Haute Couture

by Joslyn Westbrook

  He leans in, close enough for me to smell the mint on his lips. “03 58 45 83 51,” he hums, then lifts my chin, planting a soft kiss on my trembling lips.

  Wow. It’s just about all I can think but manage to say, “Oh, yes, that’s definitely my phone number.”

  He pulls away. “Can I get a rain check? I’ve gotta head back to London on some business returning late Friday. But I’ll keep in touch via text while I’m away.” He smiles. “Take you out on that date this Saturday?”

  I bob my head. “Of course, I’d like that a lot, Simon. Have a safe trip.”

  “Thanks, doll. Talk soon,” he says, rolling his suitcase behind him as he makes his way to the elevator.

  Shutting the door, I lean my back against it and sigh. See, I knew there had to be a reasonable explanation why Simon was a no-show. He didn’t leave me hanging. He had a work emergency with no way to contact me.

  Feeling relieved, I plop back onto the couch and finish off the last of my coffee as I scroll through some of my social media profiles to see what André has been posting on my behalf. He does a great job pretending to be me on all of the platforms, interacting with a few of my fans, posting all sorts of relevant photos and status updates. He even posted a picture on Instagram featuring a bowl of my favorite soup with the caption Food is my second favorite F-word. Fashion is the first. Obviously. #SexySoup.

  Five-hundred seventy-thousand likes. Not bad.

  Jules knocks at my door, dropping Truffles off from their excursion.

  “He was good, as usual. And I saw Simon headed to the garage with a suitcase in tow,” Jules says, his eyes wide and curious.

  I explain to Jules all that Simon told me and Jules just nods.

  “I see. Well at least he gave you a good reason. Anyway, I’ll be headed back to my post downstairs. Enjoy your day, LB.”

  “Thanks, Jules.”

  Why do I get the feeling I am the only one in my circle who likes Simon? Am I missing something? Arabella doesn’t like him. Jules doesn’t seem enthused about me dating him. And Jaxson obviously doesn’t care for him either.

  Truffles runs to the kitchen, straight to his bowls filled with kibble and water, laps up some water, and crunches on a few of the kibbles, playing a game of hide and seek with a few of them.

  Silly pooch.

  I lean against the wall, sliding down, my back feeling the cool abrasion of it even through my satin robe. I park my bottom on the floor right next to Truffles, petting him as he enjoys the rest of his breakfast. Then I scoop him up in my arms, raise myself up and waltz back to my room.

  “Come on, Truffles, Mama is gonna play hooky the right way. I’m going back to bed.”

  Hours later, I awaken to my cell phone’s chime.

  Bing. Bing. Bing. Bing.

  Four messages from Jaxson Malone.

  Jaxson: Hey there…how’s the day away from the office going?

  Jaxson: Have you had lunch?

  Jaxson: Or what I meant to say was, can I take you to lunch?

  Jaxson: Because there is something I’d really like to discuss with you.

  The back-to-back procession of text messages makes me snicker.

  I wonder what he’d like to discuss with me.

  Me: My day is going well, thank you. No, I haven’t had lunch. What do you have in mind? Shall I Uber somewhere to meet you, or were you planning to pick me up?

  Text bubbles pop up. He’s replying.

  Jaxson: Uber? No silly, I’ll pick you up. In an hour?

  Me: Sounds good.

  After my shower, I realize I’ve effectively done nothing work-related.

  Can I count this as a mental health day? I suppose I can call it whatever. It’s my company. But this is probably the last time I’ll work from home.

  It’s raining outside again—a norm for Paris. Entering my walk-in closet, I pull the switch dangling from the ceiling to turn on the lights. Rows and rows of clothes stare back at me begging ooh, pick me, pick me.

  I pick my favorite pair of indigo jeans, ripped at the knee, and a fluffy oversized sweater, a cool light gray to match the current status of the Paris sky.

  And ballet flats. I can’t be bothered with heels. Not on hooky day.

  My hair ends up in an Ariana-Grande-style ponytail.

  Long. Full. Wispy.

