Haute Couture Page 6

  “Great!” I reply, feeling happy for Jules. He deserves to meet a great woman after the last relationship he had was ruined when the cow decided to sleep with his flatmate.

  “I’ve got a sort of date myself tonight,” I confess, and Jules’s eyes light up.

  “Oh? Are you giving Jean Clau another chance even though he sent you those flowers?”

  “Oh gosh no”—I pause, lowering my voice a notch, looming in closer to him—“I actually got asked out for coffee by the hot new neighbor that moved in across from me.”

  Jules’s expression dulls slightly. “Oh, um well, that’s interesting.” He lifts a brow.

  “Yes, he’s quite the gentleman. I got locked out last night and he rescued me. Sort of.”

  “Locked out?”

  I hesitate. “It’s a long story. I’ll fill you in some other time. I’m already feeling like I’m late this morning.”

  “Yes, your car is already outside waiting for you. He uh, he seems nice, that Jack. I got a chance to chat with him for a while.”

  “Nice? How sweet.”

  Moody is more like it. He was all chatty-watty when he picked me up yesterday morning, yet during the entire ride home, he was as quiet as a graveyard.

  “Anyway,” Jules says, holding the door open as Truffles and I walk out onto the sidewalk. “Passez une bonne journee.”

  “Thanks, Jules. You have a lovely day, too.”

  And standing next to the town car, back passenger side wide open, is Jack. Looking all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. Well, from what I can tell, anyway. He’s got those damn sunglasses and hat on again, making him look mystery man-ish.

  And God, do I hope he doesn’t drive slow. I have an important meeting with a well-known designer in an hour.

  Chapter 13

  Jaxson

  She’s stunning.

  My eyes don’t wanna break free. A prisoner fallen for its captor.

  Come on, man, don’t do this. Don’t you dare fall head-over for another southern belle.

  Gramps and Nana advised me to come clean. Tell Lauren I’m Jaxson and not Jack. Remove the sunglasses and hat—find out if she remembers me from the airport.

  But I don’t want to. Not yet, anyway. I’m still diggin’ the vibe of being this nobody. A driver enchanted by the beauty of his client.

  They make movies about this kind of shit. I’m just living it out in real time. Welcome to my unscripted reality show.

  The Jax Show.

  Despite the gray sky and cooler temperature, Paris streets are bejeweled with folks of all types, all seeming to have the same pleased with life glow about them. Sidewalk cafés, boutiques, flower shops, are all a buzz. Paris is euphoria topped with finesse and savoir faire. A symphony of superlatives.

  Plus an enormous presence of dogs. It seems everyone owns a pup—small, large, young, old—and businesses welcome each pooch as if they too are adored patrons.

  I need to get one of my own. You know, to fit in. Besides, with Nana and Gramps moving soon, I’ll need a companion at the villa. I still can’t believe they are leaving for a life in the South of France. Nana showed me some of her artwork last night. Man does she have some skills. I would kill to have been blessed with her creative genes. They’ve got grandiose plans to open an art gallery; Gramps will run the business side of it, while Nana does her thing with the paintings—mostly abstract. The movers are clearing out most of the villa this week. Gramps and Nana will be officially out this week.

  “What’s his name?” I ask, glad to have a reason to strike up conversation.

  Icy Hot Princess peers up from her phone. “I’m sorry?”

  “Your dog. What’s his name?”

  She chuckles. “Oh, my dog. Truffles. His name is Truffles.”

  Cute name. Cute dog. But mine would have to be larger.

  Her eyes snap back to her phone.

  “Were you able to think of a designer to pitch?”

  She nods. “Yep, I sure did. And I meet with him in an hour. Will I make it there? To my office before an hour? I know you tend to drive slow and all.”

  Sarcasm. My aphrodisiac.

  And since less is more, I offer no reply.

  When we come to a stoplight, Truffles barks and before I know it, he leaps to the front of the town car, plopping right onto my lap.

  “Truffles,” Lauren shouts, “get your butt back here right now.” She leans forward in her seat and pats my shoulder. “Jack, I am so sorry. He never does this. I’m not sure what’s come over him.”

