De La Porte Fashion: The Complete Box Set

by Mj Fields

“Because my mom watched you when you were little.”

  He narrows his eyes.

  “Because we’re friends.”

  “Not just friends, Stella. You’ve been my best friend since we were kids.”

  “Me and Elijah.”

  He arches a brow and looks down. “Speaking of, where is that boyfriend of yours?”

  When I hesitate to answer, he looks up, rolling his baby blues.

  “He should be here with you. You know, since he’s your boyfriend.”

  “I wanted some time here by myself,” I lie … kind of. “And he’s coming in this weekend.”

  He chuckles silently.

  “What?” I take another drink.

  “As long as the two of you were apart, you should be tangled between the sheets for a solid week together before either one of you even thinks about letting the other out of your sight.”

  “It’s not just about sex, you know.”

  He sucks his lips in and looks down, suppressing a smile.

  “We aren’t two horny teenagers. We’re adults now, Aaron. Our relationship is more mature than that.”

  “Well, hell.” He laughs. “I never want a mature relationship then.”

  “Which is why you’re single,” I smirk then take another drink.

  “You think?” He laughs.

  “What other reason would there be?”

  “I have no desire to settle for something that isn’t what I picture as perfect.”

  “There’s no such thing as perfect. I mean, couples fight, disagree—”

  “That’s why God invented make-up sex.”

  I laugh.

  “So, why is it you’re here?”

  “Just in the neighborhood and thought I’d swing by.”

  I quirk an eyebrow at him.

  “Fine, you got me. I was in a neighborhood and decided to swing by to check on the place. I saw a light on and sent Bruno a text. He told me to check it out, so I did.”

  I drink down the last of the beer in the bottle then slide off the counter. Walking to the fridge to grab another, I open the door, but he puts his foot out, stopping me.

  “You’re going to get shit-faced and puke.” He slides off the counter and takes my empty as he finishes his. Then he sets them both in the sink. “Let’s go grab something to eat.”

  “Sounds good.”

  I follow him outside and see the Jag. “This is kind of a badass ride, Esposito.”

  He opens the passenger door, and I slide in. “Thanks.”

  After he walks around to the driver’s side and gets in, I ask, “You gonna let me drive this?”

  He puts the key in the ignition and laughs. “Can you drive a stick?” The way he says it is definitely in a sultry tone.

  “You have a way of making even the most innocent term sound sexual.”

  He slides the shifter into reverse. “Some of us were just born with the ability.”

  I laugh and point to myself. “And some of us just weren’t.”

  On the road, he puts the car into first and punches the accelerator. “Now I’m calling bullshit.”

  I pull my seat belt on as he shifts into second. “Easy, tiger. It’s thirty through here.”

  “Point proven.”

  “What?” I laugh.

  “You just sounded like a sex goddess.”

  “I didn’t even say anything.”

  “Easy, tiger,” he nearly growls as he comes to an abrupt stop at the changing light. He looks over at me. “Almost made me hard.”

  Laughing, I smack his chest.

  “Now I am hard.”

  When he pulls in front of the Craft House and kills the engine, I exclaim, “You’re kidding, right?”

  “We love this place. You got shit-faced here for the first time.”

  “That I did. With you and Dad.”

  “I apologize. I thought it was a good memory.”

  “It was the best memory.” I smile. “Until I woke up in my bed and had no idea how the hell I got there.”

  He smirks and restarts the car. “So, where to?”

  “Back to the house, park the car, and walk the five minutes it takes to get here.”

  He laughs. “Yeah?”

  “Hell yeah. We don’t have a get-out-of-jail-free card anymore, so we have to walk.”

  “One of the things I love about you, Lala—always thinking.” With that, he hits the accelerator, making the tires squeal and me laugh.

  Sitting at the bar, I look at the several different appetizers Aaron ordered. Mac and cheese bites, wings, pulled-pork egg rolls, and a heaping plate of nachos.

