De La Porte Fashion: The Complete Box Set

by Mj Fields

  I should be annoyed, but it truly feels good to be admired by him.

  “Did you change your mind about me coming back here?”

  “I’m holding your shoes hostage; do you really think I changed my mind?”

  My lips are still searing when the cab pulls up in front of the cottage where Autumn is waiting for me with my hat in her hand.

  She hurries to the door and jumps in. “Sorry about all the texts and sending the car without us. All the nosey nosepieces were in a hurry to get to the party. They all want to meet the new CEO. I’ll pay for the cab.”

  “Don’t be silly.”

  She hands me my large brimmed hat.

  “Thank you.”

  “I checked your email this morning. Still nothing from Burns, Cartwright, Fuller, Rosenbloom, or Lowell. What do you think that means?”

  “It means they haven’t heard a thing from Alfred, Jean’s attorney.”

  “Have you?”

  I look at her and roll my eyes slightly.

  She laughs. “Right, I would’ve seen the email.”

  “I’m sure we have nothing to worry about, Autumn. Let’s just try to enjoy the afternoon.”

  “And then go out and get schnockered tonight.” She laughs.

  When I don’t say anything, she nudges me, and I look at her.

  “Oh. My. God.” She laughs louder.

  “Shh …” I scold her, hoping the cab driver isn’t paying any attention.

  “Hungover my ass,” she whispers then laughs. “Bent over maybe, but—”

  “Autumn!” I scold, and then we both laugh.

  “I want to know every detail.”

  I shake my head. “I’ve never—”

  “Oh God, please don’t tell me Davis and you—”

  “I think I just threw up in my mouth.” I cringe then turn and look at her. “Are you insane?”

  “Well, I just thought maybe you were missing Natasha—”

  “You are insane. Totally and completely out of your mind.”

  “I apologize. All that headboard banging the other night may have had something to do with it. But enough about me. Tell me all about you!”

  I glance at the driver who is unquestionably eavesdropping and look back at her. She notices, too. But it doesn’t give her pause, the questions just coming out in whispers.

  “Thursday night?”

  I nod once.

  “Tall, dark, and handsome?”

  I nod again.

  “Hung?”

  I kick her foot and give her a look, one that says none of your business.

  “Did you exchange numbers?”

  I shake my head.

  “What!” is not a whisper. She corrects herself. “What?”

  This time, I answer, “No.”

  “That bad?”

  I glance at her and cock an eyebrow. She grins.

  “Well, how will you get in contact?”

  I look away.

  “Wait. What did you do Friday night?”

  I bite the corner of my lip because, honestly, I missed out on all the girl talk growing up, and as annoying as it was, when you had nothing to add to a conversation, it truly makes one giddy when you finally do.

  “You … You …”

  I look at her and scrunch up my face in an obnoxious smile.

  “Friday night, too?”

  “Yep,” I whisper.

  “But you didn’t exchange …” She pauses and gasps. “You spent the night together?”

  I nod.

  “Both nights?”

  I nod again.

  “And, when will you see him again?”

  Her excitement escalates mine.

  “When is this party over?”

  She claps her hands together and laughs. Then she throws her arms around me and hugs me. “I’m so proud of you.”

  Chapter Eight

  The party isn’t the same as it has been in previous years. Everyone is on edge, including the board members who surround me as soon as we walk out onto the expansive patio.

  Over the past several months, I have acted as a middle man to the board and Jean’s attorney, who doesn’t return their calls or emails.

  As I stand in the middle of them, the Board of Directors, who each make more money than I do with far less knowledge and far less stress, I wish I hadn’t come. I wish I had my red Louboutins on … No, scratch that. I wish they were hanging off the finger of my sexy beach bum wanna-be, who has more depth, care, kindness, and character than any of these men, who are probably twice his age, standing around me. I would be on my knees, and he would be looking at me the way he does, the way I have never experienced before.