  I lift the little guy off my lap and pass him back to his mom before traffic moves again. “It’s fine. Really. I guess he likes me.” I let out a hint of a laugh.

  “That’s the thing. Truffles only likes three men. My daddy, Jules, and André. Every other member of the male population, he avoids like the plague.”

  “Maybe Truffles knows the good guys from the bad ones,” I say, wishing I had better control of how quickly my thoughts break free from my mouth.

  “Well, come to think of it, he didn’t seem to enjoy the last guy I dated. But he didn’t shy away from Simon last night. So perhaps you may be onto something.”

  Wait. Who the fuck is Simon?

  “Simon? Is he your boyfriend or something?” I ask, after the lump of disappointment eases down my throat.

  Figures. Why would her beautifulness not have a boyfriend. Still a boyfriend doesn’t always mean taken. Single is single until someone puts a ring on it.

  “Mmm no,” she replies. But he is this gorgeous hunk of a man that moved in across from me. I met him yesterday after you dropped me off. The two of us rode the elevator up to my floor and he was looking fab in one of my designer suits. He knew who I was right away. Then, he told me his name and seconds later, the two of us realized we are next door neighbors. Anyway, fast forward to later last night when Truffles and I got locked out. Dreamboat Simon rescued us, sort of, and then asked me out. Truffles didn’t flinch the entire time Simon and I were chatting”—she pauses and takes in a deep sigh—“so he must be a good guy. Thank God.”

  “So, you said he asked you out? When are you going out with him?”

  “Tonight. But it’s just for coffee. I can’t wait. He’s got this charming British accent. I have a thing for accents.”

  Yep. So do I.

  She shoves her phone in her purse and massages Truffles’s ears as he cuddles in her lap. Then she fixes a hearty gaze onto my face via the rearview mirror. “Do you have a girlfriend, Jack?”

  My gaze leaves hers as I focus on the road, “No. Not anymore.”

  Quiet spills into the town car, as Icy Hot Princess eases her head on the headrest and shuts her eyes. I am dying to learn more about her, and feel robbed of the opportunity driving the short distance from her house to HC Headquarters. What brought her to Paris? Why does she hate flowers and candy? Does she know how to drive? And why hasn’t the right guy scooped her up and whisked her off to happily-ever-after-ville?

  Damn. What if this Simon dude is her right guy? And if he’s not, would she go out for a coffee with me? Or am I not good enough for her now that I’m a nobody?

  #YouAreJustTheDriver.

  Chapter 14

  Lauren

  “Is it true?” André asks, taking custody of Truffles as I plop my purse, file folders, and jacket on the top part of my desk.

  Truffles immediately supplies André a barrage of licks to the face.

  “Yes, it is true. Make sure Celesté knows we are expecting Antonio Michaels, CEO of CraveMe lingerie this morning and to make him feel as comfortable as possible when he enters the building.”

  Antonio is the designer I have a meeting with this morning. Sure, his new wife, Daniella, will start working for me later this week, and I could have waited until then to schedule this meeting, but time is a ticking. I need to lock in my first advertiser.

  André fans his face. “Oh my gosh, oh my gosh, Oh. My. Gosh. I, am going to meet the Antonio Michaels. Boss, you know I’m
a total fanboy. I feel like it was just yesterday I told you this.”

  I tilt my head to the side. “It was just yesterday,” I say, annoyance unhidden in my tone.

  Truffles stops drowning André’s cheeks, only to look at me, letting out a single arf as if to scold me.

  Brat.

  Last night, when I sifted through all of the designers André provided information on, I couldn’t seem to find one, who in my mind, fits what I am after for the birth edition of Haute Couture Magazine. I want to feature clothes made by the guest designer to be edgy.

  Relevant. Sensual. Cool.

  Diór won’t be interested, not this early on anyway. Others seem to be borderline competitors. I don’t want to parade competitors. Then I thought about reaching out to branding departments of vehicle manufacturers, have them include a spread of one of their sexiest line of cars, but the brands I had in mind are out of reach on such short notice.