  If only I could sing like her.

  A light coat of poppin’ pink lip gloss goes on my lips. I don’t feel like wearing much makeup.

  Then I kiss Truffles goodbye, grab my purse, phone, keys, coat, and head out.

  Eager to know what’s on Jaxson’s mind.

  Chapter 24

  Jaxson

  Okay. I was dying to see her. So what? Sue me.

  However, I also want to let her know that Gramps and I have decided to close the business. As the top client, she deserves to know.

  Was I expecting her to agree to go out to lunch with me?

  Nope.

  Yet, when she said yes, I gotta tell ya, I danced around my fucking house like Tom Cruise in that 1980s classic, Risky Business. Underwear, socks, and all. But instead of Bob Seger’s Old Time Rock and Roll blaring throughout the house, I rocked the hell outta Bruno Mars’s That’s What I Like. You know, gotta add some relevance.

  After my dance party, I showered, slid into jeans, a slim-fitting white shirt, and cool suede Chelsea boots.

  And now I’m here, at Chateau De Grenelle, chillin’ on a bench in the lobby, waiting for Lauren to emerge from the elevator.

  “Bonjour!” says Jules. He’s always so friendly to me.

  “Hi, there. How’s it going?”

  “Great.” He lifts his chin toward the direction of my car parked out front. “Nice Porsche. Is it yours?”

  I nod and smile in admiration. “Yeah. I love it. She purrs like a kitten.”

  “Nice. I’ve always wanted a fancy sports car. Maybe some day.” He cocks his head as he surveys me from head to toe. “You look different. No more hat or dark sunglasses?”

  I chuckle. “You noticed. And no, I decided to ditch the hat and glasses and return to my more usual style.”

  The elevator ding pulls my attention from Jules and our conversation. I jump up and make my way to the elevator, certain it’s Lauren.

  And it is her.

  Euphoria spills into the atmosphere. Again.

  “Hey,” I say, after I give myself a few seconds to catch my breath. I’m not able to keep my grin from growing. Sucker.

  “Where are we headed?”

  “Somewhere within walking distance. The rain has stopped.”

  “For now, anyway.”

  “You two have fun,” says Jules while he holds the doors open for us.

  The sidewalks are damp, the rainfall from earlier this morning leaving the whole city doused. Paris is even sexier when wet.

  “Thanks for coming to lunch with me, Lauren. I realize you were probably busy.”

  Our hands collide and the tips of our fingers graze. I know that chill I just felt has nothing at all to do with the cool breeze.

  “Actually, I have done nothing work-related all day. Nothing. When you sent your series of text messages, I was curled up in bed, still very much in my PJs, fast asleep.”

  I laugh, “So you’ve played hooky then?”

  Without hesitation she replies, “Yup”—our hands collide again—“besides, I’m always game for lunch with a friend.”

  Friend. The other F-bomb. Ouch.

  We reach Café Bonjour and choose a seat in the back, and after the server takes our orders of sandwiches with fries, Lauren and I sit across from one another as if we’re waiting for the other to speak first.

  So I do it.

  “Gramps has decided to close down Chic Limos.”

  Boom. Cat right out of the bag.

  Lauren blinks. “Really? Why?”

  “Well, it’s been hard for him to keep it afloat with the competition coming in. There are only a few regular clients, which includes you, but it’s
not enough to sustain a profit. And business is business.”

  Her shoulders sink. “So what does that mean for you? Does that mean you’re leaving Paris, packing up and heading back to New York?”

  And I thought her first concern would be how she’ll get around town now.

  “No. I’m staying put. I love Paris.”

  A pause momentarily swoops in.

  “Okay. So where are you gonna live?”

  The server drops off our sodas, and I explain to Lauren about Gramps and Nana moving to the South of France, and how I’ve come to inherit their Paris villa.

  Her eyebrows lift up then down. “Wow, Jaxson, that’s pretty wonderful. Congrats. And I think it’s amazingly cool about your nana’s art gallery,” she says with a smile. Then adds, “And don’t worry about me. I can always call an Uber or a taxi to take me to the office. Or get up the nerve to drive.”

