Page 7 of Bossing My Holiday
“No, this is different. Lessons learned and all of that. Thesewomen are wonderful and so perfect for you. Dianna clearly was not. She used you and made you think she loved you.”
“I don’t want to talk about Dianna.” I’m still pissed I wasted three years of my life with her.
“Neither do I. I want to talk about Aurora and Samantha and Jaqueline. They were all so excited for the invitation and to hear you’re coming home for the holidays.”
My mother is American but married my father, who is French. He broke ranks in doing so. My mother isn’t from money, but my grandmother pushed that aside if it meant a solid relationship she could boast about around town and heirs to the Ouest name.
That’s where I came in. And now it’s my turn.
“Not gonna happen. I’m telling you now, you should stop matchmaking.”
“You’re certainly not putting in the effort. It can’t be all sex, darling. Eventually, even the playboys have to settle down. Look at George Clooney.”
I rub my hand across my forehead. My mother is incorrigible.
“No women, or I’m not coming home.”
“That’s a ridiculous threat, and you know it. You have to marry again, Tristan. You simply have to.”
Waverly walks by the glass window, heading for the conference room. My meeting is about to begin, and I need to get in there. Waverly is wearing the new dress Jasmine bought her. A red thing that hugs her body and swishes around her knees.
But something hits me at seeing Waverly smile with her pretty, dark hair pinned up into a loose bun. Something so fucking brilliant I can hardly stop myself from laughing out loud at the genius of it. I don’t even know why looking at Waverly sparked the idea, but here it is.
“Mom, you don’t need to set me up. As it turns out, I’m dating someone, and it’s serious.”
“You are?” she gasps, and I feel shitty for lying to my mother. It’s not something I’ve done since I was a teenager sneaking out to get drunk on weekends with friends. But desperate times call for desperate measures.
“Yep. So you can call off your dates for me.” I stand. “I have to run, Mom. A meeting is about to start. I’ll talk to you soon.”
“Wait! If you’re dating someone and it’s serious, you’re going to bring her home with you this weekend.”
That pulls me up short. “Uh, no, well?—”
“Yes. You are. Your grand-mère will demand it. Have a good day, sweetheart. I love you.”
“Love you too,” I mumble absently.
“I can’t wait to meet your girl.”
My girl. My eyebrow twitches. Shit.
3
BRAXTON
Ipush through the heavy glass doors of the boardroom, letting my smile do the talking before my mouth catches up. The muted December gloom filters through floor-to-ceiling windows, bringing a certain kind of coziness against the harsh overhead lights. I’m in a great fucking mood today.
I leave for Paris on Saturday night and will spend nearly two weeks in the city of lights, eating amazing food and drinking way too much, absorbing Ouest family holiday cheer, and when I return home, Waverly will be my new assistant. A woman I’ve been low-level—okay, maybe not so low-level—pining over for the last two years since she started working for Tristan.
Tristan is already hunched over his tablet like it contains the secrets to eternal youth rather than quarterly projections from the Smithfield team. My perpetually disgruntled other half looks up at me, a harried expression on his face, likely because this acquisition is a bit of a motherfucker.
“Hello, Sunshine,” I chirp, dropping my leather portfolio onto the table with a satisfying smack.
In a heartbeat, he’s on his feet, grabs me by the front of my shirt, and hauls me over to the wall.
“Hey, it’s a bit early for office shenanigans, isn’t it?”
“Shut up. For once, I need you to keep your mouth closed and refrain from making any inappropriate or cheeky responses. Can you do that?”
