Chapter 8
Jaxson
Please don’t be late.I don’t likewaiting.
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 inKindergarten.
In other words: I’ll never forgetthem.
Icy Hot Princess has been on my mindthough.
Mostly because she’s so damn beautiful. I mean, her eyes alone make me wanna goggle at her all day, if I should be solucky.
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 andfound.
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 aclient.
Right?
Especially not one that’s a southern belle diva icy hotprincess.
A break fromrelationshipswill do me some good. Although I see now my time with DixiefuckingLane wasn’t real love. For her anyway. Yet, I can honestly say, I fell forher.
Hard.
And I’ll do my best not to fall for anyoneelse.
Not until my heartheals.
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 helpme.
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 Ishouldhave learned about her before she stepped into the car, like she so blatantlysuggested.
Creator ofHaute Couture. Hater of flowers and candy. And from what I can tell, she’s definitelysingle.
What kind of a woman hates flowers and candy?I laugh internally. Maybethat’swhy she’ssingle.
The fewHaute Coutureoutfits I’ve got hanging in my closet cost me a pretty penny. But worth every single one ofthem.
“Bonjour! What can I get started for you?” asks the chef from the open kitchen as I stand staring at the Café Couture menuboard.
I’m insideHaute Coutureheadquarters, killing time since I thought it best to arrive early, you know, to avoid the risk of beinglate.
“Um, what do yousuggest?”
The chef grins. “Ah oui. Cela dépend de ce que vous voulez. You prefer something heavy orlight?”
I shrug. “You got a burger andfries?”
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 toyou.”
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 inHaute Coutureclothing. But while there is a small retail store on the opposite side of the lobby, across from the café, most of this space housesHaute Coutureheadquarters. Lauren’s office is probably up on the second floor, overlooking the EiffelTower.
“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 mysister.
“I’ll have water, if that’sokay.”
She nods. “Of course. I’ll be rightback.