  I smile as I should and answer what I can for the hundredth time in this past month alone. “I know that Jean requested a time of mourning and restructure be allotted. I know that he held seventy-one percent of the company’s shares. And I know his last will and testament has to be dealt with in France and the United States. There’s a lot to deal with, and being patient is—”

  “Angela, that’s bullshit and you know it,” Burns, the oldest of the members, snaps at me.

  “Daddy, come potato sack with me,” one of his children, Tonya I believe, pulls on his slacks.

  “Go find your mother,” he snaps at the little girl, and I wince. She looks unaffected, however.

  He looks back at me. “Come on; give us something, for fuck’s sake.”

  “Really, my God, we’ve waited long enough.” Fuller chews at his fat fingers.

  With my plastic office smile in place, I tell him, “It’s really not within my control.”

  “She’s full of shit,” Cartwright huffs at Lowell.

  “I’m sorry you feel that way. Please excuse me.” I don’t make eye contact. I simply turn and walk away.

  Autumn squeezes my hand. “We need drinks.”

  “We need two.”

  A waiter passing by stops and offers us champagne, and then we both walk away with a glass in each hand.

  I spot seating across the pool with no one around and nod toward it.

  Autumn looks over. “Hells yes.”

  As soon as our butts hit the cushions, she starts firing off questions.

  “What’s he look like?”

  “Tall, with dark, wavy hair. Very attractive.” I take a sip of my drink.

  “What’s he do?”

  I laugh. “I have no clue.”

  “What do you mean you have no clue?”

  “We’re just enjoying each other’s company, Autumn, honestly.”

  “Between the sheets, huh?” She wiggles her eyebrows.

  It’s not just between the sheets. It’s in his eyes, his words, his soft commands, his gentle touches, his care and actions in every situation I have witnessed. But I don’t tell her that.

  I nod. “Yeah.”

  “Yeah? That’s all I get?” she grumbles as she flops back against the cushioned lounge chair. “Another mystery man. I just can’t with you.”

  I take another drink and smile at her mock frustration. I know it will only last a few moments, and I know how to make it last even less than that.

  “So, tell me about the headboard banger.”

  I listen to the details about her amazing second night with the man from the bar. Then she tells me he called her today and she sent him to voicemail.

  “You just said it was the most amazing night of your life and you sent him to voicemail?” I shake my head.

  “He needs to work for it, Ang. I’m worth it.”

  I hold her hand. “I know you are, but has he even gotten the chance to yet?”

  She stares at me for a moment then covers her face. “Now the student is teaching the teacher.”

  “I spent two and a half days being schooled myself.”

  “I think you’re falling in love.” She claps her hands.

  “I think I’m being present.”

  All the fanfare of years past has lost its luster.

  It wasn’t
just that my plus one was an ocean away, or that her father and his other children seemed to be having the most fun out of everyone. It wasn’t that the board members with their newest wives and youngest children weren’t even enjoying what they thought would bring them happiness. The bright, shiny new toys they had left the women and children who they had been with for the ten years I had known them easily discarded like last year’s fashions.

  I longed for the time when the company was the number two fashion name in Paris and number ten in the United States. A time when meetings were daily and family time was precious. It hasn’t been about that for approximately four years.

  De la Porte was number one in both countries. Shareholders were happy, giving the board less to be concerned with. The wallets and waistlines of all the board members have grown, and their care and concern about the company has been replaced with contentment and the need to seek the fulfillment one gets from hard work and the rewards it delivers to seeking new challenges gone.

  That was when I began getting five o’clock phone calls from wives, and Jean explained to me that sometimes it was necessary for a man to feel like a man and that a cinq à sept was a harmless and loveless way to fulfill a desire.

  It wasn’t a life I would ever want, but I ended up falling prey to its appeal for four years. The difference in what I chose to do and what they did was honesty and the fact that it wouldn’t hurt anyone, not a single person in either of our lives.