  That’s when CraveMe came straight to mind. Sure, it’s sexy lingerie. But it’s also tasteful elegance I think women will want to wear underneath my line of clothing. And I have an idea that may make Antonio happier than a billionaire in Costa Rica.

  An hour later, Celesté, the office receptionist, informs me via the intercom that Antonio has arrived for our meeting. André is beside himself, but promises to reel his fanboy ass in for the meeting.

  “I’ll be back soon, hun. Just lay here on your bed until I come back,” I say to Truffles before I head out of my office.

  Inside the conference room, André and I are greeted by the very handsome Antonio who was peering out the window, with its spectacular view of the Eiffel Tower, the star. Seeing him in person, I can totally see why women and André swoon over him. He is damn yummy looking.

  Daniella is one lucky woman.

  He walks over from the window to us, his mouth wearing a half-smile.

  Tall. Suave. And he smells good, too. All suited up in Armani.

  “Good morning,” he says, shaking first my hand then André’s—who is so far, playing it cool, even though he keeps fanning his face. Gosh, I hope he doesn’t pass out. Like when he met Beyoncé. It wasn’t really her by the way. It was in Las Vegas. A marketing gig at the wax museum. We don’t really talk about it anymore.

  “Thank you so much for agreeing to meet with me on such short notice. I know you and Daniella are busy getting settled into your new home, part of the reason she won’t start working here until later this week.”

  He nods and flashes a warm smile. “No worries, Daniella wanted me out of her hair for a while anyway so she can decorate the house.”

  The three of us stand, in an awkward silence, before I gesture for Antonio to have a seat at one of the chairs around the circular conference room table. This room has got to be one of my favorites. It’s the room where members of my design team present ideas to me once a month. The three walls are painted a cool promenade white, each wall adorned with one word splashed across it in a thick onyx-colored brushy font. Dreamy. Influential. Posh. Three words that will always embody the makeup of Haute Couture.

  We all choose a seat to ease into, and while I feel a twinge of nervousness brewing in the pit of my gut, I clear my throat and say, “So, Antonio, I called this meeting because things are about to heat up at Haute Couture.”

  He shifts in his seat and rubs the stubble growing along his chin. “Okay, you’ve got my attention. What’s up?”

  I spill the same pitch I gave La Boutique—my vision of Haute Couture Magazine, it taking over the fashion and shopping world.

  The gleam in his eyes tells me his interest is piqued.

  So I continue.

  “La Boutique has given me an interim, yes. But I’ll need to secure my first guest designer. In other words, they want to know who my advertiser will be.”

  He nods, but offers no clear response. No smile. No lifted brow. No fingers tapping along the coal-colored tabletop.

  Nothing. Rien. Or Niente…since he’s part Italian.

  So, once again, I continue, internally praying the words spring out of my mouth as I melodically rehearsed this morning in the shower. There, I was confident this would all play out superbly. Everything sounds better in the shower.

  Including pitches to lingerie designers.

  “My vision for HC Magazine’s first advertising partner is of a brand that is not only chic and stylish, but a brand that is rich in form and elegance. CraveMe lingerie is all that. And more. We can pair CraveMe pieces with some of Haute Couture’s. A woman wearing a signature HC pant suit, and under the open blazer, a CraveMe bustier. An HC sheer blouse, with a stylish CraveMe bralette underneath it, for example.”

  An eyebrow lift emerges.

  Yay, we are getting somewhere.

  “Here’s the thing, Antonio. With CraveMe trying to penetrate more of the international markets, this may be an ideal way to see that into fruition. I plan to launch the first edition in a few weeks.”

  He sits up tall in his seat before he asks, “And how much is the advertising space?”

  André opens the file folder labeled Haute Couture Ad Space, removes the cost sheet, and slides it over to Antonio, who is now wearing eyeglasses.

  He still looks yummy, by the way.

  Antonio’s eyes breeze over the cost sheet, then he slides it back over to André, removes his eyeglasses, looks at me, and says, “I want four whole pages, the middle of the magazine, and my beautiful wife, Daniella, to be in charge of the shoot.”

