Chapter 24 – Braxton
brAXTON
Iwake to the sound of Paris church bells, muffled by triple-paned windows and heavy drapes.
The winter light sneaks through a crack in the curtains, painting a thin golden line across the Egyptian cotton sheets.
My bed feels cold, empty, and alone. Not uncommon for this day, but a bitch of a reminder all the same.
We thought it would be best if Tristan and Waverly slept in his room since his mother had already woken them once this week. So for the last five nights, I’ve slept in here alone while he’s had her beside him.
I’m not gonna lie. My Christmas wish might have been to swap places with him. To be able to touch and kiss and smile at Waverly the way I want. To wake up with her in my arms and be able to sink inside of her. To see her sleepy, happy smile and wish her a Merry Christmas.
Tristan’s apartment smells of pine, cinnamon, and Waverly.
A scent I’m growing more accustomed to as the days progress.
It’s Christmas morning, and somewhere beyond these walls, the Seine flows past Notre Dame just as it has for centuries, indifferent to the bizarre love triangle that’s unfolding in this apartment above the city.
Is it even a triangle when both men have the same woman? I have to remember patience and persistence. But soon this could come to an end, and I don’t want it to, and I feel a little petulant.
I slip out of bed, the hardwood floor cold against my bare feet despite the undoubtedly state-of-the-art heating system.
The guest room has its own bathroom with heated marble tiles and a shower with so many jets and settings that the first time I used it, I nearly drowned.
This morning, I keep it simple—hot water, shampoo, and soap.
My reflection shows shadows under my eyes and the smile I can’t seem to scrub off.
Last night was... this week has been... everything.
I dress in what I hope passes for casual-but-festive in dark jeans and a cashmere sweater. The formal event comes tonight, but Christmas breakfast is usually easy and light.
In search of coffee, I head for the kitchen and nearly collide with Waverly coming out of Tristan’s room. Her hair is damp at the ends, her cheeks flushed pink from the shower. She’s wearing a cream-colored sweater dress that hugs her curves in a way that makes my mouth go dry.
“Morning,” she whispers, a smile playing at the corners of her lips. “Sleep well?”
“Not particularly,” I reply, and her smile slips.
She steps into me and wraps her arms around my neck so she can reach up on the balls of her feet and kiss me. “Merry Christmas.”
I sigh and sink into her. “Merry Christmas.” I nod toward Tristan’s closed door. “Is he up?”
“Getting dressed.” She leans in, her voice dropping. “You missed a good shower.”
I feel heat creep up my neck. “There’ll be others.”
Her hand cups my face. “I hope so,” she says, and it has a meaning that isn’t lost on me.
Waverly is one of those women who, no matter how well you think you know her, there’s always something out of reach.
She holds her mind and her heart close, and attempting to unravel them both feels like a secret gift only you get to unwrap.
But I also know she’s been holding back, and I get it. She doesn’t know what this is because we haven’t talked about it. Because I haven’t told her.
I lean in and kiss her. Not the same kiss she gave me before, but one with more urgency.
“I’m crazy about you,” I breathe into her and swallow as nerves hit me.
She pulls me closer and slides her tongue between my lips, one hand on my bristly cheek, the other over my pounding heart.
I’ve never told a woman I care for them, let alone am crazy about them.
I still can’t manage the three words that have been burning a hole in my brain for the last two years. Not yet, at least.
“I hope so,” she whispers, pulling back and meeting my eyes. “Because I’m crazy about you too.”
A lightness I’ve never known before hits my chest and spirals through me. It makes me brave.
“I want morning showers with you. Every morning.”
She rests her head against my chest and wraps her arms around my back. “I don’t know what’s happening. I don’t see how this lasts.”
“With you and me or the three of us?”
“Yes.”
“It can if we want it badly enough.”
“You’re my bosses.”
“I don’t care. I’m not losing you either way.” And I believe I’ve figured out a way so that’s not an issue.
Her chin presses in on my sternum, and she gazes up at me. “You mean that?”
I drag my fingers through her hair, brushing back the strands so I can see her pretty face. “I mean that.”
“What about him?”
“He’s the only person I’d ever share you with. And I’d like to continue to do that.”
“Do you think he’s going to move here? I know that’s what his family wants, and now that we have Smithfield, I also know it makes sense.”
“Honestly, Waverly, I think if it hadn’t been for you and me, he would have a long time ago.”
Her brows scrunch. “Me? What did I have to do with it?”