  After convincing Autumn that game play was for children and neither she nor I had the luxury, like the women around us, that it was necessary to let any future relationship prospect know that we took our careers seriously and our free moments as serious, she sent her admirer, Eric, a text. He immediately replied, and then we decided to leave shortly thereafter.

  After dropping Autumn off at the cottage, I look at my phone. I decide to FaceTime Natasha and let her know she didn’t miss much.

  “So, you and Autumn both left?” The confusion is evident. We never left early before. In fact, we’ve always stayed that night in the guest house.

  “Yes, she met a guy and—”

  “I’m glad she did, Mom, truly, but what about you?” she interrupts.

  “You’re my daughter, and my dating life isn’t something—”

  “You’re turning red! Mom! You met someone.” She laughs. “That’s the only reason you’d be leaving. Tell me. And please, please, pleeeease tell me it was the man with the … dog.”

  I internally debate on whether or not to tell her.

  “Are you meeting him tonight?” she interrupts my internal dispute. When I try again to decide, she groans, “I’m an adult, Mom. Jeepers.”

  Her using the words adult and jeepers to drive home a point makes me laugh.

  “Oh, come on.” She laughs along with me.

  “Fine, yes, I’m meeting him tonight.”

  She drops her phone and claps. Maybe this is a bad idea, but she seems truly happy, which of course makes me happy.

  She props her phone up and lays on her bed, hands tucked beneath her chin, smiling like she did when she was a little girl and we prepared for her bedtime stories.

  “You met him on the beach?” She doesn’t allow me a chance to begin.

  “A couple nights ago, we ran into each other, so yes.”

  She looks perplexed. “But it seemed he didn’t recognize you.”

  I shrug. “He may not have then, but when we spoke, he remembered. It was dark.”

  “So, did he kiss you today on the beach?”

  My face immediately burns red at thinking about what transpired after she saw him.

  “He did!”

  I decide to answer, “Yes.”

  “Oh, my Lord, you got a fairy tale beach kiss from a hot guy. I’d be so jealous, but you deserve it, Mom. You really do.”

  “Thanks?”

  She sits up, crisscrosses her legs, and then adjusts the phone. “So, on a scale of Definitely Maybe when Ryan Reynolds and Isla Fisher, had their first Jane Eyre induced kiss, to Crazy, Stupid, Love when Emma Stone stormed into the bar and kissed the other Ryan, which was it? And leave out nothing.”

  “First, you need to reword.” I lift my nose in the air and pout.

  “Fine, Ryan Gosling, but he’s the wrong Ryan, Mom. Seriously, you should open your eyes.” She mimics my pout, but only for a second. “Which was it! Dish!”

  When Natasha was little, it was princesses and fairy tales that she most wanted me to read to her. As she got older, she was always drawn to kissing in television and movies. Since about the age of sixteen, we have shared a love of romantic comedies.

  “It was most like …” I pause and watch her grow more and more impatient.

  When she opens her beautiful, little mouth, about to scold me, I tell her, “Lady and the Tramp without the spaghetti.”

  We both laugh, and when I look up, the cab driver is looking at me in the mirror. I honestly don’t even care right now.

  Natasha continues to laugh. “You can do better than that.”

  “I thought it was sweet.” And that’s what I want for you, I think.

  “What are you two doing tonight?”

  “Dinner,” I lie.

  “Then make sure it ends with a Dear John Channing and Amanda kiss.”

  God yes, I think. Instead, I tell her, “That’s a little much for a first date, don’t you think?”

  “Just be present, Mom. If he’s a good man, then don’t put anything before him.”

  After everything she has lived through—the pain, the teasing, the heartache, and the divorce—my little girl is still as sweet and kind as I imagined she would be as she grew inside my belly.

  Before I get emotional, I tell her I love her and we say goodnight.