  My mouth flies open—awed by his quick response. “Uh, sure, that all seems quite reasonable”—I beam not only internally, but I’m pretty sure externally as well—“and Daniella is the one I had in mind to help spearhead this project. She’s got an impeccable eye, so yes, she can be in charge of the CraveMe shoot for the magazine. One more thing”—I raise my index finger—“are you okay with CraveMe pieces being paired with HC’s for each spread?”

  Antonio looks to the ceiling for a brief moment before he says, “How about three pages with the HC/CM collaboration and then one page with a solo feature. I have a new campaign launching in a few weeks—the introduction of my men’s underwear line called ALLMe. I was planning to purchase a spread in Alpha Male Magazine, with someone who was named that magazine’s Most Eligible Bachelor of the Year, wearing a pair of the sexy men’s underwear.”

  André clears his throat. “I subscribe to that magazine. Love, love, love it.”

  Antonio looks at him and smiles. “Right.” He looks back at me. “Anyway, if you can agree to those terms, I say we have a deal.”

  I’m OMG giddy. CraveMe’s my first real advertiser. And to have him debut his new line ALLMe? That is a dream bonus. I wonder who this Alpha Male Magazine’s most eligible bachelor of the year is? I’ve never bothered reading that magazine. It’s not really my thing.

  “Absolutely. I’ll have my legal department draw up the contract and email it over to you this afternoon.”

  André grins and claps, then we all rise from our seats, exchanging hand shakes.

  Haute Couture Magazine. I did it!

  Chapter 15

  Lauren

  It’s later in the evening now, and I’m back home. I have barely time left to shower, pick out a cute dress, and do my hair and makeup before I hitch a ride down the elevator to meet Mr. Hottie in the lobby for our coffee date.

  My date with Simon tonight is a fabulous way to end a fabulous day. La Boutique was beyond ecstatic about CraveMe being the first advertiser. Even more so when I shared that Antonio will reveal his new brand in Haute Couture Magazine. I’ve said it—Haute Couture Magazine—at least a dozen times today, happy with the way it sounds rolling off my tongue. New. Debonair.

  When I step off the elevator, Simon is waiting for me; his steamy blues scan over me—down, then up—cruising my curvy figure. I used to hate that I wasn’t a size zero, one, two, or three, like my evil twin, Becky.

  Now I rock my size eight curves. And so do the models I hire, none of them a s
ize below an eight.

  “Hello, gorgeous,” he says, that accent making me forget how to think.

  Heat rushes to my face. I don’t even care if he can tell I’m blushing. “Hi,” is all I can muster up.

  Hey, if you saw him, you’d be mush, too.

  Trust me.

  Jeans. Jacket. Designer shoes. A smile hot enough to melt Elsa and her ice castle. Not Olaf. Way too cute.

  “Are you ready?” he says, his voice a lovely hum.

  “You bet.”

  We stroll to the parking garage, and as we approach a Jag, a sporty sexy two-seater, I hear the chirp-chirp sound of the alarm as he points the key remote, unlocking the door.

  Impeccable taste in cars too. See, man of my dreams.

  I slide in, after he opens the car door for me.

  All gentleman-y.

  We zip out of the parking garage, onto the magical streets of Paris, the backdrop of the Eiffel Tower all aglow. No matter how many times I see it, my heart literally skips a beat.

  Simon’s penetrating gaze probes my face. “I, uh, thought we’d have dinner instead of coffee. Especially since that dress of yours is far worthy of more than a simple coffee date. How about we venture out to one of my favorite restaurants?”

  I bob my head. “That sounds, wonderful.”

  Truthfully, anything he voices sounds wonderful. Even a simple clearing of his throat.

  He smells like fine European cologne featured in an online article I read on British GQ. Prada, Bulgari, or Cartier. Heck, for all I know, he can be wearing his own personalized scent of Yummy Man.

  “So”—I cross my legs—“where are we headed?”

  “A surprise?” He winks.

  Oooh, playful. I like that.

  Twenty minutes later, he vrooms into a parking space alongside the curb and cuts the engine, before he gets out and walks around to open my door. We walk, side by side for only about thirty seconds. When we turn the corner, we come face-to-face with the facade of Arpège—a three-Michelin-starred restaurant.