  She puts her elbows on the table, resting her face on her palm, a pensive glow in her eyes.

  “Drive?”

  Her eyelashes flutter. “Yep. I do have a car, but I don’t like driving so it just stays parked in the garage.”

  The server delivers our meals and both of us readily dive in.

  “Mind if I ask why you don’t like driving?”

  After cramming a few fries in her mouth, she shakes her head and says, “I really don’t talk about it much. Brings back bad memories of my teens and my ungrateful twin”—she squints her eyes and tilts her head to the side—“but I feel like I can tell you anything, Jaxson.”

  With a mouthful of sandwich I say, “You can tell me anything.”

  She sucks in a deep breath. “Okay. I was a teen, about sixteen years old. Daddy had just bought me and Becky a car. It was ours to share. I rarely drove the thing because she always seemed to hog it. Cheerleading practice. A nail appointment. Sex in the back seat…whatever.”

  Her face gleams of annoyance at the memories of her sister. I listen intently as she goes on.

  “One night she went to some lame-ass party. A party Mama and Daddy forbid her to go to, mind you. But her stubborn, selfish butt snuck out, went to that damn party. Then had the nerve to call me—crying and beggin’ me to come get her, that I couldn’t tell our parents because she didn’t want to get in trouble. Apparently, the little tramp she went to the party with, left with some guy and poor little drunk Becky was alone and scared.” She takes a small bite of her sandwich. Then a sip of soda, swallowing before she continues on. “So I grabbed my raincoat and hopped in the Beatle on a mission to not only rescue my dim-witted twin, but to also ring her neck. Only, I never made it.”

  I drop the fry I was about to shove in my mouth and lean in, curious to hear more.

  “What happened?”

  She looks to the ceiling for a few seconds and fans her eyes, then shifts her eyes back to mine. “The roads were slick, from Savannah rainfall. I could barely see, even with the windshield wipers going. Before I knew it, my car was spinnin’ and rollin’. I woke up in the hospital. Luckily I just had a slight concussion and a broken my arm. Daddy said my car hit a slick of oil and when I lost control, my car flipped and I crashed into a ditch.” She scoffs. “Silly me bought a BMW last year. I had it delivered to me and everything, convinced I would drive it some day. But the fact is, I’ve never conjured up the nerve to get behind the wheel of any car since my accident.”

  Lauren looks down at her food, swirls a fry she’s holding ‘round and ‘round in a small pool of sauce splattered on the edge of her plate.

  God, how I want to hold her. Make her fear go away.

  “And Becky? Did she get in trouble for going to that party? For asking you to come rescue her and ultimately be the reason why you were out there in the first place?”

  Her lips form into a half-smirk. “She got grounded, but didn’t speak to me for weeks because of it. Said because of me, she missed the homecoming dance.”

  “What the fuck?”

  “Right? I know.”

  She laughs, and honestly if I were her, I guess I too would try to find humor in it all. I mean, between her mom and her sister, no wonder she found the need to flee Savannah.

  “What if I’m with you?”

  “What? With me where?”

  “What if I am with you when you sit behind the wheel of a car?”

  She eyes me, arms folded. Speculation evident.

  “No one has ever offered that to me before.”

  I tilt my head, lick my lips, and say in a low voice, “Maybe that’s because you’ve never known anyone like me.”

  Chapter 25

  Lauren

  “Perfect, simply perfect!” I say to my design team.

  We’re at our monthly planning meeting, reviewing layout plans for the maiden issue of Haute Couture Magazine. Everyone is ecstatic, each department playing a significant role in the process. Today, the art department presented their photoshoot backdrops to support the theme of the magazine’s first issue: Paris in the Rain. What they’ve presented is pure perfection. Then, Rachel, director of content, presented titles of the four slammin’ articles to be featured:

  * * *

  Beauty—The Ultimate Lash Guide

  Fashion—What Would Audrey Hepburn Do?

