Chapter 20 – Braxton
brAXTON
“Santa, Satan. It’s all in the lettering,” Waverly teases with her flour-dusted hands in the air. “That’s all I’m saying. You like to give gifts, and you’re evil to work for.”
Tristan rolls his eyes. “I can’t tell if you’re calling me Santa or Satan?”
She shrugs. “Both. I thought that was obvious.”
Francine chokes on a small laugh and covers it with her champagne. “I believe our boy might have finally found his match.”
Tristan groans. “No more with the match stuff.”
Francine winks at Waverly, making me chuckle. They don’t know how to quit, but then again, Tristan is their only child and the heir to the Ouest fortune and company, so I also kind of get it.
The scent of vanilla and cinnamon fills Tristan’s parents’ kitchen.
This morning at breakfast, Waverly brought up the idea of baking, and Francine jumped all over that.
Now here we are. I watch Waverly’s hands, dusted with flour, press cookie cutters into rolled dough, and try not to think about where those hands were last night.
Beside her, Tristan raises an eyebrow at me over his grandmother’s head, and I suppress a laugh.
Clearly my thoughts are spread across my face.
This game we’re playing is getting more complicated by the hour.
Especially since all I want to do is kiss the hell out of Waverly so I can taste the bits of cookies she’s been nibbling on along with the champagne she’s sipping.
“Braxton, dear, you’re daydreaming again.” Francine’s voice pulls me back to the present.
“And staring at Waverly’s backside as you do,” Grand-mère notes.
Shit. My head snaps up, and I chuckle in a self-deprecating way. “Sorry. I was lost in thought thinking about the Smithfield drug.”
Tristan’s mother slides another tray of baked cookies toward me. “Well, now that you’re back, would you sprinkle half with the cinnamon and sugar and frost the others? You always have such an artistic touch, and Tristan just tends to blob it all on it.”
“I do not,” he protests, his hip against the counter as he watches us work. “I just don’t see why we have to decorate them to such extremes. They’re cookies. You eat them.”
“Pretty is part of what makes them special,” Waverly tells him. “Not everything has to be practical.”
I accept the task with a nod, hyperaware of Waverly’s eyes on me from across the marble island.
In all the years I’ve been coming home with Tristan for holidays, I’m not sure I’ve ever spent this much time in the kitchen.
They have a personal chef who makes all their meals, but there is no denying that everyone is enjoying this, even Tristan.
“In my day,” Grand-mère announces, her accent thickening as she moves her nasal cannula away from her mouth, “we didn’t use store-bought vanilla. We made our own. With real beans and good French cognac.” She narrows her eyes at the bottle of extract. “American shortcuts are for wimps.”
Tristan laughs, his shoulder brushing Waverly’s even as he talks to his grandmother. “Grand-mère, we bought that vanilla at the little gourmet shop around the corner. The one you love and always send Jolie to.”
Jolie is their chef, who is likely taking a much-needed nap right now. Or crying that we’ve taken over her kitchen and dirtied it up.
“Pah! Still not as good as mine.” She turns her shrewd gaze to Waverly. “You, my dear, you have baker’s hands. Strong but gentle. Good for many things, oui? Like keeping men in their place.” Her eyebrows wiggle.
Waverly doesn’t miss a beat. “I’ve been told I’m quite good at that.” Her eyes flick to mine for the briefest moment, and heat crawls up my neck.
“Ha!” Grand-mère claps her hands together. “I like this one, Tristan. Much better than that ex-wife of yours with the laugh like a horse.”
“Agathe!” Francine admonishes, but she’s smiling. “Don’t embarrass them. And we don’t need to bring up Dianna. I know neither Tristan nor Waverly wants to talk about her.”
“She did laugh like a horse,” Tristan states and kisses Waverly’s cheek, and again, I hate how I can’t do the same.
I concentrate on my decorating technique, carefully creating patterns on the star-shaped cookies while trying not to think about last night.
Waverly between us, her sighs and moans, the way Tristan and I moved together with her like we’d been doing it our whole lives.
But it wasn’t enough. After we ate dinner and had another round in my bed, they both left and went to his room to sleep. And I was alone again.
“Braxton, I’m so glad you’re here. Christmas wouldn’t be the same without you.
” Francine squeezes my arm, and something in my chest aches pleasantly.
Sixteen years of friendship with Tristan, and his family have never once made me feel like an outsider, even when I was the scholarship kid in old clothes flying to Paris on their dime because they wouldn’t hear of me spending the holidays alone.
“Wouldn’t miss it,” I tell her honestly, kissing her temple.
“And Waverly is delightful,” she continues. “Tristan never brings anyone special to our family gatherings. We always have to force women down his throat. It must be serious. Please tell me it’s serious.”
I swallow hard. “She is special, and I hope it’s serious.
” More than she knows. It feels odd to think about how it’s supposed to be fake between them.
A contracted relationship. In many ways, it still is.
Nothing has been worked out. Right now it’s simply sex, and truth be told, I have no idea where Waverly’s head—or even Tristan’s—is with that.
Waverly giggles lightly, and Tristan once again groans like the child he becomes around his family.
“You can’t ask my best friend that, and definitely not in front of me or Waverly.”
“I’m a mother. That’s what we do. We don’t care about things like boundaries, and we say things and apologize later. Am I right, Agathe?”
“That’s always been my motto.”
Across the counter, Waverly is teaching Tristan how to properly roll the dough.
She stands behind him, guiding his hands, and I can see the moment his playful resistance melts into genuine affection, regardless of the audience.
