No response from Icy Hot Princess as she holds a steady gaze out the window.
“So, what is it you do for a living?”
She jerks her head from the window to glare at me through the rearview mirror. “Don’t you think you should get to know your clients prior to them getting into the car?” she asks, before shifting her gaze back out the window.
“What’s so, uh, important about today?” I ask, ignoring her retort.
Her eyes narrow to crinkled slits as our gazes, once again, have a rendezvous in the mirror. “Are you always this talkative?”
“Do you always answer a question with another question?” I snap back, unwilling to be taken down.
Blue eyes skewer mine with an unflinching look. Then, she once again turns to look out the window.
For the next five minutes, the only verbal sounds consuming the car are the directions from the GPS. Turn right on Parisian Parkway.
Then finally, Icy Hot Princess speaks. “I have a Skype meeting today with a New York City publisher. That’s what is so important about today.” She drums her fingernails along the center armrest.
“Are you nervous?”
She hesitates for a minute, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear, then says, “Not yet. But I’m sure I will be about three minutes before the call.” A smile plays on the edges of her full lips, making her look even more like perfection.
“I’m sure you’ll ace it.”
She gives a half-shrug. “So, how long have you been in Paris?”
Now, who’s the one being so talkative?
“Just a couple of months,” I admit, hoping she doesn’t recognize me from that day at the airport. Plus, I really don’t want anyone to know it’s me—Jaxson Malone, the actor and model.
“And why did you leave—”
“New York?” I interject. “I thought a change of scenery was in order.”
“Well, Paris is a lovely change of scenery. I moved here years ago from Savannah, Georgia and doubt that I’ll ever go back.” She tilts her head and adds, “You look slightly familiar. Have we met before?”
Shit.
“Um, no. But I get that a lot, you know. I must have one of those faces that makes people assume they’ve seen me before,” I outright lie.
“Hmm. I see.”
The GPS says arrived as I roll the car to a stop in front of Haute Couture Headquarters.
And before stepping out the the car, she tosses her hair, lifts her chin like a Haute Diva, and says, “Please pick me up on time this evening. I don’t like waiting.”
Yep. Icy Hot Princess suits her rather fine.
Chapter 6
Lauren
“Please tell me you’ve been able to order a new phone for me?” I wiggle out of my sweater and toss it, along with my purse and sketches, onto my desk before I plummet into my tufted upholstered swivel chair.
André, my personal assistant, lifts my sweater off my desk and carefully hangs it on the hook behind my office door. He looks at me through his gold-rimmed designer eyeglasses and serves me his famous half-curved smile. “Yes, of course I did. It’ll be here in an hour. I asked them to put a rush on it.” His bushy eyebrows snap together. “Is everything alright? Jules told me about the incident this morning.”
André is a doll. He came to Paris from San Francisco, originally as an intern three years ago. Then, he met and fell in love with his now partner, Jacques, a chef de cuisine, who runs Café Couture downstairs. Naturally he decided to stay in Paris, and has been my amazing personal assistant ever since.
“Yep, but between my embarrassing fall, the massacre of my precious phone, the crappy flowers, and getting an annoying new driver, it’s been one hell of a morning.”
André dishes a critical eye as he spills into one of the chairs facing my desk. “Crappy Flowers? An annoying new driver? Oh, sweetheart, why do I feel like you can use one of Jacques’ signature Iced Lucky Unicorn Lattes right now?”
I chuckle at his suggestion. “Because I probably can use an Iced Lucky Unicorn Latte. A large one. Would you mind going down to the café to grab one for me?”
“Not at all, miss thang. Oh, and Emily from La Boutique Publications called in this morning, confirming your Skype meeting at 10 a.m. sharp.
I nod in acknowledgement, opening a file on my computer. “Wonderful. Have you been able to reach Daniella Belle, confirming her start date, this week?”
“Yes, ma’am. And it’s Michaels.”
I fling my eyes from the computer screen to André. “I’m sorry?”
