Page 10 of Bossing My Holiday
“How long does it take you to make coffee? You’re three minutes late,” Tristan snaps.
“And yet somehow the world continues spinning,” she deadpans. “I would have been back sooner, but of course, the espresso machine was being temperamental.”
“Like Tristan on a good day,” I quip, earning another eyebrow twitch from him, but we abandon the coziness of the wall in favor of our chairs at the table. “Beautiful dress,” I tell her. “Jasmine has good taste.”
“Yes,” Waverly beams. “She does. And thank you for it. I’ll pay you back.”
“You won’t,” Tristan states coldly. “It’s perfect on you, and you obviously needed it.”
A blush hits Waverly’s cheeks before she clears her throat and returns to business mode. “Here you go, Mr. Ouest.” She sets his cup down in front of him, black with no sugar. The liquid equivalent of his soul. “And yours, Braxton.” Waverlyslides my coffee across the table. The steam carries the scent of hazelnut and vanilla, sweet and inviting.
“Bless you,” I murmur, wrapping my fingers around the warmth. “Waverly, have I mentioned lately that you’re the only thing keeping this company from imploding?”
“Not since yesterday afternoon,” she replies with a small smile, taking the empty seat on the end.
“No, no,” I say, gesturing with my cup. “Over here. Between us.”
Her forehead creases. “I always sit on the side during client meetings.”
“Smithfield isn’t a client. They’re our future acquisition. Our prey, for lack of a better term.” I pat the chair directly between Tristan and me. The one I intentionally left open when I sat down. “We need to present a united front. Two CEOs, one exceptional assistant.”
Tristan’s eyes narrow fractionally. “Braxton?—”
“I’m serious,” I interrupt. “Strategic positioning. The Smithfield team needs to see us as a cohesive unit. Waverly is the bridge between your brilliant brooding and my charming charisma. But more than that, three members of the Smithfield executive team are female, and it’s important for them to see how highly we value the female members of our team.”
Waverly hesitates, then gathers her things and moves to the chair between us. The table is wide enough that we’re not crowded but close enough that I catch the subtle notes of her perfume. It’s something sweet and spicy and fucking delicious.
“Perfect,” I say, leaning back in my chair. “How does it feel, Waverly, to be the filling in our corporate sandwich?”
Tristan nearly chokes on his coffee and has to wipe a dribble of it from his chin. “For fuck’s sake.”
Waverly’s lips twitch as she opens her laptop and sets up the PowerPoint. “With the two of you? Professionally challenging and personally amusing, as always.”
“That’s why we keep her,” I tell Tristan with a wink. “She handles us both so well. What are you doing for the holidays? Do you have family that you see?”
“Oh, um, no, I don’t. My nana is in a home and has dementia.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. Do you not have any other family?”
“No. My parents died when I was very little. It was just me and Nana, but she gets agitated when she sees me because she thinks I’m my mother and somehow remembers that she’s gone. I limit my visits so as not to upset her and stick to mostly calling her.”
“I had no clue,” Tristan murmurs under his breath.
“Me neither.”
She shrugs. “It’s okay. It is what it is. I usually spend my holiday under the blankets with a book or watching old Christmas movies on TV. It’s pretty heavenly, actually.”
I glance over her head at Tristan and give him a meaningful look. One he doesn’t mistake. I have no parents either. Mine died when I was also very young, and I bounced around through the system until I went away to college, and Tristan’s family more or less adopted me as one of theirs.
But it doesn’t sound like Waverly has anyone, and that breaks my heart for her.
“Should we go over the PowerPoint one more time so we’re all on the same page?” she asks, smoothly changing the subject.
“Absolutely." I flip open my portfolio and pull out the spreadsheets because I’m old school like that. I do better with things written in front of me and not on a screen. It’s the math side of my brain. “Waverly, could you run us through the numbers one more time? I want them tattooed on my brain before the Smithfield team gets on the line.”
She scrolls through the presentation on her laptop but starts talking even before she reaches the right slides. “Smithfield’s market valuation is currently at 1.8 billion. They’ve beenvulnerable since their failed phase three trials for Merovex and the FDA’s eventual rejection of the drug last year. Their stock has been steadily dropping and is down over seventeen percent.” Her voice shifts to something more measured and professional. “Our offer of two billion is generous given their position, but not so generous that it looks desperate. You also analyzed their drug and believe there’s a way to alter it so there are fewer human side effects and better efficacy.”
“Yes, but they don’t need to know that piece. And their leadership team?” I ask, knowing the answer but wanting to hear her say it.
