Haute Couture Read online

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Epilogue

  Haute Couture

  Razzle My Dazzle Book Two

  Joslyn Westbrook

  To Beyoncé, Adele & all the amazing ladies who rock that shit

  Act One

  “People should fall in love with their eyes closed.”

  Andy Warhol

  Chapter 1

  JAXSON

  New York City, USA

  Two Months Ago…

  * * *

  “Getting dumped on National TV is worse than getting kicked in the fucking balls.” I flash an innocent smile at the ladies sitting around the table, and the studio audience goes wild.

  I’m on the set of The Scoop, talking to the hosts about my stint on the popular reality TV show called Date Me, Then Marry Me.

  The show that basically ruined my life.

  You see, I joined the cast of Date Me, Then Marry Me, hoping to find true love.

  Okay. Hold on…

  Before the jury gets reeled in for a judgmental you’re-an-idiot verdict, let the record show I knew the odds of finding true love on a nationally televised reality show were slim-to-none. But, after being named the nation’s most eligible bachelor by Alpha Male Magazine, women were literally throwing themselves at me.

  Sure, it was a thrill ride.

  For a while.

  I mean having women galore? That shit fed my ego like it was some ravenous VIP at a Las Vegas buffet.

  Yet, the rocket boosted thrill-ride crashed just as soon it set off. One night stands left me feeling empty.

  I wanted to find true love.

  When the producers of Date Me, Then Marry Me contacted my agent, requesting I’d be their star contestant, I was more than ready to meet my future wife on a show that boasted a ninety-five percent success rate. A success rate that was far greater than the failure rate I had, trying to find a wife on my own. Dating apps like Happn, Tinder, and OKCupid, proved not to be cut out for a celebrity-type like me—even though Hollywood viewed me as a mere B-list actor. Besides, at thirty-two, I had enough of the typical dating scene. None of the women I was meeting were working out and regardless if it was them or me, I needed to find a different method of meeting Ms. Right for Jaxson Malone.

  With that in mind, I gladly accepted Date Me’s offer to be on the show which meant for six weeks, I had to live in Atlanta, Georgia—the show’s filming location.

  I was presented with thirteen amazing—fine as hell—women to date. Doctors, lawyers, teachers, entrepreneurs, and a sultry southern belle model / actress named Dixie Lane.

  Damn. Even her name was everything. Not to mention it’s always been hard for me to resist a southern belle—something about that southern drawl that sucks me in like a storm drain during a flood.

  The platinum-blond-haired, green-eyed fox stood out from the pack in every possible way: confident, poised.

  I did say sexy, right?

  Having the same interests and the same career paths, the two of us were like fine wine and cheese—perfectly paired.

  Even the show’s three-million viewers dubbed us The Perfect Couple. Why she decided to dump me after a romantic dinner on the beach in front of millions of viewers on National TV, was beyond me.

  When I got down on bended knee with that twinkling five-carat Harry Winston I was eagerly waiting to slide on her finger, her standing before me with the light breeze whipping through her long curly hair—believe me, the last thing I expected Dixie Lane to say right then and there was, “Um no. Just no,” before she fled the set, like a fugitive chasing freedom.

  Dumbfounded and rightfully wretched by The Ultimate Jilt, I was left there—just me, the rhythmic crash of waves sounding off in the distance, the orange glimmered sunset, that damn ring, the jaw-dropped camera crew, and Dixie’s rejection spilling into the atmosphere like a fucked-up stink bomb.

  Devastation washed over me like a tidal wave, it’s force crushing my heart and my elation of finding a wife.

  To make matters worse, TV viewers practically broke Twitter as #UmNoJustNo went viral with over two-million tweets.

  Two. Million. Tweets.

  Of course, news of The Um No Just No jilt spread like an out of control wildfire with headlined captions: Wait. What?; Oh No She Didn’t!; Come Back Dixie, Come Back!; and Jaxson is Still Single, Ladies.

  I hated Dixie Lane for making a mockery of my love for her.