  Love—Flirting 101

  Food—Food Critic Undercover

  The magazine will be about seventy-eight pages, cover-to-cover, with CraveMe in the center spread plus a one-page ad featuring Antonio Michaels’ new men’s underwear line called ALLMe—which is what he wants to speak with me about this morning. I invited André and Daniella to join me on the conference call meeting, since I have assigned them both the duties of working with featured guest designers on content and layout, to be sure it aligns with the theme of the issue they have purchased space in.

  The three of us are gathered in my office now, speaking with Antonio via speaker phone.

  “Glad you were able to squeeze me in on such short notice,” he says.

  “Of course, so what can we do for you?”

  “Well, as mentioned in our initial meeting earlier this week, I am planning to introduce my new line of underwear—ALLMe—in your magazine.”

  I nod. “Right, and I am excited about that—we all are. Including La Boutique.”

  “Wonderful. But, I’m having an issue getting the model I want for the spread. I-uh have a particular guy in mind, hoping he’ll be the face for the new line. Only problem is his agent can’t reach him.”

  “Okay, so what does that mean for Haute Couture and the first issue? If you can’t get the guy you want, then can’t we just go with another model? I mean we have plenty of—”

  “I’m not exactly sure what this means. I just wanted to give you a heads up that there may be a delay or maybe even a change of plans,” he says.

  I shift in my seat, growing more nervous by the second. Antonio can’t back out now…one of the main reasons La Boutique so eagerly offered that contract is we snagged this exclusive brand launch.

  “Antonio, you’re not backing out of giving Haute Couture Magazine the exclusive launch of ALLMe, are you?”

  He sighs. “I hope it doesn’t come to that. How long do I have before we go to print?”

  “Well, we go to print in three weeks. But the photo shoot has to be done before that. So I would say, you have less than a week to find that model or come up with a Plan B.”

  “Okay, I’ll be in touch. Take care.”

  Exhaustion hits me, and I’m ready to put an end to this day. Simon has been texting me seemingly non-stop, telling me how he misses me and can’t wait to take me out again tomorrow night. He’ll be arriving back home from London later tonight. Part of me wants to wait up for him. Especially since the last time I saw him, he planted his soft lips on mine, making me want more.

  His lips, hands, his everything on me.

  We talked on the phone for hours last night, and I still believe he may be the one. I guess.

  Although a teeny-tiny part of me thinks about m
e and Jaxson at the airport, that kiss we started on the deck of the restaurant. And how my heart skips whenever I see him.

  Ugh. You can’t be developing feelings for both of them.

  Jaxson has agreed to pick me up and take me to and from work until I find another car service I’m comfortable with. I can’t deny he’s a sweetheart.

  He’s downstairs waiting for me now, and all I need to do is grab the bags of new fabric samples I got in from a new supplier. I always take the samples home, and make Truffles’ some clothes out of them so I can see how durable the material is. I should have left with everyone else, so someone could have helped carry all the bags down.

  You’ll manage.

  I grab the first, second, third, then the fourth one. Plus my purse, and my laptop bag, then head out.

  By the time I am downstairs, the struggle is real. Jaxson must have spotted me and sympathized because he rushes inside to help.

  Taking hold of all four bags and my laptop, Jaxson says, “Why didn’t you just call me to ask for help? I would have totally come upstairs and carried these to the car.”

  “Well, I thought I could manage,” I say, biting on my lower lip.

  He laughs. “Manage to topple over?”

  “Asking for help is something I have never been good at.”

  He opens the trunk to the car, places the bags in, and says, “I’ve noticed.”

  As he pulls onto the road, I steal a glance at him, his features in the dark, highlighted by the city lights seeping into the car.

  He smells so good, and for some reason, I imagine reaching over and running my fingers through his thick hair.

  He probably thinks of you just as a friend, Lauren, so stay in your lane. Besides, you and Simon will probably work out.

  We roll to a stoplight and he turns to face me, catching me staring. “Are you hungry?”

  “No. I had a late lunch. But thanks for asking.”

  He nods. “So, just straight home?”

  “Yes, I’m really tired anyway.”