Haute Couture

by Joslyn Westbrook

  I shrug. “You got a burger and fries?”

  His smile slightly fades. Have I offended him? “Burger et frites? Of course. I’ll get started on that right away. Go and, uh”—he gestures with a spatula—“make yourself comfortable at any one of the tables. Sheila will be back soon and will bring your meal out to you.”

  The café, that offers French cuisine, pastries, and coffee, occupies a small space in the corner of the lobby of this large three-story building. At first glance, the building looks like a huge department store with window displays of mannequins draped in Haute Couture clothing. But while there is a small retail store on the opposite side of the lobby, across from the café, most of this space houses Haute Couture headquarters. Lauren’s office is probably up on the second floor, overlooking the Eiffel Tower.

  “Here you are, sir, rien d’autre? Something to drink, perhaps?” asks a perky waitress with purple short hair. She’s got a strong French accent and looks young enough to be my sister.

  “I’ll have water, if that’s okay.”

  She nods. “Of course. I’ll be right back.

  After she drops off my water, I devour a few bites of my burger and fries when I hear…

  “Jacques, sweetness, I’m in need of a big bowl of that yummy soup. Something to warm my soul. And calm my nerves.”

  Lauren.

  Trying to avoid being seen, I slump into the booth, shades on, lowering the front part of my hat in an effort to shield my face even further. But I’m the only one in the restaurant, sticking out like a dog’s balls.

  And…

  She spots me.

  Causing me to brace myself for whatever as she walks over to my table.

  “Well, now aren’t you sweet.” She lifts her wrist, glancing at her watch. “What in the world are you doing here so…early? Afraid your slower-than-normal driving would prevent you from making it here on time to pick me up?” An impish smile tugs at one side of her perfect plump lips as she stands, hand on hip, tapping her shoe on the tile floor.

  I roll my eyes, then realize she can’t see them through my shades so I settle for a short, “Nope. I was in the neighborhood. Actually thought about buying some HC threads.”

  “Hmm”—she eases into the booth, now sitting across from me—“you mind if I sit here? I can really use a break from my office. Plus I hate eating alone.”

  As much as you hate flowers and candy?

  I shrug and take a sip of water before I say, “Sure. Why not.”

  Avoid eye contact, you sucker.

  She seems to study me, saying nothing as she stares blankly. “Why do you have your sunglasses on?”

  “Light sensitivity,” I snap, impressed I can think on the fly. I guess that improv training I did in acting class paid off.

  “Well, bless your heart.”

  Oh-oh. When a southern woman says bless your heart, it’s usually a precursor to something harsh.

  “I suppose I’ll need to find a new driver,” she says, arms folded. “I definitely can’t have anyone with a light-sensitivity issues”—she uses air quotes—“drive me around Paris. I mean, what happens at night?”

  I exhale.“Fine. I don’t have light-sensitivity issues. But I do prefer to leave my glasses on. It shouldn’t affect you one way or another.”

  The waitress drops off a big bowl of soup, bread, and a soda for Lauren before she practically skips back to the kitchen.

  “Mmm,” Lauren says, taking in a whiff of the soup.

  Admittedly it looks and smells yummy. For anyone who may be into soup, of course.

  Lauren unfolds her napkin and sets it on her lap, then flicks one side of her long hair back, then the other side, a move I thought only circa 1970s Cher had perfected. “This soup is simply divine. Cures all ailments. You should try it some day. May even do something for that attitude of yours.”

  Her sarcasm is growing on me. Like the pesky weeds in Nana’s vegetable garden.

  “So, what does it do for perpetual feistiness?”

  “Strengthens it.”

  We both laugh.

  For a while, we consume our meals in silence, her soup, my burger, while I surreptitiously check out how she savors her small bites.

  Nibble of bread. Slurp of soup. Flick of tongue.

  She’s perfect.

  “How did your meeting go?” I ask, putting an end to the silence.

  She pulls the tip of the straw to her lips, taking a sip of soda, then says, “Alright. I’ve gotta pull off a feat before they give me a contract. But I’m hopeful. Gotta pursue my dream.”

