Chapter 17 – Waverly
WAVERLY
Outside Smithfield Pharmaceuticals, the December air carries a bite that reddens cheeks and provides a convenient excuse for standing closer than strictly necessary.
The car pulls up in front, and we’re quickly ushered in, except, the moment the doors close and I sigh against the heat radiating out of the vents, it gets quiet.
Too quiet. The tense, memory-filled sort of quiet.
“I’m starving,” Brax announces. “I didn’t eat much this morning.”
“Me neither,” I admit. I was too freaking embarrassed after Tristan’s mother all but walked in on us naked with his dick still inside of me. That was a moment I’ll never forget.
“We’re not too far from the best café in the sixth arrondissement,” Tristan suggests. Without waiting on a response, he tells the driver to bring us there, and off we go. The glass partition stays down, and our hands stay to ourselves as within minutes we’re heading back into Paris.
“It’s so beautiful,” I murmur, lost in the endless city.
“Let’s get out and walk then,” Brax agrees. “Unless you’re not up for walking in the cold. It is about five degrees out.”
The question carries a hint of challenge, teasing me about how I didn’t take into account the conversion from Celsius to Fahrenheit when I was dressed for the North Pole in the airport.
I roll my eyes at him. “Har, har. Lead the way. My hot bosses bought me an extra warm coat. I should be fine.”
They both laugh as the car pulls over, and we exit into the stream of Parisians, businesspeople, and tourists that flow along the sidewalk.
Braxton falls into step beside me. “Billion-dollar deals in the morning and playing tourist in the afternoon. Is this how all international acquisitions go?”
“Only the ones without unexpected complications,” I quip.
Tristan guides us around a corner to a narrow street lined with shops. Striped awnings extend over the sidewalk, and beneath one of burgundy and cream, a collection of small round tables hosts a variety of patrons. A waiter in a long white apron nods at Tristan with recognition.
“Monsieur Ouest.” He shakes Tristan’s hand. “C’est un plaisir.”
“Une table pour trois, s'il vous pla?t, George.”
“Bien s?r, monsieur.” George leads us to a corner table partially shielded from the street by an ornamental hedge in a brass planter.
“You’re known here?” I ask as we settle into the woven chairs. It shouldn’t surprise me. The Ouest family is famous, but he knows the waiter’s name.
Tristan shrugs. “The Ouest corporate office is three buildings down. I spent a lot of time in this café waiting for my father and grandfather when I was younger, and whenever I’m in town, I usually come here for at least one meal.”
The waiter returns with menus, but Tristan waves them away, ordering for us in French. I catch only fragments—café au lait, croque-monsieur, onion soup, something about a special cheese, and a particular bottle of wine.
“Hope you don’t mind,” he says, turning back to us. “Their menu hasn’t changed in twenty years, and neither have the best touristy options that you have to have in a Parisian café at least once.”
“Always the control freak,” Braxton observes, but there’s no heat in it, only a brotherly familiarity that’s as comfortable and easy as I’ve ever seen two people with each other. Then again, I don’t have a lot to go by in my life.
“I prefer efficient,” Tristan counters, his knee brushing mine beneath the small table.
The coffees arrive first in wide mugs of café au lait, topped with foam in patterns I’m certain have a technical French name.
I wrap my hands around the warm ceramic, letting the steam rise to my face.
We’re halfway between outside and inside, the cold fighting the heat of the restaurant.
It’s far from unpleasant, but the warmth of the coffee is certainly welcome.
“So,” I muse, stirring sugar into my coffee. “When’s our official lobotomy appointment scheduled?”
Brax nearly chokes on his first sip. “Excuse me?”
“For the three of us,” I continue without any inflection.
“Because clearly, we’ve lost our minds.” I gesture between the three of us.
“I’ve become a cliché. Contracted billionaire’s girlfriend meets French bedroom farce.
Not to mention, I’m officially that assistant who screws her boss. Well, bosses in this case.”
Tristan laughs, the sound warming something in my chest. “I’ve never been more clear-headed.”
“And you’re not a cliché,” Braxton pushes, his hand finding my knee under the table, thumb tracing idle circles through my skirt. “Nothing we’re doing is wrong. We’re three single adults entering into a consensual relationship.”
A loose curl has escaped my careful morning styling, dangling near my eye. Tristan reaches over without hesitation, tucking it gently behind my ear, his fingers lingering against my skin a moment longer than necessary.
“There,” he murmurs in a low tone. “Now I can see all of you, and I don’t see any hint of a cliché as Brax said.” He turns to Brax. “Our girl is beautiful, isn’t she?”
“Stunning,” Brax agrees, his hand climbing higher as Tristan’s hand plays with the sensitive skin at the back of my neck.
The simple gestures send electricity down my spine, and I’m grateful for the arrival of our food. A gold-brown croque-monsieur with the cheese still bubbling at the edges and two large crocks of cheesy soup, accompanied by tiny salads dressed in something sharp and vinegary.
The waiter sets three small wine glasses in front of us and opens up the bottle of red.
“To OuestHicks Pharmaceuticals and the path it will lead us all,” Tristan announces, raising his glass in a toast.
“Corporate and otherwise,” Braxton adds, his cup meeting Tristan’s with a gentle clink.
I join the toast, drinking half of my glass down and wondering how I’ve landed myself here between these two men who seem to have decided, without much consultation, that I’m something they want to share.
The realization should bother me more than it does.
But here I am at twenty-four and have nothing in my life except my sick grandmother, whom I can’t visit without upsetting, and my job. That’s it.
This is the chance at something unexpected. An adventure with a lot of dirty mixed in. When I’m my Nana’s age, I want to look back on my life without regrets. I want to be able to say I did the wild thing once too.
“You’re thinking too loudly,” Braxton admonishes, his hand still on my lower thigh, sliding up just an inch, testing boundaries in broad daylight.
“I’m not actually,” I defend. “Or at least I’m trying not to. I’m trying to enjoy this for what it is.” I cut into the sandwich, suddenly ravenous.
“Oh? And what is this?” Tristan laughs as he breaks up the soup and feeds me a bite. The flavors burst in my mouth, buttery and savory and cheesy. It’s the best thing I’ve ever had. All of this is, and the wine and coffee complement all.
A girl could get used to this. If she were dumb enough to let herself.
Tristan’s foot hooks around my ankle under the table while Braxton leans in to point out a detail of Parisian architecture across the street, his breath warm against my ear as his hand climbs higher.
I’m caught between them, physically and otherwise, and the sensation is both disorienting and thrilling.
“Whatever we want it to be,” I say. While it lasts, I keep to myself.
I smile and drink more wine and relax. Laughing and chatting with both of them. Enjoying the moment. Paris stretches before us, a city of light and secrets, and for now, I'm willing to explore both.