Page 55 of Bossing My Holiday
And the day only got better.
Waverly between us in the backseat, Braxton’s hand on her tits, mine sliding under her skirt. Her sharp intake of breath as my fingers found their target, Braxton whispering encouragement in her ear while I watched her face. Her trying to stay quiet as we approached our destination, the tiny, broken sound she made when she came against our fingers. The three of us walking into Smithfield Pharmaceuticals ten minutes later, professionally dressed and composed, carrying our secret like a shared heartbeat.
It still has me smirking. Then of course there’s the billion-dollar deal we negotiated and what it’ll do to not only our stock but also to our company’s potential. Now here we are.
“What are you thinking about?” Waverly challenges, nudging me with her elbow. Her cheeks are pink from the cold, and her breath forms small clouds in the winter air. She’s wearing bright red mittens on her hands that she picked out and bought without wincing at the price. She’s so fucking adorable I can hardly stand it.
“Nothing fit for public consumption,” I reply, and Braxton laughs.
“You’re thinking about this morning,” he accuses, walking on the other side of her as we stroll through the Christmas market at Place Vendôme.
“Can you blame me?”
Waverly goes on ahead, pretending to ignore us as she admires a display of hand-blown glass ornaments, her dark hair catching the holiday lights, and her eyes the same color as the sky.
“Smithfield practically handed us their company.”
“That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”
I shrug, but the smirk doesn’t leave my face.
“Come look at these!” Waverly calls, waving us over to a stall selling hand-knit scarves in ridiculous colors. “They’re beautiful.”
I move behind her, resting my hands on her shoulders. “Want one?”
“No, I was just admiring them.” She turns to face me, our breaths kissing between us.
“I can get you all of them.” I’m only half-joking. Something about her refusing my money makes me want to shower her with more. She wouldn’t let me buy the mittens and made me promise that lunch was a business expense. She paid off her debts, and I’ve made arrangements with the nursing home for automatic deposits every month. I also upgraded hergrandmother’s room to a single from a double. I haven’t told Waverly that yet. She’d yell and never let it stand, but I don’t care. It’s done.
Waverly made some noise about paying for her grandmother now that the debts are paid off and she’s getting a raise after the first of the year, but I shut that down and told her it’s too late and it’s already done. I also wanted her to have that extra two hundred and fifty grand. I wanted that for her. As a bonus or a safety net or whatever she wants it to be, and she wouldn’t have it.
I’ve never met a woman who wasn’t enticed by my money. It seriously only makes me want to give her more of it. It’s all my ex-wife was after even when she played the part of a doting, loving girlfriend and then wife. She’d shop and go out to lunch and throw lavish parties. It was all a lie. A scam. Waverly isn’t close to that type of person, and as if to prove my thoughts…
Waverly glares up at me in that way that makes my chest tight. “I told you, I don’t want more of your money, Tristan. You’ve already given me too much.”
“It’s not about the money,” I insist, picking up a deep blue scarf that would bring out the flecks of silver in her eyes. “It’s about seeing you wear something I gave you.”
“That’s what I’m wearing now.” She does a little spin.
Braxton chuckles behind us. “Don’t waste your breath, Sunshine. He’s been like this since we were in college. His love language is aggressive spending on those who don’t have what he has.”
“It’s not aggressive,” I protest, putting the scarf down when Waverly gives me a stern look. “Besides, I don’t recall you complaining about it when I’d buy pizza or beers.”
He shrugs. “That’s because I was a poor, homeless college kid on scholarship, and my best friend and roommate was a billionaire. Didn’t mean I liked taking your money. You know I didn’t.”
“You tried to buy me an entire jewelry store display an hour ago,” she reminds me.
“Just the earrings!”
“Three pairs.”
“That’s what I’d buy my girlfriend if you were real and not a pain in my ass.”
Braxton laughs outright now, drawing glances from nearby shoppers. He’s completely at ease here, as he should be after countless visits. Paris is as much his second home as it is my first. But watching Waverly experience it is different. Special in a way I hadn’t anticipated. The way her eyes widened at the lights strung across the Champs-Élysées, how she insisted we try every variety of vin chaud in the market, the childlike joy when she spotted a merry-go-round and these fucking red mittens. Mittens! What adult wears mittens?
We’ve been walking around for hours, going from one spot to the next, and I don’t want to stop.
Brax was the same way on our first Christmas here, but it was different. He’s my best friend, not the woman I’m falling for.