  I take a sip of the drink he ordered for me.

  “Good?”

  “Reminds me of summer and sunsets.”

  He takes the glass and takes a drink. “Sparkling dry cider, Lala. Tastes like apples to me.” He sets it down in front of me. “Only you would see it in living color.”

  I lift my glass. “Makes the world a better place.”

  As I take a sip, he watches me. That something that has changed, it’s back, and it, too, is in living color. Sparkling blue.

  As I set the glass down, he narrows his eyes.

  “What?”

  He reaches over and wipes the top of my lip with the pad of his thumb, and then he brings his thumb to his mouth and sucks it.

  Something, a very unwanted something, a buried in my middle school days something, threatens to rear its ugly head. Threatens to make this a very uncomfortable situation.

  Aaron Esposito is hot. So … so hot. And with age, his hotness has only increased.

  He winks as he pulls his thumb from his mouth. “I see it now.”

  “See what?” My voice squeaks, causing his eyes to flare.

  I’ve only had, like, three drinks, but can eyes flare?

  “The color, Stella. But I think I’d rather you tell me what it was you thought I was referring to.” His eyes roam down my body, stalling at my tits, then back to my eyes.

  Changing the direction this conversation could go in, I clear my throat and set about doing just that. “We’ve talked about my relationship status.”

  “Mature and in desperate need of a little passion,” he interrupts. “Did I get that right?”

  I smack him and laugh. “Then yours is, notorious fuck boy who played with too many Barbie dolls as a child so that his sense of reality was skewed, and he never stopped.”

  “Oh yeah?” He laughs.

  “Definitely yeah. You’ve never had a girlfriend who didn’t look like she stepped out of a pink Mattel box.”

  He chuckles. “I’m going to place the blame on you.”

  “Me?” I feign innocence.

  “Most definitely.” He winks then turns toward the bartender. “Two shots of Jameson.”

  “Make that one,” I call to her back as she begins to walk away.

  She turns around and looks at me then at him.

  “Make it four.”

  “You do know you’ll be carrying me home if that happens, right?”

  He smirks as he looks at the perfect Barbie pouring four shots in front of us and pushes his black card toward her. “Just leave the bottle.”

  “Did you not hear me?”

  “I heard you.” He takes two of the shots, turns on the stool, and then hands me one. “Wouldn’t be the first time I carried you home.”

  I roll my eyes. “As if.”

  He raises his shot. “To my partner in crime, full of beauty and wit—”

  My pocket vibrates. I hold up a finger, pull the phone out of my pocket, and see Elijah and me on my screen

  “May we ignore that last text so this night doesn’t turn to shit?”

  I laugh.

  He pulls the phone out of my hand.

  “Hey, I—”

  “Cheers, Stella.”

  I clink my shot glass to his and smile. “Cheers.”

  As we stand at the door to exit the bar, Aaron holds up a final shot.

  I wave to the ne
w friends we made tonight.

  The bar quiets, and then he begins, “Here’s to you! And here’s to me! And here’s to the snapchats no one else will ever see.”

  The bar erupts in laughter, and we’re out.

  “I’m not feeling too well,” I grumble as he tightens his arms on the outside of my thighs and grips my ankles tighter.

  “I told you after three shots you needed to slow down.” Aaron laughs.

  “I did slow down,” I whine.

  “You slowed down all right because you emptied the bottle into shot glasses for every person in the bar.”

  “I blame your superior toasting ability.” I rest my head on his shoulder. “You’d make a great best man. When I get married, would it be weird if I had a best man and a matron of honor?”

  “The man you marry wouldn’t expect anything but untraditional, Lala.”

  “I’m a traditional girl.” I reach down and pinch him.

  He laughs. “In all the right ways, sure. But it’s all those other things that make you so unique that are endearing.”

  “Endearing?”

  “Wife material.”

  “Wife material?”

  “Your heart, the way you look at the world—all endearing. Your hot little bod and your beautiful face, you’re everything a man would want in a wife.”