  “Haute Couture wasn’t a dream?”

  “Of course it was”—she wipes her mouth with the napkin—“but I want to take that dream to the next level.”

  “Which is?”

  She scoffs and folds her arms. “Anyone ever call you nosy?”

  “Curious.”

  “Okay, Curious George. If you must know. I think Haute Couture would make a great title of a free digital fashion magazine, featuring my line of clothing, worn by models of all shapes and sizes, where subscribers can flip, click, and purchase the outfits featured on the pages.”

  I raise my eyebrows and nod, showcasing how impressed I am.

  “And…the magazine will also have three print editions per year.”

  “Well, that actually sounds fabulous. What’s the feat you need to pull off?”

  She rakes her fingers through her hair and squeezes her eyes shut momentarily. “I need to find my first advertiser. A guest designer who will occupy a few pages.”

  I smile. “Your idea is brilliant and I’m sure you won’t have any issues finding someone to jump on board. What publisher did you reach out to?”

  She takes another quick sip of soda. “La Boutique Publications.”

  My eyes widen. That’s the publisher of Alpha Male Magazine. The magazine that named me most eligible bachelor. The one where I was featured on the front cover not only once, but five times.

  “Very popular publisher. I’m sure it will all—”

  “OMG, Lauren,” whines a male voice in the distance.

  Both Lauren and I whip our attention to the voice of a guy wearing glasses, a scarf draped around his neck, carrying a small stack of folders.

  “What’s up, André?” Lauren asks, then turns to me and says, “This is my personal assistant.”

  I raise my chin up and down in acknowledgment, and he looks at me, doing a double-take before he turns his attention back to Lauren.

  “I found a list of designers you can approach, all right here in these folders. I figured you’d want to look through them while eating your late lunch”—he looks at her empty bowl of soup—“but I see you’re all done with your food.”

  Lauren lightly chuckles. “Thanks, André, I can still look through them.”

  André eyes me again, tapping his index finger against his chin. “I’m sorry, are you her new driver? You look familiar.” He interjects before I even open my mouth to answer, “Ever been on a reality show?”

  Fuck.

  Chapter 9

  Lauren

  “I’m telling you, boss. I’ve seen him somewhere on TV. Or something.” André pushes his shoulder against my office door, holding it open while I mosey on in, then he stalks right behind me, practically on the back of my heels.

  He’s been chattin’ my ears off since the two of us set foot onto the elevator back up to the second floor where HC offices are located.

  “No, hun.” I rest my hand on my hip. “Believe me, I already Googled him this morning because he looked kinda familiar to me too.” I grab hold of my purse, sweater, and the folders of designers he put together for me. “He’s just a driver, André. There’s nothin on the internet about Jack. Not even a single social media profile so”—I pat him on his shoulder—“give it a rest, okay?”

  André rolls his eyes, reminding me the one thing I admire about him is also the one thing that irks me about him.

  His tenacity.

&n
bsp; “Come on, boss, look at him. Does he look like a plain old Jack to you? He’s like sex on a stick, hot,” he whines, following me as I exit my office.

  Sex on a stick, hot? To me, the guy is irritating. Like a fly at a family picnic.

  Plus, it’s hard to see the whole shebang when it’s masked by dark sunglasses and a hat.

  What’s he hiding behind those glasses anyway?

  “Well, he’s just plain old Jack the driver to me,” I say, pressing the elevator call button. “I’ve got enough to focus on André and quite frankly, so do you,” I scold, eyebrows raised, an indirect reminder we all must do our part to get this publishing deal.

  His shoulders and his head sink briefly, then raise back up, before he mumbles, “Yes, boss. You’re absolutely right.”

  The elevator doors crawl open and I back into it, my eyes still on André. “Perfect. We have lots to accomplish over the next week. I know it’s still early, but I’m heading out now. I’ll peruse these designer options at home.”

  André waves goodbye as the elevator doors ease to a close. “Have a great evening, boss.”

