Haute Couture

by Joslyn Westbrook

  Arabella frowns. “Work? Oh hun, surely there is more to life than just getting buried in and under your work.”

  “Not my life. Anyhow, I need to focus on closing this deal with the folks in New York City. Then, I’ll go back to dating”—I pause and smile into the screen as I pat my hair into place—“maybe.”

  Arabella applies moisturizer to her face and says, “You’ll always have Truffles. Oh, and good luck today, hun. I hope it all works out. Shall we meet up again via FaceTime in eight hours?”

  “You bet. Nighty-night.”

  “Go kick some ass, honey,” she says before our call comes to an end.

  After taking one last look at my reflection in the mirror, I grab a small bottle of eye drops out of my makeup basket.

  You can’t step out with reddened eyes. There is no way anyone can ever know that you’ve been crying.

  Crying. Me. Lauren Blake—The Ice Princess?

  Yep. Crying. And not over Jean Clau…per se.

  Crying over the realization that I’ll probably grow old without anyone by my side.

  As if on cue, Truffles, the only reliable male in my life, jumps onto my lap. He’s an adorable rescue Yorkshire terrier I got when I first moved to Paris six years ago, small enough to fit in my purse. I usually take him everywhere with me, but today he’s stayin’ home.

  “Hey, darlin’. You behave while I’m out today. Jules will take you out later for a walk, as usual.” I rub the spot between Truffle’s ears and his back leg flops uncontrollably.

  Lifting Truffles off my lap, I let out a chuckle as his rough tongue lightly brushes my cheek. “Here you go,” I say, placing him down onto his pillow-top bed, “Mama has to run, now. My car should be waiting for me.”

  By the time I make it down the elevator, Jules is waiting for me, his smile eagerly greeting me. He’s been the doorman here at Chateau De Grenelle since I moved to Paris. Over the years, the two of us have grown rather close. And since Jules, at age twenty-eight, is only two years younger than I am, he’s just about as close as I’ll ever get to having the little brother I never had.

  “Bonjour, LB”—his eyes gravitate to the stack of sketches I’ve got in my hand—“are those for that big meeting you have today?” he asks, his Parisian accent still as strong as it was the first day we met.

  “Yep, and I hope it goes well since I’ve lost perfectly good beauty sleep over this project.”

  “Bonne chance. I do hope it goes well. And, I’m quite certain you can lighten your workload if you just ask for help every now and then.” He pauses as he walks briskly alongside me while I make my way to the front double doors. “Oh, and I am very sorry about the flowers. I saw them being delivered this morning. I know how much you—”

  “That’s quite alright, Jules. I’ve got bigger fish to fry now. Can you walk Truffles for me later?”

  Jules nods, “Of course I can.” He stops me before I push the double doors open. “Uh, your car is not quite here yet. But it should be pulling up soon. You’ve got a brand new driver today, remember?”

  Crap. I forgot all about the new driver thing. Apparently Peter, the driver I’ve had for the last six years, has decided to take a break. I just hope the new driver measures up. He’s got pretty big shoes to fill.

  “Well, he’s already late. Not a good sign,” I say, tapping my new shoe against the marble floor as I peer out the glass door. I take my cell phone out of my purse to glance at the time.

  “He’s not late yet. And”—Jules flashes that cynical side-eye that silently warns sarcasm alert—“you can always catch an Uber. Or better still, take your own car out for a spin.” He rubs his hands together, his lips parting in a sinister grin.

  Jules has been kidding me for months about driving my own car. But I’ll never get behind the wheel of my car again.

  Ever.

  Not unless there is some type of an emergency.

  Like an apocalypse.

  Chapter 3

  Jaxson

  “Now you’re sure I look okay in this outfit, Nana?” I ask, checking out my reflection in the mirror before I head out the door.

  Brimmed hat. White button-down. Suit jacket. Creased slacks.

  The image staring back in the mirror exposes the new me: Jaxson Malone, the chauffeur.