  Weeks went by as I took shelter in my New York City apartment, unsuccessfully avoiding the media. Hastily, I agreed to one on-camera interview with the popular morning news show, Wake Up America—hoping to squash the media’s desire to stalk me like ravenous wolves tailing their prey. And after explaining, on National TV, just how shocked, heartbroken, and emotionally bruised I was after the rejection, Dixie Lane surfaced on the cover of Superstar Magazine, looking hotter than ever, her infectious smile taunting me, as she nestled snug in the arms of Date Me, Then Marry Me’s lead cameraman. Apparently, the lovebirds were newly engaged.

  Dixie was getting married.

  Yep. It sucked to be me…

  So, I did what any man in my position would have done. I decided to come on this show to tell the tenacious ladies of The Scoop and all of America the truth about Dixie Lane.

  “Did you suspect she was seeing the hot cameraman? Like, did they ever exchange flirty looks?” asks one of the cohosts, the one who has a determined look practically living on her face.

  “Uh. Nope. But it made me realize Dixie Lane was never on Date Me, Then Marry Me seeking true love.” I turn my head to look directly into the camera “Let’s just say Dixie was on a mission to boost her lackluster modeling career.”

  The audience gasps. And the ladies around the table produce a varied mix of the ultimate surprise face.

  “So, tell us,” slurs the lead host as she sips on what I suspect is a little more than water, “what does the newly single Jaxson Malone plan to do now?”

  I lean back in my seat, rub the stubble on my chin, and produce a smug shrug. “Disappear.”

  “Jaxson, my love,” Mom begins as the three of us sit in the backyard eating lunch. “Why not head to Paris? You know Gramps misses you,” she nudges, sipping on a mimosa.

  I just came to my childhood home in the Hamptons for a visit. Well, honestly, I wouldn’t really call this visiting. I am…escaping my own meaningless life.

  Dad simply looks up from the newspaper he’s reading, picks up his cup of coffee, and offers a scant nod. After all, my dad isn’t much of a talker. He’s a purebred thinker. A proactive problem solver. Having worked as an actuary for the world’s largest financial institutions, he is a natural problem solver who avoids offering input, until he weighs all possible consequences.

  His nod doesn’t mean he agrees. His nod means he’s analyzing.

  My mom, on the other hand, always preferred the fly-by-the-seat-of-you
r-pants approach to just about everything. A highly sought after motivational speaker, she notoriously encourages and inspires women to follow their dreams of becoming successful entrepreneurs with her trademarked slogan Be The Real You Now.

  “You know, Gramps can use some help with his business now that he is getting older,” Mom says, in her annoyingly effective singsongy tone.

  Gramps and Nana moved to Paris twenty years ago after my mom left home for college. The two, who had met in the South of France, settled on a life of leisure as Nana continued to write and also rediscovered her love of painting and Gramps started a successful car service called Chic Limousines. Since Nana had always been a successful romance-novel author and Gramps a successful entrepreneur, the two were able to purchase a spacious villa in Paris, where Gramps converted part into an office and garage to store the five luxury town cars used for the limo business. However, he’s been hinting that he wants to move on from operating Chic Limousines, and move from Paris to whisk Nana off to the South of France.

  Dad lifts his gaze from the newspaper and my wondering eyes meet his knowing ones. “Now, son, I think your mom may be onto something. You can finally put that MBA you earned to good use by helping Gramps with the business. Why not take a break from all the Dixie-crap madness, give acting and modeling a rest for a while, and immerse yourself in France? God knows, the villa your grandparents live in is large enough for you to hang out in. Going to Paris might just be a win-win.”

  Dad’s words seep into my brain like a miracle elixir. Take a break from all the Dixie-crap madness. And I should put my MBA to use. After all, I worked my ass off at NYU to earn that degree before an agent discovered me.

  But me, live in Paris?

  After a week of deep pondering, I pack up, sell my precious Porsche, and sublease my New York apartment.

