Bossing My Holiday

Chapter 1 – Waverly

WAVERLY

“Shit, shit shit. Crap, crap, crap! Oh, my god, I’m so freaking late!

Move!” I practically shove two people out of the way as I race up the steps and through the glass doors of the towering skyscraper of OuestHicks Pharmaceuticals.

I’m going to be in so much trouble for this.

My building lost power overnight, which meant that my old phone wasn’t charging and subsequently died, meaning my alarm didn’t go off this morning.

I’m more than an hour late, and with no power, that meant no heat or hot water, so that was a fun way to wake up.

My stomach clenches at the thought of my boss, Tristan Ouest. Despite the freezing temperatures, sweat clings to my brow as I climb onto the elevator, fidgeting and shifting my weight while we ascend at a snail’s pace.

It’s not even like I can turn on my phone to email or text him, and I left my work laptop in the office last night.

Argh!

He’s the jerkiest boss on the planet. The biggest Scrooge I’ve ever met. So unlike his co-owner, Mr. Hicks, who is equally as gorgeous, but charming and funny and kind. How they’re best friends, I have no clue. And why I don’t work for Mr. Hicks instead of Mr. Ouest is something I lament daily.

I sigh. It’s going to be a long day with Tristan. I can only hope the impending holiday and Christmas spirit will soften him. Fingers crossed.

The elevator doors open, and I step off only to have to jump around a sniveling Thomas, who all but bangs into me.

Clearly he was too distraught to follow proper elevator protocol and wait for me to get off before he got on.

Except in Thomas’s desperation to flee, his foot tangles with mine, tripping me.

My heel drops to the elevator floor with a heavy thud, and I tumble face-first out of the elevator.

I go down, my arms flailing wildly to stop myself, and I smash right into a wall.

Or more like a wall of man because the wall smells like sexy, expensive cologne and feels like hard muscles as it moves against me.

He jumps back, uttering a harsh expletive in French just as something searing hot douses me.

I yelp in pain and grab frantically at my blouse, causing the strap on my bag to snap and my purse to go flying.

Like a rainbow, the contents are tossed into the air and spill everywhere along with the remains of the coffee that burned me.

I hit the wood floor on my hands and knees like a wounded animal, and all around me, people gasp.

The elevator doors close with a cheerful fuck you ding, taking my shoe with it.

For a moment, all I can do is blink, too stunned and hurt with my coffee-stained blouse and burned skin beneath it to move.

I’m staring down at my birth control packet, two tampons, my wallet, an ancient pack of semi-melted gum, and the single girl survival kit my best friend Jennie bought me as a gag gift for my birthday last week that I forgot to take out of my purse.

Asshole repellent spray and a small, hot pink vibrator are on full display for all to see.

A whimper escapes me as two things register at once.

The expensive black shoes I’m staring at and the cool air hitting the back of my thighs and ass because my skirt has flown up.

Naturally. I mean, what sort of humiliation would be complete without that?

The only thing that could make this worse would be if I had a bottle of lube in here.

Immediately I sit back on my haunches, scorching heat all over my face that has nothing on the burn on my chest. Tears of humiliation threaten, but I push them down and force myself to look up. Please tell me I’m wrong. Please tell me I’m wrong. Please be Mr. Hicks instead.

Nope. Tristan Ouest, co-CEO, co-chairman of the board, and my boss, is standing above me, his expression one of fury and absolute loathing.

Fuck!

And here I was hoping to slip in under the radar.

I brush back the dark strands of hair clinging to my face and scramble for the contents of my purse.

He bends and picks up the asshole repellent spray, though he visibly eyes the vibrator.

I shove it back in my broken purse, followed by my birth control and the tampons.

He hands me the asshole repellent with a raised eyebrow, and I skirt his gaze as I go back to my purse.

He stands to his full height, a towering beast of a man. “Why are you all standing here?” he barks at everyone around me, and I note feet scurrying away. That’s a relief.

I swallow my humiliation and crane my neck to meet his gaze. “Mr. Ouest, I’m so sorry. Thomas tripped me, and I fell and didn’t see you—”

“You’re almost two hours late, and this is the entrance you make?

Since when are you this clumsy?” he sneers, his ice-blue eyes a touch colder as they tend to get when he’s angry.

