Chapter 7 – Tristan #2
“What the fuck is that?”
“My suitcase?” She looks at me as if I have three heads but quickly gets over her confusion at my question when she tries to lift the handle and it doesn’t come up.
Not on the first try or even the fifth. It’s stuck, probably because that suitcase is older than my grandmother.
“Huh. Weird. I swear it came up before. Give me a sec.”
In the middle of the airport, she lays the suitcase flat, opens it up, and I swear I see red. Not Christmas red. There is nothing cheerful and bright about this. It’s blood fucking red. Is she kidding me with this?
I glance at Braxton, and he’s on the same page I am.
“Fuck this,” he growls and bends to help her.
Somehow they work some voodoo magic and manually do something under her rags that manages to get the thing to screech up through the top, and I’m done. So done. Brax is too.
“Are you ready?” I bark.
“Yep. Ready to go.” She finishes zipping her suitcase back up and bounces up to her feet in her sneakers. I’ve never wanted to strangle a woman more than I want to strangle Waverly Dobbs if for no other reason than I can’t stand how adorable and unbothered she is.
“We’re making a stop first, and I have a rule about it.”
Her lip catches in her teeth, and I have the sudden and inappropriate urge to lean in and remove it with my own before sucking it into my mouth. I bet she’d taste as sweet as the rest of her is.
“What’s your rule? And before you start spouting a hundred different orders and demands at me, you need to remember that just because you’re my boss and are paying me an unholy night amount of money to be your fake girlfriend, that doesn’t mean you own me or get to call all the shots with me.”
I twist my arm around her and drag her side into mine.
My face dips so I’m near her ear, and I tell her the only truth I know right now.
“You’ve been mine for two years, Waverly.
You follow my every order. Obey my every command.
You might mouth off and challenge me, but that’s just because you feel like you have to in order to maintain your integrity and your stupid fucking pride.
But the truth is, we have a thing, you and I.
An understanding. I respect you more than I think you realize.
So with that last thought at the forefront of your pretty little head, how about you trust me and not fight me and just let me do what I already plan to do without the resulting argument? ”
She glances up at me, and for a second, I’m winded. My mind spins. Her gray eyes hold a hint of defiance, and her pink bow-shaped lips quirk in mischief. And where did she come from? How have I never looked before? Because you knew better, so stop doing it now!
“I live for the fight.”
“So I’m learning. I like that about you, don’t get me wrong. But I don’t want you to fight me on this. It’s going to be a deal-binding agreement. Take it. Or leave it.”
She looks over at Braxton. “Do you know what this is?”
“Yes. He didn’t even have to tell me, but I know, and I agree with him. So you can fight us both and lose, or just go along with it.”
She puffs an annoyed breath.
With that, I drag her and her sorry fucking suitcase out of the sliding doors and into the frigid temperatures. The cold wind is a necessary blast to the senses. Thankfully the car I ordered is waiting right up front for us.
I shuffle her ass into the backseat and give the guy an extra tip like I’m Jolly fucking Saint Nick at Christmas, so he’ll make the stop I want him to make and wait for us.
Once that’s done, we drive toward Paris, and I make the arrangements I need.
She doesn’t ask any questions. My little fairy is too enthralled with the city around us, but as we pull up at the stunning facade of the Galeries Lafayette, I can see the questions raised in her eyes and the lift of her expectant eyebrows.
Tough shit. I have no plans to answer her questions until I have to.
“Good morning and welcome to the Galeries Lafayette,” the handler greets us in French, more than a little excited since the Ouest name in this city essentially gets me whatever I want.
Waverly is staring up at the incredible stained-glass and wrought-iron ceiling, her mouth half-hanging open in wonder at its beauty.
“I’m Gerard.” The tall, Black, impeccably put-together man reaches his hand out to shake mine.
“I was told you’re in search of a personal shopper. ”
“Oui. Yes. Merci. Thank you.” I shake his hand, noting his firm, no-bullshit grip and flawless turquoise suit.
He’s exactly who I need. “This is my lovely girlfriend, Waverly.” I switch to English.
“I’m bringing her home for Christmas to meet my family, and while I adore her for her and all of her misguided fashion sense, you can see the issue. ”
Waverly makes some kind of deranged noise.
She gives me a firm headshake. “No,” she hisses under her breath at me.
I glare at her, it’s not a kind look, and if she were anyone else, she’d wither at the sight of it.
But since this is Waverly, the defiant little thing glares right back at me.
Every woman I’ve ever gone out with would have killed for a no-expense-spared shopping spree and never thought to question the amount of money I spent on them.
Again, not Waverly, and I’m starting to question my wisdom in bringing her home. Everything with her is like pulling teeth. Even if part of me respects it about her.
“I don’t need this,” Waverly grits out. “Quit bossing my holiday. This is too much.”
“It’s not, Sunshine.” Braxton gives her a dimpled smile. The one I now know she likes. “It’s what needs to be done. You’re beautiful. Our gemstone. But you deserve to glimmer and sparkle, not be dulled by old, raggedy clothes.”
I lower my voice so only she can hear. “More importantly, I told you this was a take-it-or-leave-it thing. I’d hate for you to be stranded in Paris during Christmas with no way home.”
“I hate you,” she seethes.
I smile dotingly, already practicing my part, as I lean in and kiss her cheek. Her skin smells like vanilla and is so goddamn soft. I force myself away. It’s not as easy as I thought it would be.
“You love me.” I grin, staring down into her eyes. She presses in on my foot and stares right back, and I fight the urge to laugh. My little kitten has claws, but she’s fucking with a lion, and I never lose or back down once I’ve made up my mind about something.
“Let me handle this one,” Brax offers, and if Gerard is wondering about Brax’s role in all of this, he doesn’t question it. After all, Gerard is French, and they’re far more open in many ways when it comes to dynamics and relationships than Americans can be.
I smile at Brax. “She’s all yours. I’m going to find a place to work, but I want everything.”