“It’s Daniella Michaels now, not Belle, remember? She snagged the hot-as-all-hell Antonio Michaels three weeks ago? She’s a giddy newlywed.”
“Oh, yes. She and Antonio did indeed tie the knot. Right here in France too. Are they all settled in their new place?”
André bops his head up and down. “I’ll say they are. They purchased a spectacular villa featured in Château de Réve Magazine. You should really watch TMZ, boss. Daniella and Antonio recently gave them an exclusive interview and photos of their private wedding. I admit, I’m a bit of a fanboy when it comes to those two.” He lifts a sheet of paper off my desk and uses it to fan his face. “I can’t wait to meet Daniella in person. And I know I’ll pass out if Antonio ever shows his face around here. But don’t you dare tell Jacques I said that.”
I hold back a giggle. “You know I can’t be bothered with anything on TV. I don’t have time for that fluff, especially TMZ. I’d really hate to see what they say about me. And I’m glad Daniella and Antonio are getting settled nicely. Be sure to tell her, if she needs anything just to let me know. I think Daniella will fit in with us perfectly.”
I first met Daniella Belle when she was attending design school in Los Angeles, CA. She was assigned to me as an intern during my first Fashion Week in New York City and helped coordinate backstage set design and accessories for the show. She did amazing work and I knew she would be graduating at the top of her class. Apparently, she went to work for the handsome CraveMe lingerie CEO, Antonio Michaels, earlier this year and, somehow, the two fell in love during a Fashion Week event in Milan. Glimpses into their love story were captured by TMZ, including their first encounter on the Los Angeles Metro and an incident that lead to a brief breakup period, that caused Daniella to apply for a job with me. I readily scooped her up, knowing she would be an excellent addition to my team. And when the two got back together, they both gladly packed up and moved here to France before having a small private wedding ceremony in Monaco. I heard they’ve been spending their honeymoon along the French Riviera. They are getting to be known as a bit of a power couple. A younger and more hip David and Victoria Beckham.
I can’t help but be a tad envious. Not of them. But of their love story. It probably should be captured in a romance novel. It’s sorta Cinderella-ish.
“I’ll be sure to let her know. Can I pick up anything else for you from the café?”André asks, whipping his scarf around his neck as he takes a few steps back toward the door.
“I’m dying for yogurt and a croissant.”
“Sure thing, gorgeous. I’ll be back in a jiffy.”
La Boutique Publications, a superior media company based in New York City, known for producing influential, high-quality magazines like Alpha Male, Fancy Pants, Glamour Brides, Affluence, and Celestial Woman, reached out to me after I queried them my idea of a trendsetting publication. “It’s time to take my high-fashion clothing brand, Haute Couture, to the next level,” is what I captioned in my email to them four months ago. I swear, I was about to give up hope that they’d even reply with a rejection letter, until one of the editors reached out to me with a simple “We are more than interested” email reply. I won’t lie. I nearly crapped my pants when I got that email and have been a certifiable nutcase since, preparing for the presentation I plan to give them during a Skype call scheduled for this morning.
Like in fifteen minutes and seventeen seconds.
“You know you were made
for this, Lauren Blake,” André says, tinkering with my computer, verifying it’s tech ready for the Skype call and my presentation. “You have your opening spiel ready to go? I know you’ve rehearsed it a gazillion times by now.”
I nod, taking a gulp of Perrier, hoping its fizzy bubbles will settle my nervous stomach.
Am I made for this? Or should I just stick with designing the voguish clothing women and men of all sizes dream of wearing?
My daddy’s voice swarms my head like a first responder sayin’, “You’re a star baby. You can do this.”
Thinking back at how I started this brand, what seems like ages ago now, I look around at the walls garnished with pictures. Men and women, young, old, short, tall, skinny, fluffy, covered in clothes from a high-fashion line I created out of unadulterated spite, thanks to Mama.