  The driver.

  A butler on wheels.

  It’s been a little over two months since I arrived in Paris, a mere broken-hearted fool. Since then, I’ve immersed myself in the throes of Gramps’s limousine business, preparing for this day—the day he passes the torch to me. You see, Gramps has decided to take a break from the business. He and Nana want to head to the villa they bought in the South of France. Nana has her heart set on opening up an art gallery near the villa and Gramps doesn’t want her there alone. The original plan was to sell the business, but Gramps said he’d much rather it stay in the family. So, Gramps took me under his wing, teaching me the little intricacies about his limo service. I’ve shadowed Gramps, allowing myself to absorb all I can about the business, been out with other drivers learning routes and the beautiful streets of Paris, getting to know a few clients, and most of all…grasping the concept of being subservient, since part of my duties will be driving a client around. Subservience is a totally new concept for me. In my previous life, I was used to being served. I was the one being driven around. The one who had places to go and people to see.

  Kind of, anyway.

  I must say, I’ve done an excellent job fleeing my old life and honestly I don’t even know who I am anymore.

  An amused expression quirks up the side of Nana’s mouth as she studies me. “Yeah”—she nods—“I think that just about does it. You look perfect. No one will ever recognize you are the Jaxson Malone.”

  “Wonderful. Because the last thing I want is for anyone to know who I really am.”

  The loser who got dumped.

  Other than my parents, Gramps and Nana, and my agent, no one else knows I’m in Paris now. It’s been refreshing not having to work hard at evading the media. Fortunately, Date Me, Then Marry Me isn’t too popular here. Unlike Dancing With The Stars.

  Gramps nods, looking me up and down through his eyeglasses. “I agree with Nana. And you better get going.” He looks down at his watch. “You’re already late, young man.”

  “Yeah, the last thing we need is for you to start your first day on the wrong foot with Ms. Blake by means of a late arrival. She is kind of…special, you know,” Nana says, her hand pressed to her mouth as if she were trying to stifle a giggle.

  “What do you mean by special?”

  Rising up from the couch, Gramps presses his hand against his lower back while he slowly hobbles over to me, his forehead slightly creased. “Now don’t you pay Nana no mind.” He looks up at me while he adjusts my tie. “By special, Nana means Lauren Blake is my top client. I trust no other driver to her than you.” He steps back to stand next to Nana and tilts his head to the side before he adds, “But, one piece of advice I can offer about Lauren is don’t do or say anything to piss her off. She tends to be a bit of an Ice Princess.”

  Don’t piss her off? Ice Princess? Well, at least she’s not a heartbreaking Southern Belle.

  “With all due respect, Gramps, if she’s Chic Limo’s top client, why the hell are you allowing me to drive her around, alone? Shouldn’t you be there with me today, to transition?”

  Gramps gives a whisk of a smile as he shakes his head. “I was planning to transition with you today, but Nana and I have an appointment with a realtor about a space for the gallery. You’ll be fine without me. You’ve had enough practice now and, so far”—he clears his throat—“there have been no hiccups. Besides, like I mentioned, I trust no other driver with Lauren other than you.” Gramps takes hold of Nana’s hand, bringing it up to his mouth before he kisses it. “Look, Jaxson, truth is, Nana and I are eager to move on to the next chapter in our life, which doesn’t include the limo business. I think you’re a perfect fit for this—have fe
lt that way for quite some time, honestly. You being here has lifted weight off my shoulders. And while I don’t need the limo business in my life, I don't want to just throw it away. Like I said when you first got here, the business is yours if you want it. Just think of today as a trial run.”

  It was the first thing he mentioned to me when I arrived here from NYC. The business is yours if you want it. My dad agreed, saying this change would be good for me. I’m not at all too sure I agree. Yet, I don’t want to disappoint the grandparents and the gig isn’t too bad. My only concern is the competition. Chic Limos has lost a great deal of business to Uber. At the same time, a low client list helps keep staffing requirements low, especially if I do some of the driving for the elite clients like Gramps did. He drove exclusively for Lauren.