  Then, I hop on a plane toward freedom.

  No more media frenzy madness.

  No Date Me, Then Marry Me groupies.

  Just me, my clothes, and a one-way ticket to Paris, ooh-la-la, France.

  By the time I land and make it through customs, then scurry past the crowds to baggage claim, I’m beat. At the same time, I can’t help but feel the excitement brewing in my gut.

  Taking in the ambiance of it all, I allow my gaze to wander up to the ceiling, admiring the décor as I continue down the corridor, following the signs to baggage claim. Passengers hurry past me, in an effort to make their flights, one twisting me around when his shoulder brushes mine. And when I spin back to continue my jaunt to baggage claim, I bump right into a woman, knocking her down, the force causing her cell phone to fly out of her hand.

  For a minute, I stand, unable to speak, as I grab hold of her arms, helping her rise to her feet. She is fucking gorgeous. Breathtaking is the right word.

  I want so bad to spit out the words, I’m sorry. Are you alright? But they won’t budge, caught between by throat and my lips.

  Say it, idiot, speak.

  This moment, feels like a scene in a movie—everything surrounding us is a blur—the two of us the only thing the camera lens has in clear focus.

  She stares at me, crystal-blue eyes widened, lips slightly parted, as her hands briefly cling to my biceps. Then, she bends down, scoops up her phone, and dashes off like a desert roadrunner. The scarf draped around the strap of her purse drops onto the carpet.

  “Hey, your scarf,” I yell after her as I pick it up, but she disappears into the crowd.

  The soft scarf—the same color as her eyes—smells of apples and violets.

  Yeah, I’m not even ashamed I took a whiff.

  Deciding to leave it at Lost and Found before I exit the airport, I shove it in my carry-on bag as I continue to make my way to baggage claim.

  A smile creeps onto my face as the realization of me being here surfaces.

  I mean seriously. I’m in freaking Paris, baby.

  A city far away from heartbreaking southern belles.

  Far away from Dixie fucking Lane.

  Chapter 2

  LAUREN

  Paris, France

  Present Day

  * * *

  “Total garbage,” I yell, tossing the long, rectangular box into the trash. I look at my best friend Arabella’s wide-eyed face staring at me through my tablet screen. “Why can’t the men I date read my freakin’ bio? It’s not like I date dummies for Heaven’s sake. They can all read.”

  Um, no he didn’t…roses? Ugh.

  I ease onto the stool in front of my vanity table, and blow my nose into another tissue, waiting for my best friend, Arabella, to bring on her voice of reason. This is the third guy I’ve dated in less than two months who’s basically failed.

  “Now, hun, perhaps the idiot didn’t read your bio?”

  Okay. I love Arabella to bits. The two of us have been best friends since we were sorority sisters in college. But, her explanation makes no kinda sense. You see, my hatred for everything flowers and candy has been liberally sprinkled all over my social media profiles, like fact-boosting fairy dust.

  It’s not like it’s fake news.

  It’s basically unmissable.

  Instagram, Facebook, Twitter, Google Plus—all share the same blatant description of yours truly:

  Lauren Blake, Fashionista Extraordinaire. Creator and CEO of Haute Couture Clothing. Lover of cupcakes and fashion. Hater of flowers and candy.

  Even Wikipedia exhibits that concise, yet highly explanatory bio.

  “Really Arabella?”—she flashes an icy eye roll at my cynical timbre—“of course Jean Clau read my bio. He told me he looked me up on Google before he even asked me out.”

  She lets out a tiny yawn before saying, “Well, sweetie, maybe he forgot? I mean, you’re probably the only woman on the planet who loathes flowers and candy.”

  Even though she may indeed have a valid point, I can’t help the way I feel. Flowers and candy are the epitome of some seriously overrated bull crap. I’ll never drop my panties for a guy who believes my heart can be easily bedazzled by cliche’d endowments.

  Why, oh why, did he have to ruin it by sending me one-dozen roses?

