Even if it still feels like the room is spinning around meand I can’t seem to stop shaking. “I’m not adorable. You can’t call me that. You’re my boss.”
“You told Tristan he smelled good.Sogood. And you called us sexy.”
My face pinches, and my eyes snap shut. “Pretend I didn’t say that.”
“For such a brilliant, tough-as-nails, no-bullshit woman, you have a sweet, soft, vulnerable side. Did you know that?” Tristan whispers in my other ear, his hot breath on my skin as he throws my words about their dimples back at me. Why are they so close to me? Touching me? “Come on. You have to walk now, Waverly,” he barks reproachfully when I don’t move, but the way he says my name is doing weird things to me. “You’ve got too many layers on. Take off your coat and sweater.”
That sounds so good because I am ridiculously hot, but it also sounds so dirty.
I giggle. “You just told me to take my clothes off.”
It has to be the airport. The congestion. The insipid holiday music. The impending flight.
“I did, and now you should do it.”
“Yes, Mr. Ouest.”
“Call me Tristan.”