  I don’t have any idea when the last time I cried was. It’s something that just doesn’t happen with me. I am always planning what to do next. As a child, to survive. As a teen, to get out. As a wife, to not ask for help. As a mother, to make her strong enough and love her enough that she never had to feel the way I did.

  When the cab slows to a stop, I look up and see we are at a light. I allow myself to let go and cry in sadness for the past, and in joy for how far I have come from that girl I once was. For the cycle I broke that so many in the world fall victim to and can’t see the light of day. For the first time in my life, I feel a sense of pride for my accomplishments. Mine. And that feeling is liberating.

  Lost in my emotional emancipation, I don’t realize until the door opens that I’m at his place.

  “What the fuck happened to her!” he yells at the cab driver as he scoops me out of the car.

  “I’m fine.” I smile, even though the tears don’t let up. “I’m sincerely and one hundred percent fine. In fact, better than fine.”

  I link my hands behind his neck and kiss him.

  When his kiss isn’t what I have grown to expect, I bury my face in his chest. I consider feeling self-conscious, but that would be undermining what just transpired.

  When he sets me on the leather sofa and kneels beside it, wiping away tears that have slowed to a near stop, he takes my hands and looks deeply into my eyes.

  I watch the layers of chocolate brown soften. Fear is replaced with concern, and concern is replaced with relief.

  “Talk to me.”

  Talk. To. Me. God, this man is so much more than I’m used to, but I know without a doubt I deserve it.

  I smile as I lean forward, and he holds my hands to his mouth, rubbing his beautiful, full lips across them.

  “I had a moment of clarity. It was beautiful. I’m so sorry it caused you—”

  Releasing my hands, he takes my face, leans forward, and kisses me softly, then whispers, “Thank God.”

  “Thank. You,” I tell him. “Thank you.”

  I reach behind myself and unzip the dress as he pulls his shirt over his head. His lips only leave mine when the shirt needs to be tossed aside. Then he cups my chin, and together we stand.<
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  He grips the hem of my dress and pulls it up. I hold my arms up and step back as he removes it then tosses it aside.

  Once my panties and bra are off, he cups my breasts, pinches one nipple and bows his head to take the other into his mouth, looking up at me through his thick, long black lashes.

  I grip his rock-hard cock in my hands and stroke him, giving him pleasure as I take pleasure from him. Then I turn our bodies and gently push him onto the sofa and climb on top, straddling him.

  Reaching between us, I rub him against me as he kneads my breasts. When I sink down slowly onto him, his eyes hood, and his head falls back.

  “So wet,” he hisses

  “So hard,” I moan as I slide down his hard length of heated flesh, inch by glorious inch.

  “Fuck,” he growls as he grips my hips, and together we set a pace.

  Minutes, moments, immeasurable amounts of time pass before my orgasm hits harder than ever before. He pushes me back and pulls out of me at the same time, stroking his cock, his forehead pressed to mine.

  “This is yours, beauty. All. Fucking. Yours.”

  As much as I love kissing this man, I love watching him as he makes me come apart and watching as he comes apart … for me.

  When I feel his hot cum against my bare flesh, I feel his words deep inside me, and not just the parts he touched physically, but those further … deeper parts I have always deemed untouchable by anyone other than my child.

  My heart. My soul.

  In the shower, we wash each other, kiss, and caress each other as music plays in the background. It dawns on me that music is always quietly playing in the background. I recognize it. Round Here by Counting Crows.

  “You enjoy older music.”

  Kissing my neck as he trails a loofa up it, he chuckles. “Wine, cheese, women, and music—everything’s better with age.”

  I smile as his lips touch mine. “Can’t even imagine what you’ll be like in twenty, thirty, fifty years.”

  He narrows his eyes slightly as he replies, “God willing, a better man than I am now.”

  Out of the shower, he dries my body while I dry him. Then, wrapped in a towel, he walks me to the mirror above the counter where he grabs my brush and starts brushing my hair.