Chapter 2 – Tristan #2
“I know. I’m a little nervous about that. It’s a lot of responsibility, but I’m ready for it. It’s what I want.”
“To be sandwiched between them? Who could blame you?” She sighs dramatically. “If I weren’t married and in love with my husband, I’d knock you unconscious and take your place.”
Waverly laughs. “It’s every girl’s dream right there. Oh wait, except they’re my bosses. Shucks.”
“Still, the raise has to help.”
“I don’t know how much it is, but whatever it is, I’m grateful for it.
The nursing home Nana is in informed me they’re raising their rates next year, and there’s no way I’ll be able to afford it and continue paying off her debts and my crappy studio apartment, let alone eat. I’m barely able to do all of that now.”
“Oh, honey. Can I do anything?”
“No. But thank you. Hopefully, this raise will be the answer I need.”
I didn’t know that about her grandmother, and a strange discomfort comes over me.
That’s why she’s so driven, working a million hours, and never even takes so much as a sick day.
She’s working to take care of her grandmother and, from the sound of it, barely making ends meet. My lips tug down in a frown.
“How about you come over for pizza and wine tonight? My treat. We’ll celebrate your amazing new promotion.”
“Normally I’d argue, but that would be amazing. Thank you. Oh, wait, I can’t tonight. I have to stay late to make up the two stupid hours I missed this morning. What about tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow’s perfect. And no thanks needed. It’s what besties are for. I’m just sorry I can’t do more.”
“It’s all good. I’ll make it work. I always do. Even if it takes me the remainder of my life to pay all of this off.”
“Unless you win the lottery.”
“Right.” Waverly laughs. “Unless I do that.”
My phone vibrates against my hip, pulling me out of whatever else they’re saying.
But I can’t help but be stuck on what she said.
She’s worked for me for two years, and short of noticing how her clothes are a bit worn and recycled without the addition of new items, I had no clue about her financial situation.
I slip my phone out, appreciative of the diversion, only to see it’s my mother. Normally I wouldn’t pick up during business hours, but I’ve been dodging her for a week.
I check the time. I still have five or so minutes.
I walk into an empty conference room, sit on the edge of the table, and answer. “Hi, Mom.”
“Don’t hi, Mom, me. It’s ten days until Christmas, and I still don’t know when my only child is coming home for it.”
I crack a smile, the first one all day. “I believe I already let your assistant know—”
“My assistant?! I’m your mother.”
“Brax and I will be there Sunday morning.”
“Good. I’m glad to hear that because I have a date set up for you for that night, a lunch date for Monday, and two others during the week if those don’t pan out leading up to Christmas.
Then of course there’s the party, which you cannot attend single.
I figure you’d pick the one you like the most of those women, and that will be that. ”
I groan, dropping my elbow to my thigh and my forehead into my free hand. “Please tell me you’re kidding.”
“Not even a little. You remember Aurora Harper? Well, she’s single now.”
“And you know I no longer live in Paris, right?”
“But I think you likely will be soon. Your father is looking to retire, and you’re taking over a Parisian pharmaceutical company.
So it’s a matter of time until you’re back home.
Plus, it’s your grand-mère’s wish to see you happy and settled, but more than that, it’s required for Ouests to marry and produce heirs.
I know you know this. You’re our only link, and that means you have to get married.
Well, remarried. This very well could be her last Christmas with us, and you’re running out of time. ”
Grand-mère is in her late eighties and has been battling congestive heart failure for the last three years. I’m not so sold that it’s her last Christmas. That woman is a spitfire and still drinks more wine than anyone I know.
“Please stop with the guilt trips.”
She blows right past that. “After Aurora, it’s Samantha Wintleberry and then Jacqueline Perrot.
Her father does business with yours, so that would be an acceptable match even if she’s not quite up to your grandmother’s standards, but then again, who is?
I told her, if she wants your happiness, she has to allow you to choose your wife this time.
The women we’re setting you up with are all beautiful, young, and from good families. ”
“Mom, stop. I don’t want to be set up.”
“Honey, how else are you going to meet someone if I don’t do it for you? You’ve been divorced for three years now. Not every woman is a blood-sucking trollop.”
“Mom!”
“What? She was. The woman slept with half of Paris and Boston. And to tell you about it the day after spending Christmas with us and after oohing and ahhing over her expensive gifts that she made you buy her because she wouldn’t tolerate anything less is simply disgusting.
If I didn’t adore her parents, I’d tell them just what a manwhore they raised. ”
“Mom, that term applies to men.”
“Oh. Well, whatever. She is. We never should have set you up with her.”
I close my eyes and release an even breath.
I don’t like to think about my ex. I married her because our families made the match, and it was expected of me.
And look where that got me. I’ll always be grateful for the prenup I had, even if she tried like hell to fight it.
She did sleep with most of Paris and Boston.
“That’s why you shouldn’t set me up now.”
“No, this is different. Lessons learned and all of that. These women 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.