“Yep, I’ve got my opening spiel ready. Is the computer all set up?” I ask, glancing at the 3D jumbo clock on the wall.
Only ten more minutes to go.
“It’s all set.” André closes the blinds to the large window behind my desk. “I don’t want them to get distracted by the beautiful Tower in the background. This should be all about you and HC.”
“Thanks, hun.”
The corners of his mouth turn up. “Now you be sure to dart out of this office as soon as the call is over and let me know how it went. I’ll have my legs, feet, and eyes crossed. Good luck.”
A nervous grin consumes my face as André leaves my office, closing the door behind him.
Five more minutes…
Breathe, Lauren Blake. Just Breathe.
Chapter 7
Lauren
“So, in other words,” Daphne Richards, La Boutique’s Brand Content Manager, begins as she taps the tip of her ink pen on the surface of a file folder on her desk, “you ultimately plan to revolutionize the way high-fashion clothing brands expand their reach.”
I blink a few times, trying to analyze the meaning of her raised brows. We’ve been on this Skype call for the last twenty minutes.
I’m a mess inside.
Is she impressed? Appalled? Intrigued? She’d be really good at a game of poker, I bet. I’ve always wanted to master a look that shields what I’m thinking, but when I’m uninterested, annoyed, excited, people say the look in my eyes gives it away.
“Absolutely,” I respond, heart nearly beating out of my chest, “as long as I can count on La Boutique’s expertise to launch Haute Couture Magazine into the publication galaxy.
An overextended pause I despise so much radiates from the computer screen and floats into the atmosphere like toxic gas.
I honestly thought my idea was brilliant.
Brainy. Golden. A six-carat diamond in the rough.
“So, allow me to summarize your plan, just to be sure I’m clear on its overall execution,” she says, her British-accented words spilling out of her mouth with elegant force.
“Okay,” I mutter, feeling more nervous than I was when I first approached Walmart about my brand over ten years ago. At that time, my plan was to call my line of clothing Hot Mess Couture.
Yeah, I know. That wasn’t my best idea. However, I still took time to get that name trademarked…just in case I find a home for it someday. Walmart turned me down, by the way.
Their loss. Obviously.
“You wish to launch a free online magazine, named after your designer clothing line, in which readers flip through glossy pages of gorgeous men and women, outfitted in only Haute Couture threads.” She pauses as she shifts in her seat, sitting much taller now and clears her throat before going on. “Then, should a reader fall in love with a particular outfit, all they need to do is click or tap the screen and, voilà, they are instantly taken to the Haute Couture online store where they can purchase the clothing and ship to their home?”
My head bobs up and down. “Yes.” I fiddle with my hands underneath my desk. I just pray she doesn’t notice the beads of sweat I feel forming on my forehead. “And a special print edition will be circulated, at a price point of $6.99, three times a year. January. June. September, ” I add.
Daphne’s lips form a lopsided smile as she bites the tip of her pen. “And besides Haute Couture, who are your paid advertisers?”
This question was bound to pop up eventually. Without paid advertisers, how can La Boutique expect to make any profit off a free publication?
After taking a deep breath I explain, “Well, I was thinking it may be cool to have one guest designer each month take over a few pages of the magazine. They’ll need to have an exclusive photo shoot, of course, and some retailer to link the featured outfit or outfits to, thereby making La Boutique an affiliate. And since the guest designers will need to purchase their feature months in advance, there will be a constant stream of revenue.”
The palms of my hands dampen and my mouth goes slightly dry. Daphne’s wondering, crinkled eyes and pursed lips intimidate me.
What is she thinking?
Crap. Just stick with designing clothes, Lauren. Don’t bother with any of the out-of-the-box—
“Who do you have lined up as your first guest designer? Your first paid advertiser?” she asks, her voice kicking my impending panic attack to the curb.
But as soon as my brain absorbs the question, panic resurfaces, clawing at my throat.
I don’t have a designer lined up. But I can’t tell her that. Can I?