He turns his head slightly, and their faces are inches apart.
Something passes between them, and he dips his head and kisses her.
Francine sighs, and I smile even if my insides twist a bit with uncertainty.
“You’re rolling it too thin,” Grand-mère criticizes, breaking the moment. “While you’re busy kissing, the cookies will burn. Did I teach you nothing, boy?”
“You taught me to delegate to professionals,” Tristan quips, stepping away from Waverly with a self-conscious laugh.
“True. That’s why you’re so successful with your little pills.
” Grand-mère waves her hand dismissively at our pharmaceutical empire.
Tristan and I exchange grins. OuestHicks Pharmaceuticals is hardly little, especially after acquiring Smithfield, but Grand-mère remains unimpressed by anything that isn’t at least a century old.
Before she married Tristan’s grandfather, her family owned a lot of real estate in Paris, including this land where Ouest Hotel stands.
“Speaking of success,” Francine interjects, wielding a spatula like a weapon as she gesticulates with it. “Your father wants to speak with you later about your next steps now that you’ve acquired Smithfield.”
Tristan’s shoulders tense, but he masks it quickly. “I’m officially on holiday. Let’s focus on cookies since my girlfriend is making me bake,” he deflects.
“Oh, really, Scrooge? It looks like I’m doing most of the work here.” Waverly breaks a piece of cookie off and chucks it at him. It lands in his hair before dropping to his sweater in a sugary, crumbly mess that immediately has her cracking up, her hand over her mouth.
“Oh shit.” I cough a laugh.
“Braxton,” Grand-mère tuts, but her eyes twinkle.
“Apologies, but that was a nice shot.”
Tristan pulls the piece of cookie stuck to his sweater off and chucks it at me. It pings right against my chest, but I’m smart and manly enough to be wearing an apron, so I give him an unimpressed, was that your best shot expression.
“That didn’t have the desired effect I was going after.”
“Clearly,” Waverly teases. “If we weren’t in your parents’ lovely kitchen, I’d show you how a real food fight is done.”
“Is this how Americans spend their time?” Tristan teases.
“It’s the best way to grow up.”
Waverly gives me a smile.
Tristan seizes the opportunity, flicking flour at Waverly. “If you’re going to make a mess, do it properly.”
Waverly gasps in mock outrage and retaliates, but Tristan dekes left, and she misses him entirely and hits me instead. The flour catches in my face and hair, coating my eyelashes and lips. I blink through the white haze to see her hand over her mouth, eyes wide with suppressed laughter.
“Oh, crap.” She coughs out a laugh, and so does Francine. “I’m so sorry.” Her hands go up in surrender, but there’s no stopping her smile. “Really. I meant to get Tristan. Not your face.”
Tristan cracks up. “Looks good on you, brother. You’re like a cute little snowman. All you need is a carrot for your nose.”
“Oh, it’s war now,” I declare, going for the box of powdered sugar.
“No!” Francine shrieks with delight as she grabs it from me. “We’re baking cookies, not making messes.”
“I will get you back for that later.”
Waverly scoffs. “We’ll see about that, boss.”
She grabs a washcloth, wets it, and comes over to me, using it to wipe the cake of flour off my face.
Our eyes lock, and for a breathless moment, the kitchen disappears.
It’s just us. Just her hands on my face and the cold cloth as she cleans me up.
Then Tristan is there, ostensibly helping by handing her some paper towels, his hand on the small of her back, creating a circuit of connection between the three of us.
“When I was a young woman, we did not play with our food. We played with our hearts. Much messier.” Grand-mère looks pointedly at the three of us, and I swear she can see right through our pretense.
“Agathe, stop teasing them. Remember how you and Pierre met? That party where you spilled wine on his new suit?”
“On purpose.” Grand-mère sniffs, taking in a rattled breath. “He was too haughty in that suit. Thought he was God’s gift to every woman. He needed to be taken down a peg.”
As they bicker, I help Waverly brush flour from her hair, my fingers lingering longer than necessary. “You’ve got some right here,” I murmur, tracing a line along her jaw.
“Thanks,” she whispers, and there’s a warmth in her eyes that makes my chest tight. “I really am sorry I got you.”
“But you wouldn’t be sorry if you got me?” Tristan is incredulous.
She beams at him. “Nope. Not even a little.”
Tristan feigns indignation as he moves beside us. “You two are terrible at being discreet,” he whispers, but there’s no accusation in his tone. “And you. I will punish you later until you’re begging me to stop.”
“Promise?” she retorts, and my cock pulses in my pants.
“Tristan, do you remember when you were seven and decided to bake cookies for Santa all by yourself?”
“Mom,” Tristan groans. “Must you?”
“It’s my right as your mother, and I’m positive Waverly and Brax will want to hear this,” she says airily. “He used salt instead of sugar and was so upset when he found them in the trash.”
“You could have hidden it better. I thought Santa hated them.”
“He did.” His mother cackles. “Your father took one bite and nearly threw up.”
Waverly and I burst out laughing. “You mean perfect Tristan used the wrong ingredient?”
He throws me a look. “Now you know why I delegate things I’m not good at.”
“Poor Tristan cried and thought Santa hated him,” I tease.
“I was seven!” Tristan protests.
“I bet you were so cute.” Waverly climbs up onto her tiptoes and places a light kiss on his lips, ever the sweet and doting girlfriend. I turn away and finish up decorating the cookies. She might be his here, but later, she’ll be both of ours. I just have to remember that.