Chapter 17
Lauren
He’s perfect.
Simon Grant isperfect.
One dozen teddy bears? Melt my tender littleheart.
I’m at my desk sipping on my iced coffee, staring at the gift Simon sent over. Thoughtful. Out of thebox.
Not flowers. Notcandy.
Amazingness.
When I shared details of my date with Arabella via our FaceTime chat this morning, she didn’t seem impressed. For some reason she doesn’t like Simon. Not sure why—she hasn’t seen him. She said he still sounds like the stuffy business types I need to get awayfrom.
“I told you, a good bad boy will rock your world,” is what she remindedme.
Ugh. Honestly I don’t know one single bad boy. Maybe Jack, my driver. I mean, he’s got that tattoo and all. But really, other than him, I don’t usually cross paths with any guys who aren’t thestuffy businesstypes.
“MadameBlake, the photographers for theFoxyshoot are here,” says Celesté via theintercom.
“Great, have André show them where to set up and I’ll meet them in thirty minutes,” Ireply.
FoxyisHaute Couture’sline ofaccessories.
Handbags. Purses. Earrings. Sunglasses. You know, anything that addsglitterto an outfit. I’ve asked my photographers to capture some of my most popular items of theFoxyline for themagazine.
Mymagazine. I still can hardly believeit.
Work over the next week is going to be tight. Long hours. Maybe six days in a row, now that I have a confirmed publishing deadline all around the time of my annualHaute CoutureFashion Show. I’m not worried at all about The Show. That team totally knows what they’re doing as this will be the fourthyear.
But the magazine…that’s a differentstory.
So much todo.
Photo shoots. Layout designs—that’s where my new employee Daniella Belle, I mean DaniellaMichaels,will help me out. She’s got a keen eye. André will enjoy working with her. As long as he doesn’t go full-onfanboy.
Then there’s the front cover. I’ve racked my brain over this for quite some time now. Do I want a model, a group of models wearing HC clothing? I’ll need to decide thatsoon.
“Lauren, the photographers are ready for the shoot; are you on your way down?” André asks via theintercom.
“Yes, hun. I’ll be rightdown.”
It’s beenhours and I’m famished. André is eating a late lunch with the photographers. He ordered takeout delivery of Thai food from a service calledfoodora. While all I want is to escape to the café for some of my favoritesoup.
And when I order and make my way to a booth, I spot Jack, eating, looking down at his phone. He’s about two hours early. Bless hisheart.
“Hey,” I say, sliding into the booth, now sitting across fromhim.
His mouth drops as he shifts in his seat. “Uh, hey, fancy meeting you here.” His voice is low anddeep.
Peering down at his food, I say, “I see you ordered thesoup?”
“Yep. I’m looking for an ailment to cure my attitude.” His lips curve into asmirk.
His lips are full. Pillow-y soft-looking.
