Page 41 of Bossing My Holiday
“Well, I think it’s safe to say we absolutely adore her,” Grand-mère announces.
“So don’t fuck it up,” my father adds in English.
“My sentiments exactly.” Brax’s hand meets my shoulder. “Nice kiss,” he murmurs in my ear as we all follow after my mother and Waverly. “Got me hard.”
I elbow him in the flank, and he throws me a wink.
Dinner goes on forever. My father is grilling me and asking us a million questions about our company while commenting left and right about how I’m needed in Paris to learn the family business. My mother and grandmother are filling me in on local gossip about how this one’s married and this one just had a kid. And Waverly won’t look at me.
I shouldn’t have kissed her.
I fucked up our truce and made her uncomfortable. I broke my promise to her too. I told her no sex. I told her she’d have to hold my hand at the most.
Desperation clings to my skin, making my muscles jumpy. I need to get her alone, but for what? I’ve never been this way. I’m the decisive one. The one always in control. And yet she makes me wild. Feral.
My eyes close and I picture her face as I replay that kiss.
I got more joy out of being with her these past twenty-fourhours, helping her through her panic, watching her whenever I could get away with it, touching her and teasing her, than I can ever remember with anyone else. I want more of that, and I can’t lose her.
I can’t lose Waverly. Not ever.
I want to kiss her again, and I want her private smile aimed at me. I want her laughter and sweet innocence and fiery tongue, and I like her. A lot. Jesus fucking Christ, I seriously like her. One goddamn day, one orgasm, one amazing kiss, and all my resistance is gone.
I blow out a breath and glance over at her as she nibbles on her dessert, making small talk with my mother while I think this through. Think about what this means.
This relationship might be fake, but nothing that’s happened today is.
I look at Brax as he sips his wine and talks stock market projections with my father and Grand-mère. I take Waverly’s hand beneath the table, all of this hitting and hitting hard, but instead of making me want to run away, it fills me with a burning need to run toward her.Them.
I want to be who she wants.
But more than that, I want to be who she deserves. And I want to experience this with Brax. I don’t even know why, and it makes as little sense to me now as it always has. But he’s in my blood, part of my system, an extension of me as I am of him. There is no one without the other.
I let this sit with me. I give it room to move and breathe within me. I picture my life, my days and nights, and I picture her there with me. With us. Her scent on my pillows. Waking her up in the mornings with my face between her thighs or sliding inside of her, staring at her pretty, sleepy face while I do, and Brax is there. He’s inside her too. Behind her. On top of her.
It's… happiness. Peace. It feels right. Like wayward, mismatched pieces coming together flawlessly.
A lightness fills me. A certainty takes root within me.
Christ, it’s Waverly. With Braxton as part of it. It’s been them all along.
But I have no clue how to make something as complicated as that work in real life. Is such a thing even possible for people like us in the world we live in?
Dinner ends, and Waverly declares that she’s exhausted. Neither Brax nor I fight this. We both are as well. It’s been a hell of a day with little sleep last night, and we head back to my flat downstairs.
“Well, goodnight,” Brax declares, his eyes on me as he crosses the room and kisses Waverly where she hovers on the edge of my room. I give them a minute together, heading to my bathroom, still unsure how this can or should or even will go.
Just because I feel like this doesn’t mean she does. In fact, I’m positive she doesn’t.
I wash up quickly, anxious and unsettled as I brush my teeth and strip out of my clothes, leaving me only in my briefs. My heart is pounding, and I laugh. I’m fucking nervous to sleep beside a beautiful woman.
But she’s not just any woman, and this situation is as different as it gets.
The room is dark but Waverly wordlessly scoots past me into the bathroom. I give her space, getting into my typical side of the bed.
Except I don’t want to.
I want to slide under the covers, wait for Waverly, grasp her hip, and turn her onto her back. I want to look into her eyes as I crawl over her and kiss her mouth and then make my way down her body. I want to remove whatever the hell she’s wearing—knowing her, it’s about ten thousand layers to keep me away—and sink inside her.