  * * *

  Jack is quiet during the drive back to Chateau Grenelle, which suits me fine because I can use the quiet time to unwind. And since he drives like he’s racing a herd of turtles, it seems I’ll have all the time I need to unwind.

  It’s raining outside now and Paris rain is like no other.

  Magical. Intoxicating.

  I’ve had dreams of romantic strolls along the narrow streets, walking arm in arm, kissing just as the rain begins to fall.

  But not all dreams come to life. Not the romantic ones anyway.

  I’m learning that the hard way.

  And while I try to just brush it off, tell people, including Arabella, I’m fine being married to my work, it’s a flat-out lie.

  The ugly truth is, I’m a lonely woman living with this sort of hole in her heart.

  A hole that gets patched up only temporarily, with me always hoping, praying the adhesive sticks.

  Breaking news: patches aren’t forever.

  The sun is setting now and the streets glisten with charisma, the drops of rain tap-dancing on the pavement.

  When I first visited Paris, I knew it was where I wanted to be. It’s where Hot Mess Couture sprouted into Haute Couture. Mama said I’d never make it here on my own when I went back home and declared I was packin’ up and movin’ to France. She scoffed and said I should stay put in Savannah and pitch my clothing line to JCPenny. While Daddy, well, my daddy has always been Team Lauren. He helped me get settled, putting a down payment on my apartment at Chateau De Grenelle when he found the place via a realtor buddy. My baby needs to live as if she’s going to conquer the fashion world is what he said, showing then he had confidence in me, bigger than the whole state of Texas. I lived on revenue generated by Hot Mess, which was doing well as a brand despite the name. Then the beautiful people of Paris inspired the birth of Haute Couture. Paris is fashion and, my-oh-my, do the women here get it right. And it’s not really what they wear, but more of how they wear it—not with arrogance.

  With fearless confidence.

  Bravado. Swag.

  Paris isn’t a Hot Mess. It’s high-fashion decadence. It’s Haute Couture. I spent weeks at the drawing board, sketching new designs reflective of my newfound epiphany. Designs that screamed high fashion, for women and men. All shapes and sizes.

  Dresses. Blouses. Skirts. Pants.

  Shirts. Cardigans. Jeans. Slacks.

  I began to sell hundreds online. And when my small US manufacturer could barely keep up with the demand, I called Daddy for help. His expertise in real estate, along with his international connections, is what helped me snag the building that houses Haute Couture headquarters: complete with the café and HC Boutique on the first level, the offices on the second, and a massive third floor wing, where all the clothing is sewn. The building, along with the custom storefront signage, didn’t come at a cheap price. Nothing good ever does. There’s always a price.

  Money. Sweat. Tears.

  That’s what I spent building Haute Couture into what it is today.

  Has it paid off?

  Heck yeah. But now I want more.

  I want Haute Couture Magazine.

  “Same time tomorrow morning, ma’am?” Jack’s tone is serious. Less jovial. Subdued.

  “Please, Jack, if you and I will be spending time together on the roads of Paris, call me Lauren.” I open the door to the town car to let myself out, the cool rain dancing on my bare legs. “Thanks for the safe ride home. See you tomorrow. Same time.”

  He lifts his hand to his temple, giving a two finger salute in acknowledgment.

  Then I close the car door and make a beeline for the double doors, praying as each heel splashes against the pavement, I don’t have another ass-baring fall.

  “Bonjour, LB, you’re home early,” says Jules with his bright face, as I barrel through the double doors.

  “Yes I am for once.” I smile. “How was Truffles today; he give you any grief?”

  Jules’s usual smile quirks up one side of his mouth as he rocks back and forth on his heels. “You know Truffles adores me; everything went well. Managed to take him for a stroll right before the rain fell. The little pooch is a quite the lady magnet. I’ve got a date now, thanks to him.”

  I chuckle. “A date? Well, isn’t that sweet. Where and when?”

  He squares his shoulders to straighten his posture.“Tonight. And we’ll just meet for some coffee. You know the routine.”