I smile. She still doesn’t see it. Sometimes I feel like I’m the only one who sees anything clearly without all the bullshit of unnecessary complications we mentally impose on ourselves. Our hearts see when our minds like to be blindfolded.
“He’s in love with you.” I swallow. Lick my lips. And utter, “Same as I am.”
Her jaw slips, and she straightens, staring right into my eyes.
Before she can say anything, Tristan’s door opens, and he steps out and spots us. “Ah, good morning.”
“Morning,” I drawl and glance over at him, and the moment I take him in, my lips twitch. “Nice sweater.”
“Waverly bought it for me.”
She bites her lip to hold in her smile and laugh.
“It’s… nice.”
It’s a bright green sweater with giant white snowflakes on it. It’s absolutely ridiculous on him.
“You think?” He glances down at himself, then back up at me, his face twisted and his lips pinched.
“It’s perfect.” I clear my throat and murmur down at her. “You made him wear that?”
A small giggle escapes. “I saw it in the airport in one of the shops when I was having my panic attack and bought it as a fuck you. I handed it to him this morning. It was a joke. I didn’t expect him to wear it. I don’t think he saw the back.”
“The back?”
“You ready to head up?” Tristan asks before she can answer.
“Yup. Ready.”
He walks toward the door, and I choke out a laugh. The back says Scrooge You.
“What’s wrong?”
I shake my head and hold up my hand as I clear my throat. “Nothing. Let’s go.”
I turn back to Waverly, who has tears in her eyes as she tries to hold in her laughter.
“If the most serious and fashion-forward man I know wearing that sweater doesn’t prove exactly what I just said to you, I don’t know what would.”
She rolls her eyes at me, but there’s no hiding the flush on her cheeks.
We head out the door, and the moment we get on the elevator, he takes her hand, and I hate this.
I want both of us to hold her hand. Both of us to sleep with her.
I know it hasn’t even been a week of this, but I feel like I’ve held myself back for so long that now that I have her, have us, it’s all I want, and I can’t hold myself back any longer.
Tristan’s mom greets us at the door with giant hugs.
We put most of our presents under the tree yesterday, but the Ouests go all out for Christmas Day, and tonight is their annual party.
It’ll be loaded up with rich husband-hunting single women, and to say I’m not looking forward to it is an understatement.
“Welcome, my darlings,” Francine exclaims. “Merry Christmas. I’m so happy to have my boys and Waverly here this morning.” She kisses each of our cheeks. “Are we thinking presents first and food later or food first and presents later—what in the world is on your back, Tristan?”
“What?”
He does a half-spin, his head twisted back over his shoulder as if he’ll be able to see what she’s talking about.
“Scrooge you?” Grand-mère questions as she walks toward us. “Interesting choice of sweaters, my boy.”
“What? Tristan stops dead in his tracks and rips the sweater over his head to read it.
Waverly turns a thousand shades of red. “It was meant to be a joke. I didn’t expect you to wear it!”
“You got me a sweater that says Scrooge You? And here I thought you simply had bad taste.”
She gnaws on her lip, but I can’t contain my laughter, and neither can his mom or grandmother.
“I am not a Scrooge,” Tristan protests adamantly, but his harsh veneer is cracking fast.
She shrugs. “Agree to disagree.”
“Oh, sweetheart, you’re going to get it for this.”
He reaches for her, and she squeals as if she’s going to make a run for it, but he’s faster, and he sweeps her up and brings her in for a kiss. His lips skirt past her lips, and he whispers something in her ear no one else can hear, but I can certainly guess at.
“You have to marry the girl before you get her pregnant,” Grand-mère quips dryly. “Remember that.”
“Grand-mère!” Tristan calls out, but she simply waves him away.
“Come on,” she says. “Let’s eat first. I’m starving.”
An hour later, we’re all nursing food comas as we lounge in the large living room.
The Parisian sunlight streams through tall windows, catching the ornaments on the twelve-foot spruce in golden halos.
I sit lazily on the plush sofa, a mug of coffee warming my palm as I watch Tristan’s father attempt to untangle a string of lights that somehow escaped the tree.
If I didn’t have a thousand pounds of eggs, ham, potatoes, and croissants in my stomach, I might consider getting up to help him.
“Alain, leave the lights,” Francine admonishes as she nibbles on the corner of one of the cookies we baked the other day. “Knowing you, you’ll topple the whole tree over before tonight, and I just had the floors polished.”
Alain makes a show of being wounded, his accent thick with the effort of his work as he says, “You wound me, my dove. I built an empire of hotels. I can handle a string of lights.”