  “Well, I promise to do my best not to piss her off.”

  Gramps tosses me the keys to the town car. “Then go. Now. You don’t want to be late. Call me if anything comes up. And good luck.”

  The streets of Paris are already splattered with tourists, professionals, and lovers hovering around the once-famed Love Lock Bridge. Nana said she and Gramps had a lock there that symbolized their promise of lifetime love. They hooked the lock to the fence when they met in France and fell in love over forty years ago. Both studying art abroad, not only did they fall head over heels for each other, they fell hard for Paris. So much so, each wove pieces of Paris in the lives they started together when they got married after college. Nana began writing romance novels set in the capital of love and romance. The novels were published right away, and her popular series Woo Me In Paris sold millions of copies in the US and Europe. Gramps wove pieces of Paris in his successful import / export business of fine French wine and cheese.

  When my mom left for college, Gramps and Nana sold the house, cars, and the import / export business, then moved to Paris. I can tell they love it here; it’s home sweet home to them. Nana said she was heartbroken when they learned the Love Lock Bridge fence would be taken down two years ago. So Gramps went out, bought chain-link fence material, and made a replica of the famous fence with only one lock on it—theirs. He gave it to her for their anniversary and apparently she cried a pool of elated tears for a good fifteen minutes.

  Yeah, I too would totally be that guy.

  If I had a wife to love as much as Gramps loves Nana.

  The town car GPS commands an authoritative Turn left, and then one mile ahead, your destination will be on the right, pulling me back to now.

  Dutifully following directions, I turn left, trailing along, and spot the large gray and white building, Chateau De Grenelle, ahead. The place alone is an intimidating five grandiose stories of unmistakable wealth. The type of residence that sits on New York’s Park Avenue.

  Suitable for an Ice Princess.

  As I slow down to pull the car to a stop alongside the curb, in front of the building, I hear a crunch as the car tires roll over…something.

  And to the right of me, a halting screech of a woman emphatically shouting, “Oh no please, not my phone!”

  Chapter 4

  Lauren

  Thank God I’ve got a nice ass.

  Sweetie, make sure you always wear clean panties in case of an emergency, is what Mama used to say.

  Honestly, that’s probably the last thing I should be thinking about right now.

  Only I can’t help it.

  Clearly, her advice should have been, Don’t wear an ass-baring thong, in case of an emergency.

  “Are you okay, LB?”

  Not really, I determine internally, but instead manage to mumble a swift “Mmmhmm” reply to Jules, who is, incidentally, pulling down the back half of my round skirt—an effort to cover my exposed tush.

  Wobbling with my hands and knees on the cobblestone sidewalk, in front of my apartment building, my eyes survey the pathetic scene before me.

  Sketches are strewn about. Feminine products, that were once inside the confines of my purse, are now displayed on the cement. And it looks as though my phone, that slid onto the street, may be wedged underneath the tire of the waiting town car.

  How I managed to tumble, is beyond me. One minute I was trekking, making my way to the curb so I could just hop in the town car when it pulled up. The next minute, I was down on all fours—and my skirt? Up. Bringing forth, a mighty exposé of my nice derrière.

  I could literally feel the breeze skid across my butt.

  How many passersby or—even worse—how many of my nosy, cell-phone-photo-taking, neighbors got an unrestricted view of my ass?

  Dang.

  Jules grabs hold of my arm to help me stand. “LB, you tripped on your high-heeled shoe; are you sure you’re alright?”

  I plaster on a wide smile, trying to downplay the pain of embarrassment. “I’m fine, Jules. I just need my sketches, my phone, and my tampons,” I whisper. Along with a moment of silence…for my freakin’ pride. “But, I doubt my phone survived being run over. Honestly, who runs over poor innocent cell phones?” I look down, brushing the scant amount of dirt off my knees.