  I beam a smile at him and pat his shoulder before saying, “That’s wonderful, Jules. I can’t wait to hear all about it tomorrow. But for now, I’m headed up to get buried in these.” I hold up the folders.

  “How did the meeting go?”

  “Good. But they need me to fulfill one thing before we move forward. And that’s what I’ll be trying to come up with tonight.”

  “Bonne chance,” he says as I walk to the elevator. “Have a good night,” he adds in the distance.

  After I press the button outside of the elevator, the sound of the ding comes right away and the door slides open. And when I step in and press button eleven, I lean back against the elevator wall, waiting for the door to close, my eyes closed, taking a deep breath in then out. This evening would be the perfect night to cuddle by a fire, with a glass of wine—I drink only on special occasions and La Boutique’s almost yes, is still a cause for celebration.

  The door is just about to close when I hear, “Hold the elevator, please.”

  A male voice. Sexy. British.

  Stopping the door from closing, a suit covered arm reaches in, and then…

  My heart literally stops. God, is he gorgeous. And he’s wearing one of my suits. Last year’s collection, and he wears it quite well.

  He flashes a smile that makes me feel like I can combust, melt into a puddle of bliss on the floor of this elevator.

  One perfect eyebrow lifts and he practically sings the words, “Hello there, I’m Simon. I just moved in here a couple of weeks ago.”

  He must be the new guy who moved in. The one all the ladies in the building are swooning over. Mind you, most of the ladies in this building are senior citizens. But still. They sure are right about him. He’s definitely hot.

  “I’m Lauren,” I mutter, after releasing the breath I didn’t even realize I was holding.

  “Blake, right?” he asks, still flashing that combustible smile. “Lauren Blake of Haute Couture,” he confirms, tugging at the sleeve of his suit jacket, “I’d recognize you and your lovely clothes anywhere.”

  This man, all wonderful, smellin’ of woodsy cologne, with blond hair I want to rake my fingers through, deep blue eyes, that I swear, are making me pant, standing next to me in all his sexy glory could very well be…the real man of my dreams.

  Chapter 10

  Lauren

  “Seriously, Arabella”—I massage my favorite apple-scented lotion on each ar
m as I sit, towel still wrapped around my hair, bathrobe on, in front of my vanity—“I believe he is the man of my dreams.”

  Arabella’s brows practically shoot up to her hairline. “Woman, please. If I bought a pair of shoes each time you’ve said that, my closet would have to be the size of the Atlantic seaboard.” She dabs a deep shade of crimson-colored lipstick on her lips, then shoots me a pointed glare through the screen. “Seriously.”

  We’re having our FaceTime call, this time as she gets her day started and I get ready for bed. It’s the only effective method for us to stay in touch without missing each other miserably. We were practically joined at the hip in college and while she understood why I wanted to live in Paris, it still broke her heart. She toyed with the idea of packing up and joining me; however, Arabella Royale is one of Savannah’s most talked about socialites. Not to mention, the woman is a sucker for southern men.

  “I know, but if you saw him you’d understand why. Did I mention he’s got a steamy British accent?”

  “At least three times already,” she says, breathing off an easy laugh.

  “And”—I pause and as my tongue grazes my cheek for one hot second—“he’s moved in across from me.”

  Arabella whips her attention away from the reflection in her mirror, anchoring her hazel eyes on me. “Now ain’t that something to talk about. Just think about how y’all can get down and dirty from one apartment to the other. But a little risky. If it doesn’t work out, someone has to move.”

  I burst out a giddy laugh before I say, “I’ll keep you posted. How’re things with you and Parker? Any sign he’ll be getting down on one knee soon? I mean how long has it been? Three years now?” I finally remove the towel from around my hair and brush it into a ponytail.

  “Three years off and on.” A sigh escapes her lips. Honestly, I’m not sure if we’re headed to the altar or doomsday. Proof that not everyone you think you oughta be with is the one you’re meant to be with.” She brushes the last strand of hair into place, then finishes it off with two pumps of hairspray.