She swallows her sip of sparkling water. “Spite.”
My forehead furrows. “Spite?”
“Yes”—she bites on her lower lip—“my mama, with whom I never seemed to get along, used to indirectly make fun of my weight. She would take me and my evil twin shopping for clothes, hand us both the same small size, which she knew damn-well would only fit skinnier-than-me-Becky, then say,Oh yeah Lauren, I suppose they don’t have your size here. I guess we’ll have to special-order yours from the catalog where they sell plussize.”
She pauses for a few seconds to take a bite of lobster, then goeson.
“So, I got fed up, asked my daddy, who has always been my biggest supporter, if he could buy me a sewing machine and he hooked me up. By the time I got to high school, I had designed an entire collection of prom dresses for all sizes, including the skinny bitches like Becky. Of course, by then, I had outgrown my chubby stage, but wanted so badly for all girls to be able to go to a store that had the same style dress in size zero to sixteen. No girl leftbehind.”
I swallow the lump in my throat, saddened by what sparked her inspiration. “And after highschool?”
She produces a soft grin. “Well, I had an entire collection of dresses, pants, skirts, and blouses by the time I got to college. Four, by the time I graduated with a degree in Fashion Merchandising. I called my line of clothing Hot Mess Couture. Living in the south, the term Hot Mess didn’t always have a negative connotation.” She lets out a genuine belly laugh. “Then, my best friend Arabella and I took a trip to Paris for the summer. I fell in love and the fashionable women, walking the streets all decked out in their eloquence, got me wanting to bring my line of clothing here. So I did it. Came here to Paris and about six months later,Haute Couture—a brand of high-fashion clothing for women and men of all shapes and sizes—wasborn.”
I sit silent for a moment, completely fascinated by her, her story, and her drive. She took a negative experience and let that drive her to success. Something her dadandmom should be proudof.
“Wow, Lauren, I-uh, I think you’re amazing. Simplyamazing.”
Her eyes glisten as if my words make her want to tearup.
“Would you two like to see our dessert menu?” comes the waiter, breaking the awkward silence skating between Lauren andme.
I look to Lauren—if she’s up for some, I amtoo.
“Not me, I’m stuffed,” shesays.
“Okay, I’ll bring your checkthen.”
After I pay, we exit the restaurant, then I lead Lauren up a flight of stairs that takes us to a rooftop deck with a view of the city. We stand close, shoulder to shoulder, admiring the view of TheTower.
“It’s absolutely beautiful up here, Jaxson.” She grabs a loose strand of hair, flounced around by the breeze, and tucks it behind herear.
“Are youcold?”
She shakes her head before the word, “No,” escapes hermouth.
“Jaxson,”—she turns to face me—“it was you, right? The one I bumped into at the airport two monthsago.”
Now this blunt-force inquiry—I can admit, I was not prepared for. I suck up the shock, swallow it, and say, “Yes, Lauren, it wasme.”
Unable to peel my gaze off her lingering one, I lean in close, my thumb grazing her smooth cheek. I want to kiss her, feel her tongue intertwine withmine.
And when our lips lightly touch, we break away, both startled by, “Do you mind taking a picture ofus?”
An elderly man holds out hisflipphone, his female grey-haired companion grinning from ear toear.
I smile, grab his archaic phone and wait for them to strike their romantic pose, the shot of the Eiffel Tower as the stunning backdrop. They hear theclickfrom the phone’s camera before they break their pose and go on their merryway.
Lauren and I both chuckle. Then she leans in close to me, her head resting on my chest. I breathe in the scent of her hair, as we stand here, my arm around her. We’ll have another chance to finish thatkiss.
But for now I want to savor this moment. Justus.
Me. Lauren.Paris.