  It’s a crying shame too. Jean Clau was nice.

  French. Intelligent. Gorgeous.

  You know, perfect on paper.

  Plus, he was a hell of a good kisser with a sweet-tasting mouth that made my lady parts swoon in envy each time his tongue danced with mine. I can only imagine how it would have been if we had—

  Well, never mind that. It doesn’t matter now anyway. He sent me flowers—an automatic deal-breaking dream crusher.

  #BoyBye #ReadMyBio #Never

  Arabella takes a sip of whatever it is swirling around in her teacup. I can only assume it’s chamomile tea, but she’s been known to add a little something extra to her cup, if you know what I mean. Even if it is close to her bedtime. We are separated by time zones. She in Savannah, Georgia. Me in Paris, France. The two of us have our daily FaceTime chats in front of our vanities, while she gets ready for bed and as I get ready for work.

  “Woman, I told you at least a dozen times to leave those stuffy business types alone.” She sets the cup down on her vanity table and picks up a hairbrush, its bristles running down her soft auburn-colored curls. “Now what you really need is one of them bad boys. Not a bad bad boy. A good one. A hot good bad boy.”

  Hot good bad boy?

  Not my thing.

  And she knows this.

  Arabella peels off her faux mink eyelashes just as I give my eyelashes a few strokes of mascara. “Arabella, you know—”

  She interrupts with an over-exaggerated sigh and an equally over-exaggerated eye roll. “I know, I know. Your daddy won’t ever approve of you bringing home a bad boy. But honestly, Lauren, I reckon your daddy won’t approve of anyone.” She blinks several times, as she takes another sip out of the small porcelain cup. “You know I’m right, sugar.”

  She is right.

  Daddy won’t approve of anyone I bring home. He never
has. I suppose he wants me to marry a politician like my sister Becky did.

  Becky.

  The perfect daughter.

  Becky with the good body. Becky with the good looks. Becky with the…good hair. While most twinsies end up being besties, Becky and I never did click. And since we’re fraternal twins, we look nothing alike. Polar opposites. Like the moon and the sun. She’s skinny and I’m not. She’s got brown eyes. Mine are blue. My hair is black. She dyed hers red. She’s a bitch, while I’m a sweetheart.

  Most of the time.

  “Anyway,” I mumble, as I apply a coat of lip gloss to my mouth, “when are you coming back to Paris? I miss seeing your gorgeous face for real.”

  She dips the tip of her pinky into a tiny container of balm, then carefully dabs it onto her lips. “Babe, I was just there two months ago for three whole weeks. You know I can’t afford to be away from my own business longer than that.”

  Last year, Arabella, formally known as the southern socialite Arabella Princessa Royale, launched her own clothing and makeup line called Royale Beauty. When she came to Paris two months ago to visit me, I set her up with clients to help expand her business. Since then, she’s been bombarded with orders.

  “I know, but two months seems so long ago. I barely remember saying goodbye to you at the airport.” I deliver her my award-winning pouty face.

  “Now hun, how can you possibly forget that day at the airport? The day you bumped into,”—she pauses as she allows a mischievous grin to settle onto her face—“the fella you described as the man of your dreams?”

  Not only do I feel my cheeks burn, I can see the scarlet flush on my cheeks in the mirror. That day at the airport, I bumped into the most delicious-looking man.

  Tall. Dark. Manly.

  He was so good-looking, I swear I forgot how to speak. I was so beside myself, I ran out of the airport and darted into the town car like a woman on the run.

  “Oh, yeah”—I lower my head in embarrassment—“that guy. Well, I know the odds of me seeing him again are low. And frankly, I probably wouldn’t even recognize his face if I saw it since it…”— I pause, pondering my last statement. “Okay well, I would remember his eyes, dark and mysterious” I quickly amend. “Besides, soon after that, I met Jean Clau, who I also swore was the man of my dreams…and look at me now. Still pitifully single. Perhaps I shouldn’t even bother dating. You know, stick with what I do best.”