“Look at this mess.” He wipes at the speck of coffee on his jacket when he finally takes note of my shirt. “Jesus,” he hisses. “Are you burned?”

I gulp and shove the last item back in my purse, grateful he didn’t mention the other items he saw. I don’t bother answering him. I doubt he actually cares, and that the concerned furrow of his brow is merely for show.

Somehow, he must take pity on me because he grabs me beneath my left arm and pulls me up, practically lifting all my weight with his hand.

The moment I’m upright, he releases me and steps back, taking in my ruined white blouse.

It was my favorite. And not only can I not afford another one, but my purse strap is broken, and my shoe is somewhere between the lobby and the eighteenth floor. Great.

“Do you need a minute?” he finally asks, his voice still hard but lower. Probably because I haven’t given him one of my pithy retorts. I’m too shellshocked and embarrassed from everything this morning has thrown at me to muster my regular strength with him.

“If I could have five minutes to find my shoe and attempt to get this coffee stain out of my blouse, that would be great.”

“You don’t have another outfit here?”

“No.” Because why would I? In the two years that I’ve been working here, I haven’t so much as spilled a drop of anything on my clothes.

“You’ve got five minutes, and then I expect you in my office ready to work with another coffee for me since you spilled mine.”

He turns and storms off down the hall back toward his corner office, and I mentally debate my best course of action.

“I’ll find your shoe. You go to the restroom,” Jasmine, the executive receptionist who just witnessed that entire event, tells me.

“Thank you. You’re amazing.”

“No sweat. That wasn’t your fault. That was all on Thomas.”

She winks at me, and I hobble to the bathroom. The ladies’ room is mercifully empty, and I go up to the counter, sucking in deep breaths when I catch my reflection.

My hands are trembling, and I unbutton my blouse to take in the skin beneath that’s a little red, but not too bad.

My shirt, on the other hand… I grab a wad of napkins, wet them, and get to work, already knowing it’s hopeless.

Ugh. A break. Just once in my life, I’d like a break. A little mercy. A touch of kindness.

A fucking Christmas miracle.

Is that too much to ask?!

After two minutes of washing with hand soap, blotting, and running it under the hand dryer, it’s as good as it’s going to be.

I slip it back on, button myself up, run a brush through my hair, and move awkwardly down the hall to my desk to find my shoe sitting on it.

A smile hits my lips, and I suck in a deep, calming breath, getting my mental shit back together.

See. Not all bad.

I plug in my phone, slip my shoe back on, grab my tablet, make his royal assholeness another cup of coffee, and walk into his office since the door is open.

He’s sitting behind his desk, eyes trained on one of his large monitors, ink-black hair perfectly coiffed without a hair out of place, and red tie—his attempt at appearing seasonable—straight and tight, though I do note he’s changed jackets.

I set his coffee down on his desk and step back, wanting distance from him after face-planting in his chest and him getting an eyeful of the inside of my purse. And my ass. He might have seen that too.

“Did you use the spray?”

“Pardon?”

“The asshole repellent spray?” He points to his mug. “Did you use it in my coffee?”

I hold in my smirk. “Not this morning.”

He glares as he leans back and gives me a long once-over, noting the remnants of coffee still clinging to my blouse and how it’s also a bit wet in spots before his hard gaze lands on my face. He has two settings: annoyed and taciturn. I wonder if he’s ever smiled a true, genuine smile in his life.

“Why were you late, and better yet, why didn’t you tell me you were going to be?”

I clear my throat and straighten my spine. “My building lost power overnight, and my phone died, taking my alarm with it. I couldn’t call or text, because again, my phone was dead and I couldn’t charge it.”

His elbows rest on the arms of his chair, and his hands hang loosely over his lean stomach. “That feels like a weak excuse.”

I shrug. “I’m sorry. It’s the truth and the best one I’ve got.”

“You are aware that we—”

“Are in the middle of acquiring Smithfield Pharmaceuticals? Yes, I’m aware. I’m not even two hours late and plan to stay an additional two hours this evening to make up for it.”

He sighs and stands before he paces over to the window. “Did you burn yourself?”

“Nothing I won’t recover from.”

He stares out the window at the Boston skyline, his back to me. “Do you need to go to the hospital or urgent care for it?”

