Page 62 of Bossing My Holiday
“Agathe, stop teasing them. Remember how you and Pierre met? That party where you spilled wine on his new suit?”
“On purpose.” Grand-mère sniffs, taking in a rattled breath. “He was too haughty in that suit. Thought he was God’s gift to every woman. He needed to be taken down a peg.”
As they bicker, I help Waverly brush flour from her hair, my fingers lingering longer than necessary. “You’ve got some right here,” I murmur, tracing a line along her jaw.
“Thanks,” she whispers, and there’s a warmth in her eyes that makes my chest tight. “I really am sorry I got you.”
“But you wouldn’t be sorry if you got me?” Tristan is incredulous.
She beams at him. “Nope. Not even a little.”
Tristan feigns indignation as he moves beside us. “You two are terrible at being discreet,” he whispers, but there’s no accusation in his tone. “And you. I will punish you later until you’re begging me to stop.”
“Promise?” she retorts, and my cock pulses in my pants.
“Tristan, do you remember when you were seven and decided to bake cookies for Santa all by yourself?”
“Mom,” Tristan groans. “Must you?”
“It’s my right as your mother, and I’m positive Waverly and Brax will want to hear this,” she says airily. “He used salt instead of sugar and was so upset when he found them in the trash.”
“You could have hidden it better. I thought Santa hated them.”
“He did.” His mother cackles. “Your father took one bite and nearly threw up.”
Waverly and I burst out laughing. “You mean perfect Tristan used the wrong ingredient?”
He throws me a look. “Now you know why I delegate things I’m not good at.”
“Poor Tristan cried and thought Santa hated him,” I tease.
“I was seven!” Tristan protests.
“I bet you were so cute.” Waverly climbs up onto her tiptoes and places a light kiss on his lips, ever the sweet and doting girlfriend. I turn away and finish up decorating the cookies. She might be his here, but later, she’ll be both of ours. I just have to remember that.
21
BRAXTON
Alain Ouest’s study feels like stepping into another century. While the rest of the penthouse embraces modern luxury, this room clings to old money and older traditions. Leather-bound books no one reads, hunting trophies no one admires, and the persistent scent of Cuban cigars that even the best ventilation system can’t quite eliminate. Tristan’s shoulders stiffen as we enter, a subtle transformation I’ve witnessed countless times when he’s around his father.
“Ah, my successful boys,” Alain boasts, rising from behind a desk that could comfortably serve as a dining table for six. He’s tall like Tristan and carries the same accustomed-to-being-obeyed demeanor. His silver hair is perfectly coiffed, his bespoke shirt and slacks unwrinkled.
“Brandy?” He doesn’t wait for our answer, already pouring three generous measures into crystal glasses that catch the light from the fireplace. “And cigars, of course. We must celebrate your triumph properly.”
Tristan accepts both. “Hardly a triumph yet, Dad. TheSmithfield acquisition is still in transition, and pen won’t be put to paper until next week.”
Tristan can say what he wants, but we all know the deal is as good as done. Tomorrow is Christmas Eve, and everything has already started to shut down for the holiday, including work. I take my glass, feeling the weight of it in my hand. Expensive. Everything in Alain’s orbit is, and I’ve often wondered at how he’s embraced me as openly and equally as he has.
After all, I’m here in the room when it should only be Tristan.
“Nonsense,” Alain dismisses, snipping the end of a cigar with a gold cutter. “You can tell your stockholders whatever you want, but OuestHicks absorbing Smithfield is poetry, and I’m damn proud of both of you.” He offers us each a cigar, and I take mine reluctantly. I don’t smoke often, but refusing would be a faux pas, and I’d never want to insult Alain.
“A strategic acquisition,” I correct gently. “Their research division complements our development pipeline.”
Alain nods, not really listening. He’s focused on Tristan, studying him with a keen eye. You can almost feel it in the air. I know Tristan can. This isn’t just a casual congratulations. It’s an ambush.
“And now you have a significant presence in Paris.” He lights his cigar, the smoke curling upward. “Perfect timing, wouldn’t you say?”