  “I, uh, think this belongs to you,” the announcement flows out of an unfamiliar-sounding voice.

  Not British. Not at all French. But definitely not something I hear much of here in Paris.

  Instinctively, I spin around, eager to discover who’s behind the sultry New York accent. Could it belong to the hot new neighbor who moved in across from me a few weeks ago? I’ve been dying to see him because all of the women in the building are gushing over him, sayin’ he’s some sort of hottie.

  Shucks. What if he saw my ass?

  Yet, apparently the voice only belongs to my new driver.

  The one who ran over my phone.

  Great. Well, at least he’s easy on the eyes. Think Channing Tatum, only taller and embellished with a dimple-enhanced smile. At least from what I can tell. His brimmed hat and dark aviators shield most of his features. But he does have decadent-looking lips.

  Not that I’m interested.

  “Thanks,” I say, taking my cracked phone from his hand. “Although it won’t do me any good now, broken.”

  “Yeah, I’m really sorry about your phone. I didn’t exactly see it in the street,” he says, his tone tinged with sarcasm.

  I shrug, then serve up a congenial nod as I shove my broken phone into my purse. “I suppose.”

  “My name is Jax—uh I mean Jack…Jack Moloney, by the way.” He extends his hand out to shake mine and I notice a glimpse of a tattoo on his wrist. It makes me immediately think bad boy. “I’m your new driver.” His dark eyebrows are raised high enough to display what seems to be a brazen disposition.

  Wonderful. A tattoo-laced bad-boy driver. I need that just as much as I need that box of flowers I tossed into the waste bucket. Arabella would no doubt get a whopping kick out of this.

  Mr. Bad Boy driver opens the car door and motions for me to get in as Jules hands me my sketches along with the items that fell out of my purse.

  Heat rushes to my cheeks as I toss the tampons into my purse.

  “Now, you’re certain you’re alright, eh? You landed quite hard,” Jules asks as I hastily slide into the backseat of the car.

  “Yes, Jules, I’m sure.” I lean in close to him before saying, “Thanks for covering my ass,” in a hushed tone.

  He cocks his head to the side and says, “Of course, LB. Shall I put a call into André at your office to let him know you’ll be needing a new phone?”

  “Yes, that would be perfect, thanks.”

  Jules nods, closes the car door, and waves as the car speeds off.

  And I suddenly have this uncanny desire to hop into my own car and drive myself.

  Chapter 5

  Jaxson

  Wait.

  I must be dreaming…

  There is no way I ever expected to see her again.

  How can the universe be so big and so small at the same time?

  Not only is Lauren Blake the breathtaking woman I bumped into
at the airport, she’s also a fucking southern belle.

  I mean, the whole point of me fleeing my old life was to avoid all the southern belles.

  Well, alright, I came to Paris to avoid the media and Dixie Lane, but still.

  That damn accent is like—

  “Are you always gonna drive this painfully slow?”

  Kryptonite.

  “Yep, as a matter of fact, I am always gonna drive this slow. I really don’t want to risk running over another cell phone.”

  Through the rearview mirror, I see Lauren fold her arms as her lips twist in a mockery of a smile.

  The woman is obviously feisty.

  But man, is she fine.

  Golden-colored skin, stunning blue eyes, mink-colored hair that bounces when she walks and long legs that scream, hey sucker, look at me.

  Yep, I noticed all that shit within the first ten seconds at the airport. And solidified it within the first five seconds of seeing her today.

  “Well, if you drive this slow, you’ll have to pick me up an hour early every day. I can’t afford to be tardy. Especially not today.”

  Her eyes briefly meet my sunglass-shielded eyes in the rearview mirror, before she blinks and breaks contact to look out the tinted window.

  She hasn’t smiled once. Huh, maybe she is that Ice Princess.

  On the other hand, I guess I wouldn’t be all giddy if my phone got crushed.

  “I’m sure the more I get used to the roads here, the faster I’ll get you from point A to point B.”