Think, Lauren. Think.
“Truthfully”—I tuck my hair behind my ears—“I haven’t got one confirmed; yet I know as soon as designers get word of this magazine, they’ll line up, competing to get their spot. “Especially”—I lift my index finger—“since the first issue will be centered around my annual Haute Couture fashion show.”
Daphne’s eyes brighten, clearly displaying an interest. No more poker face. “You mean the show you put on each year in front of the Eiffel Tower?”
“Yes. You’ve heard of it?” My heart smiles. Blood, sweat, and tears go into my annual fashion show event. Okay, not real blood. Sweat and tears? Damn real.
“Indeed, I have. I was lucky enough to attend your first one three years ago.” She smiles. “Look, Lauren, I love this idea. Really I do. And I’m prepared to draw up a contract”—she gives me another dose of those risen poker face eyebrows—“however, I’ll require the name of your first advertiser before we can move forward. It will give us an idea of what kind of revenue we can expect from your magazine.”
A curt nod escapes me while my heart plunges into my gut. An almost yes. Not at all what I was hoping for.
“Okay, Daphne, can you tell me how long I have before this interim offer goes away?”
My insides twist into Girl Scout knots and I’m pretty sure I might need to barf.
“Two weeks. Then I’m afraid our interest will ultimately disappear.”
Chapter 8
Jaxson
Please don’t be late. I don’t like waiting.
Lauren’s last words to me this morning before she strutted those high-heeled-adorned stems off to her office are embedded in my brain like the fucking ABC song I learned in Kindergarten.
In other words: I’ll never forget them.
Icy Hot Princess has been on my mind though.
Mostly because she’s so damn beautiful. I mean, her eyes alone make me wanna goggle at her all day, if I should be so lucky.
I still can’t believe she’s the hottie I bumped into at the airport. The same woman smelling of apples and violets. That tantalizing scent I sniffed on her scarf. The one that’s still in my carry-on bag since I forgot to leave it at the lost and found.
I’m in no hurry to ask her if she remembers me from that day. In fact, I’ll do my best to stay incognito with this annoying hat and my cool-guy dark sunglasses each time I drive her around. Besides, I’m not crazy. I can’t get caught up with a client.
Right?
Especially not one that’s a southern belle diva icy hot princess.
A break from relationships w
ill do me some good. Although I see now my time with Dixie fucking Lane wasn’t real love. For her anyway. Yet, I can honestly say, I fell for her.
Hard.
And I’ll do my best not to fall for anyone else.
Not until my heart heals.
So, until I decide what to do with the business and who else I can pass Icy Hot to, I’m gonna avoid getting sucked in by that accent, those eyes, and that fine-ass body. Yes, I did get a glimpse of her rump this morning. God help me.
With no other clients to drive around, I busied myself in the office, diving head-first into the business books, looking for any opportunities to adjust costs. Then I reorganized the small office, and reviewed requests from future clients. I’m not looking to add to the short list of clients—only make the current list we have more manageable. Most are businessmen and women. CEOs of manufacturing companies, a marketing executive, a housewife who barely leaves her house, to name a few. And then there’s Ms. Blake. I took the liberty of looking her up on Google. Maybe I should have learned about her before she stepped into the car, like she so blatantly suggested.
Creator of Haute Couture. Hater of flowers and candy. And from what I can tell, she’s definitely single.
What kind of a woman hates flowers and candy? I laugh internally. Maybe that’s why she’s single.
The few Haute Couture outfits I’ve got hanging in my closet cost me a pretty penny. But worth every single one of them.
“Bonjour! What can I get started for you?” asks the chef from the open kitchen as I stand staring at the Café Couture menu board.
I’m inside Haute Couture headquarters, killing time since I thought it best to arrive early, you know, to avoid the risk of being late.
“Um, what do you suggest?”
The chef grins. “Ah oui. Cela dépend de ce que vous voulez. You prefer something heavy or light?”
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