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In the kitchen, I set to work on the beef bourguignon. My mother will be arriving tomorrow on Christmas Eve, and I want to surprise her with it since we finally persuaded her to come out to the cabin this year. At first, mom had a healthy fear of egotistical male billionaires, so I don’t blame her for wanting to stay home. But after four years, she and Gus are as thick as thieves, and she wouldn’t dream of spending Christmas without him.
My life has changed so much since I left Paris for Montana. I’m in my thirties now. A wife. A mother. And a billionaire—not just because I married one.
My father’s passing hit me in indescribable ways. Undoubtedly, I made it through thanks to my husband. Having lost his own father, Gus understood the unspeakable pain—and he got me to the other side with patience and love.
I’m grateful for the two wonderful, honest years my father and I had together. There were no kale salads or conversations that left me feeling small and unworthy. Instead, there were countless tender moments with his granddaughters. Debates about potential deals with his son in law. Seeing his sons fall in love with brilliant women who challenge them. And deep, respectful conversations with his only daughter about her burgeoning career.
My father lived most of his life as a rich man, but his life was richest at the end. I miss him everyday.
He always loved my mother’s beef bourguignon.
I start by dicing up an onion. A cut down the middle, remove the top, peel the skin, lay it flat on the cut side, slice sideways, slice top to bottom, then chop. Celery stalk. Carrots.
Chop. Chop. Chop.
Olivia and Quinn join me in the kitchen. They’re both bad cooks but good company, and we relish these moments when we can freely talk shit about their partners—my brothers. And I love my brothers…but having sisters is a game changer.
Later, Gus drifts into the kitchen, having shed his sweater at some point in the heat of the Scrabble battle. He comes over to kiss my cheek before patting my stomach and winking before he gets himself a cup of coffee and heads back to the living room.
I hope he’s right.
The twins were a welcome surprise after the first year Gus and I were together. Apparently, when you let a man finish inside you about a thousand times over the course of a year, you have a high chance of being that one-percent of women for whom an IUD isn’t perfectly effective. I was terrified at first and just starting a career at a public relations firm—but thankfully, my recently-retired husband was thrilled to be a stay-at-home dad.
The wedding wasn’t a traditional billionaire shindig. Once we learned I was pregnant, Gus and I canceled all our plans, went to Vegas, and let an Elvis impersonator do the honors. Honestly, I think it was Gus’s dream wedding.
Once the twins turned one, Gus finally sold his memoir. After a massive bidding war, he eventually settled on a publishing house that would let him put off the book tour until after the new year. Brent made sure of it, naturally. Nonstop readings and talk show appearances fill Gus’s January calendar, and I’ve caught him practicing his talking points in the bathroom mirror so many times that my heart could burst. He’s so, so excited. And the title of the book, courtesy of yours truly: August: A Memoir.
Now that I’ve been promoted twice at my PR firm, I’m more comfortable working from home and trying for baby number three. Working a real job has been such a welcome change of pace. Now, instead of hawking shitty vodka around the world, I get to hawk shitty personalities—from the comfort of my home in Montana.
For a while, Peter was a staple at the cabin. Some days, Gus and I awoke and were surprised to find Peter asleep in his room (yes, we had a room for him). We usually kept a light on for him, just in case. These days? He’s busy. Monogamy will do that to a person—even the world’s most prolific player.
Davis visits us regularly. He keeps us up to date on his acquisitions (within the bounds of confidentiality, of course) and the adorable rivalry he and Olivia keep up while doing M&A at different companies. Apparently, spending ten-thousand dollars a week to fuck your summer intern can actually result in true love.
Kieran and Quinn visit us a lot less frequently, but that’s to be expected. After all, her father is planning another run for the presidency in a couple of years…and he wouldn’t dream of hitting the campaign trail without Kieran and Quinn, America’s favorite couple.
None of this is what I imagined for my life four years ago, but the unpredictability is what makes it perfect. Gus gives me everything. Confidence. Safety. …My own tabloid that I use to publish horrendous shit about my enemies.
In return, I’ve given him what he has always wanted. A house full of family. The sweetest daughters, who are obsessed with him. The assurance that I’m never going anywhere—unless he’s coming with me.
Today, like most days, is idyllic. Gus wins Scrabble, again, which makes Kieran look like he wants to flip the coffee table—which I would murder him over because Gus built that coffee table himself. We eat beef bourguignon. The girls are relatively cooperative at bath time. The grownups sit on the heated porch and drink wine, and talk about Davis and Olivia’s upcoming wedding.
And that night, my husband and I clean the kitchen alone while everyone is asleep. We package leftovers, rinse sippy cups, and sterilize highchair trays. He sings Elvis off-key (because singing is the only thing this man doesn’t do well) while doing dishes, and I check my email on my phone and absolutely eviscerate one of my colleagues who has the nerve to send me a house-on-fire email two days before Christmas, all because his dumb ass didn’t have a lawyer read a statement before he published it.
“I love that,” Gus murmurs.
I look up at him and find him watching me. “What?”
He raises his chin. “The face you make when you’re destroying someone. I love it.”
I scoff. “Do you?”
Gus turns off the faucet. “It’s the first face you made when you looked at me—well, the first after the look of total shock and awe over how insanely handsome I am.”
“You are such a cocky bastard,” I tease gently, rolling my eyes.
He grins and approaches me. “Do you blame me? I mean, look at my fucking wife. Of course I’m cocky.” He kisses my lips. “She’s the most beautiful woman in the world, and she takes a cock so, so well. She begs me for it sometimes, even when she’s playing house like this.”
My stomach flips. We’ve spent four years together and he still knows how to push my buttons like nobody else. My hands go around his big, hard body, holding him close to me.