  I think of all the messages I have ignored all night.

  “I’m gonna make a horrible wife.”

  “You couldn’t be horrible at anything, even if you tried.”

  My stomach lurches, and I scramble to pull away.

  “Easy, tiger.”

  “Gonna get sick.”

  Bending over the bushes, I hurl.

  I hear him laughing as he pulls my hair back. “I was wrong.”

  “What?”

  “You’re a horrible drunk.”

  Chapter Nine

  Stella

  Present Day

  When I awake, my head is pounding from the hangover that I deserve. Yet the absence of the stomachache is a pleasant surprise.

  I inhale the smell of this house. It’s gentle and comforting. I chalk the missing ache up to that.

  Stretching, I roll over and see a bottle of water and two Motrin beside my childhood bed on the empty upside-down moving box.

  Aaron.

  I reach over and grab the pills, pop them in my mouth, and then grab the bottle of water. After washing them down, I roll over to my side, tug the soft comforter up to my neck, and then pull the pillow beside me up to my nose, inhaling the gentle comfort of a house I loved yet know I can’t make my home.

  I inhale one last time and suddenly realize this scent is mixed with another, a rather familiar, earthy one.

  “Shit.” I sit up and get out of bed.

  Did he sleep here, in this house … in this bed?

  Oh my God, why am I freaking out? It’s Aaron.

  Oh my God, you’re freaking out because Elijah will have a fit.

  Elijah.

  I sigh as I sweep my eyes around the room for my phone.

  I jump on the bed, step across it, and then jump off as I reach down and grab it.

  It’s eight fifty in the morning.

  Shit.

  I tap out a good-luck-with-your-meeting message then quickly hit send.

  Then I scroll through the dozen messages I sent him, none of which I remember.

  At. All.

  Elijah: Still at the office but wanted you to know I do think about you.

  Me: Of course you do. I’m unforgettable.

  What the hell?!

  Elijah: Someone must be feeling better. Cramps gone?

  Oh my God.

  Me: Still gushing.

  I’m going to kill Aaron.

  Elijah: Have a good night then. Sleep well.

  The next was the text I just sent.

  I watch bubbles dance across the screen, and then they stop.

  I wait for something more, but nothing comes.

  Nothing.

  I walk out of my room and down two doors to the bathroom. It’s stark white. It was blue last night.

  Aaron, I think as a smile creeps up my face. But then, of course, Elijah pops into my head, and I feel horrible.

  I look at my phone one last time to see if he messaged again.

  He hasn’t.

  After a shower, I walk back into my room and find my suitcase in the corner. I unzip it and grab the travel pouch labeled “unmentionables.”

  When I open it, I realize that pretty, lacy panties and periods don’t seem to go together, and apparently, “I’m gushing” …

  Gross.

  I wonder what Elijah thought about that statement.

  Half of me could laugh; the other half cry. I choose to stay somewhere in the middle, at a place called contentment.

  I pull on a deep red matching set of fancy panties and a sultry bra, then covered them up with an oversized tee and cut off jean shorts. Perfect clothes for painting.

  When I walk back past the bathroom, I stop and admire what Aaron did for Bruno and me. Then I pull my phone out of my back pocket and snap a picture.

  When I walk down the stairs, I see a note, and next to it is a brown paper bag.

  Even though I really want to dive into the bag, I read the note first.

  Stella,

  I had a few things to take care of, but I’ll be back later this afternoon if you need me.

  Hell, even if you don’t.

  I’ll bring dinner and help you paint. Last night, you mentioned needing to just rip the Band-Aid off. Get some rest today. We’re painting the downstairs tonight.

  AE (why?) because IOU

  I can’t help smiling, remembering how Mom taught Elijah how to remember his vowels.

  Aaron, Elijah, Izzy, Owen, and…U happened to not exist in our little home daycare, so I became U.