“No. I’m fine.”

He turns and leans back against the window, folding his arms over his chest. His eyes are on my face, but I know he’s surveying my clothes with new light. Normally he doesn’t care as long as I’m presentable. “Great, except your tardiness ruined my jacket and your blouse and burned you.”

“I’ll pay for your jacket to be cleaned,” I grit out. And eat nothing but ramen for a week.

“I don’t care about the jacket.”

I throw my hands up in the air in frustration. “I was an hour and a half late, Tristan! It wasn’t even my fault.”

His lips twitch, and he wipes it away with his thumb before I’m even sure if that’s what I saw.

Still, it drags my gaze there for a moment before I look away.

It’s moments like these that I wish he weren’t so fucking gorgeous.

Ice-blue eyes that match his chilly disposition, black hair, a chiseled jawline, and a divot in his chin that makes him look like Superman.

Why are all the pretty ones such bastards?

“Tristan? You never call me that.”

“You’re more infuriating this morning than usual.

I don’t know what else to tell you. I woke up late to no power in a freezing apartment, took an equally cold shower, and then raced here only to get myself burned, show my ass to half the floor, and have you see my pink vibrator.

I think I’ve been flagellated enough. Can we please move past all this? ”

“You mean the ridiculous spray and vibrator you shouldn’t have in your purse at work?”

This fucking asshole. “It was a gag gift a friend purchased for me for my birthday last week, and I forgot they were in there. And what I keep in my purse is my own personal, private property and none of your business. Obviously, I didn’t want that spilling in front of everyone, especially you.

Are we able to get to work now, or are you not done chastising me yet? ”

“You feel I’m being unfair?”

“Yes. Your powers of reading the room are finally paying off. I feel you’re being unfair.”

“Except now we’re officially down an intern, and we have a virtual meeting with the Smithfield people in an hour, and you look like that.” He waves his hand up and down my body.

I deflate a little at that. He’s right. We do, and it’s a big meeting where we’ll all have to be on camera and talk.

“You fired Thomas?”

“He’s incompetent. Prove to me you’re not.”

Dick. “I can run home—”

“And miss more time?” he cuts me off. “No. I need you here. I’ll have Jasmine run out and get you something new to wear. That meeting needs to go off without a hitch, and you better be ready for it.”

Before I can reply, there’s a sharp knock on the door.

“What?” Tristan barks.

The door opens, and Braxton Hicks—yes, that’s actually his name—walks in wearing a suit that looks like it was designed just for him, the perfect amount of stubble on his sharp jaw, and a charming pearly-white dimpled smile that makes every straight woman and gay man swoon.

His sandy-brown hair is all over the place, and his chocolate-brown eyes are sparkling with their customary hint of mischief.

“Hey, I heard about what happened. I came to see if everyone’s okay and if you told Waverly the good news yet.” Braxton’s smile slips into a frown when he notes my blouse. “Yikes. Our poor girl. Are you okay?”

His hands meet my shoulders, and he spins me to fully face him, and I wish my heart didn’t beat faster at his touch.

I’ve had time to adjust to how my body reacts when I’m near Tristan—sort of, more like sixty-eight percent—and his personality helps me a bit with that.

Plus he’s never physically touched me. But I still haven’t learned how to be around Braxton without getting a flutter in my belly and feeling my nipples tighten.

Having a crush on him sucks.

“She says she’s fine,” Tristan tells him, scowling as if he’s not sure whether he believes that or not. “And no, I haven’t told her the news yet. We’ve been a bit preoccupied, as you can see.”

“Are you actually fine?” Braxton’s face is full of concern. “Tell me the truth, not what you told this cold bastard.”

I can’t help but laugh lightly. “Yes. I’m okay. It looks worse than it is. It doesn’t even hurt anymore.”

“Damn, I hope not, but I’m also glad I didn’t miss the big announcement.”

“What is it?” I can’t help but ask.

“Now that Claudia is leaving, I’m going to have you come on as my assistant too starting after the first of the year. It just makes the most sense for both of us to share one person.” He waves a dismissive finger back and forth between himself and Tristan. “What do you think?”

“I’m going to be working for both of you?”

“Unless I fire you before that, yes,” Tristan states.

Oh my Christmas.