Chapter 3 – Braxton #2
“Well, I don’t think there’s a Christmas date for hire service. So short of bringing home a prostitute or Waverly, it looks like you’re getting set up. Possibly married by the end of the holiday too.”
He winces, but before he can respond, the boardroom door swings open.
Waverly enters, balancing three cups of coffee plus a laptop tucked under her arm.
Her dark hair is pinned up now, a few rebellious strands framing her face, and she’s changed into a deep red, fitted dress that has a square neckline.
I can’t see her cleavage, but damn does this dress hug every inch of her.
I’ve never been jealous of a dress before until now. Holy hell. I glance over at Tristan and see I’m not the only one to notice. His eyes are glued to her, his tongue practically lolling out of his mouth before he remembers himself and forces himself away.
I’ve never understood how she manages to look both perfectly professional and like she just rolled out of someone’s bed, but I can’t wait to find out.
She spots us by the wall, standing close, and gives us a curious look.
“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.” Waverly slides 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 been vulnerable 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.
“Aging,” she replies simply. “Their CEO, Bernard Reynaud, is seventy-eight and has no clear succession plan, but it’s been obvious that he’s wanted to retire for some time now but hasn’t been able to let go.
Their board is divided on the acquisition.
The old guard wants to maintain independence, the younger faction sees the writing on the wall. ”
I nod, sipping my coffee. “Perfect storm.”
“If we don’t move, another company will,” Tristan adds, his voice low and serious. “The Paris facility alone is worth the asking price.”
“Speaking of Paris,” I say, leaning closer to Waverly. “Have you ever been?”
She looks up from her computer, her eyes round. “No, I’ve never been, but I’ve always wanted to go.” She laughs. “I’ve never been out of New England.”
“Ah, we should take you with us. It’s an incredible city. Tristan’s family is gracious enough to take me in like a lost stray, but with it I get to experience Paris, so no complaints from me.”
Tristan makes a sound somewhere between a cough and a growl. “Can we please focus on the acquisition? The one worth billions of dollars?”
“We are focused,” I protest. “I’m simply multitasking. Preparing for Paris while also appreciating the... dynamics of our leadership team.” I lean in conspiratorially toward Waverly. “He gets so grumpy when I acknowledge the obvious tension and how he needs to relax a little.”
“I’m not tense.”
“That’s why your left eye is twitching right now.”
Waverly intervenes smoothly, touching both our arms, her fingers cool against my wrist. “Gentlemen. The Smithfield team will be online in approximately three minutes. Perhaps we should review our opening strategy?”
Tristan’s eyes narrow in on her hand on his arm, and she immediately retracts it, followed by the hand she had on me.
Heat stains her cheeks, and I wonder if that’s the first time she’s ever touched him.
It was the first time she’s ever touched me, and I won’t lie and say I didn’t feel it.
And judging by Tristan’s expression, he did too.
I throw him a smug look he chooses to ignore.
“You’re right,” I concede, straightening in my chair and my tie all at once. I hate wearing these things. They always choke me. Give me a lab coat any day, and I’m happy. “Business first, pleasure later.”
“There is no pleasure later,” Tristan mutters. “This is work.”
“Speak for yourself. I find acquisition talks thrilling, as I know Waverly does.” I flip through my notes. “We lead with the cultural synergy, emphasize retention of key research personnel, then hit them with the facility modernization plan.”
Waverly nods approvingly. “And remember, Reynaud responds well to deference to his experience, but his CFO, Marissa, is all about the hard numbers and requires being treated with equal deference to Reynaud.”
“This is why we need you in Paris,” I tell her. “You read people better than either of us.”
“Better than you,” Tristan corrects. “I read people fine.”
“You read them like business manuals. Waverly reads them like poetry.” I let my gaze linger on her for a moment longer than strictly necessary. “Nuance. Subtext. The things unsaid.”
Waverly’s cheeks color slightly, but she doesn’t look away. “I simply pay attention.” She clicks a button, and the large flat screen in front of us comes to life, but the meeting isn’t connecting from her laptop.
“Not today.” She glances at Tristan, worry etched on her pretty face. “I’m so sorry. Sometimes it connects better from my iPad, which I left in the kitchen. I’ll be back in less than a minute.”
Before he can lay into her, she flies out of her chair and races from the conference room. As she leaves, I watch Tristan watching her. There’s a softening around his eyes that he probably doesn’t realize is visible.
“You know, you could be her financial hero and she could save your ass with your family. All you’d have to do is make her a simple business offer.”
His face shutters immediately. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“I’m never ridiculous. Outrageous, perhaps. Provocative, certainly. But I see things clearly, and I’m never wrong.” I straighten my tie, leaning back to check my reflection in the window. “Just something to think about.”
“The only thing I’ll be thinking about in Paris is closing this deal,” he says firmly.
“And all the lovely women you’ll have pawing over you for your billions and name.”
The door opens, and Waverly enters, skirting Tristan’s gaze as if she expects him to berate her. He hasn’t, and I don’t think he will. He’s too lost in his thoughts. She sets up the app using her iPad and retakes her seat just as the Smithfield people enter the virtual meeting. Let the games begin.