  When I open the bag, I see two boxes of tea. I want to smile. When I pull them out and inspect the boxes, I want to cry.

  Ceylon and Darjeeling.

  Before I even brew a cup, I snap a picture then scroll through my contacts until I find Aaron’s.

  I send him the picture of the tea, and the one of the bathroom then text him

  Me: Thank you. Now IO … U.

  I get an immediate reply.

  Aaron: Pay me in scraps of lace and Jameson.

  I laugh as I type out my message.

  Me: What?!

  Aaron: Which part confused you, Lala?

  Me: Scraps of lace???

  Aaron: Sexy panties, top right corner of the pic.

  Me: Seriously?!? FRIEND.

  Aaron: I did nothing wrong, friend. Hell, I didn’t even ask for your round, little ass in them, Lala.

  I feel my face burn just reading his message. I don’t know how to even reply to that. It’s … very spicy. Dare I say hot?

  Get your shit together, Stella. This is Aaron, I scold myself.

  Apparently, I’m taking too long to get myself together, because he messages me again before I can respond.

  Aaron: And he takes her breath away without even a touch.

  Oh my God, I think as I type.

  Me: Yeah, you’re a true poet, Mr. Romance.

  Aaron: I’m going to take that as a compliment and say thank you.

  Me: Take it as you must, but leave it at the door when you get here.

  Aaron: Whatever you want, Stella McCarty. Your wish is my command.

  Me: Grab a shovel.

  Aaron: For?

  Me: The shit’s getting deep in here. Also, a leather strap.

  Aaron: Now that’s what I’m talking about!

  Me: To beat your ass with. HOW DARE YOU TEXT ELIJAH … that.

  Aaron: You were passed out. I was doing you a solid.

  Me: Well then, thank you?

  Aaron: I’ll always have your back, Lala.

  Me: And I appreciate that. But keep your paws off my phone. That was gross.

  Aaron: Part of life, Lala. See you tonight.
r />   When my phone rings, I don’t even look at it, assuming it’s Aaron.

  I half laugh out, “Hello.”

  “Good morning, honey. How’s it going in the city?”

  “Oh, hey, Mom.”

  “You sound disappointed.”

  “No, not at all. I should have called when I got in.”

  “You sent a text; I appreciate that.”

  “No, really, I should have called.” I sigh as I walk to the cupboard and find three teacups still inside. I grab one.

  “We’ll get back there again. It’s been a rough few years.”

  “Decade.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  When my mother left my father for her therapist, I was so angry that I didn’t speak to her unless Dad made me. And because he was angry, he didn’t push it too hard. And Bruno, well, he followed suit.

  When Dad was dying, he explained that he had broken promise after promise to her regarding leaving the police force. He accepted responsibility for his part in the marriage breaking down, telling us he would never truly get over her.

  He asked me to forgive her, and down deep, I always wanted to, but the anger … the pain was ever present. I’m sure I focused on that much more when he was ill. It’s so easy to do that, to project, to blame, to focus on something you can control, rather than focus on something you can’t.

  Dad told me once, “You never know how much time you have left on this earth, Stella, or how much time she does. She loves you, kid. Let her.”

  So, I did easily. And again, Bruno followed my lead.

  It wasn’t until after Dad died that she admitted she had pretty severe PTSD from 9/11 and, knowing Dad’s job constantly put him in danger, heightened her anxiety. She admitted she had pretty dark thoughts toward the end of their marriage, and that he hadn’t taken them seriously. She had needed someone to lean on, so she had leaned on James.

  She believes Dad had a form of PTSD after the attacks as well, but he threw himself into danger instead of running from it. And in order to save herself, she had to do what she had to do.

  Regardless, they fell apart, and when she walked out, I felt like she abandoned us.

  Anger is an easier emotion to deal with than emotional hurt.

  The microwave beeps, startling me, a gasp of air leaving my lungs.

  “You there?”

  “Yeah, Mom, I’m here.”

  “Bruno said you’re at the house?”