De La Porte Fashion: The Complete Box Set

by Mj Fields

“Won’t even break a fucking sweat,” I grumble as I turn the corner onto Boulevard de la Tour-Maubourg.

  When I look up, I see blonde hair coming straight for me and she doesn’t see shit, because she’s looking at her damn phone and has headphones in. If I step right or left, she’s going to be right in the road.

  I brace myself for impact and take a step back when she collides into me to lessen it.

  She runs right into me, as I knew she would, and basically bounces off me. I reach out and grab her so she doesn’t hit the brick pavers.

  “Oh my goodness. I’m so sorry,” she yells as I release her biceps. “Oh it’s… you.”

  I tap my ear, reminding her she has earbuds in. She pops them out and sighs. “Sorry.”

  When she starts to walk around me, I step left to stop her.

  “Why are you out here by yourself at six in the morning?”

  Looking down, she waves her hands up and down her small frame. She’s dressed in running gear. “Not clubbing.”

  I attempt to hide my annoyance with one word. “Cute.” But it comes out unmasked and telling.

  That gains me an eye roll. “And where are you off to? Looking for some children to scare? Cornflakes to pee on? Mimes to curse out?”

  I bite the corner of my mouth because that was actually funny, but she sure as hell doesn’t need to know I think so.

  “Heading to check out de la Porte Paris.”

  She looks at me curiously.

  “I work for Bass, and I suppose now, your mother.”

  She takes her hands off her hips and crosses her arms over her chest. “Do you know Autumn?”

  “She’s an asshole.”

  She grins to that. “She’s the opposite of an asshole.”

  “Well, she doesn’t like me all that much.”

  “Does anyone like you all that much?” I cock an eyebrow in warning. She seems unaffected. “You have to admit.” She walks past me, now in the direction I was headed. “You don’t seem to want to make friends.”

  I follow her. “You don’t make friends with those under you.”

  “Hmm,” she shrugs.

  “Hmm,” I reply.

  After a few minutes of silently walking, she looks at me. “Do you think anyone will be there?”

  I ask the question I know the answer to. “Where?”

  “de la Porte?” She asks as she rubs her hands up and down her Under Armour long-sleeved shirt.

  “Is that where you’re going?” I ask, pulling my arms out of my black wool coat and then tossing it over her head.

  Before she pulls it off, she giggles, but as soon as she’s out from under the coat she rolls her aspen green eyes. “Yes.”

  She puts her arms in the coat and wraps it around her body. It could go twice around her.

  When she pulls it up around her mouth and nose, I notice her inhale and it makes me uncomfortable.

  “What do you wear?”

  I answer, “Clothes.”

  She smacks at me with the sleeve of the coat. “Cologne.”

  “I don’t.”

  She inhales again. “You certainly do.”

  “I use soap.”

  “Well, that’s very hygienic of you.”

  I lean over and inhale her scent and she jumps away as soon as she realizes that’s what I’m doing. “No fair. I ran.”

  “Well, at least you have an excuse for smelling like that.”

  She doesn’t stink, she smells good. Who the fuck sweats lavender and the ocean breeze? At least she doesn’t smell like vanilla, like Grace.

  Looking down at her phone, she’s focused on reading something and not paying a bit of attention when we come to the crosswalk. When she steps out, I grab her elbow and jack her back.

  She looks up at me and grimaces.

  “You need to pay attention to where you’re going.”

  She looks at me apologetically and I shrug.

  “It’s closed.” She holds up her phone so I can see the hours on de la Porte’s website.

  “Just trying to get a feel for the place.”

  “Well then, I’m glad I ran into you. I planned on doing the same thing today.”

  Crossing the road, I see the bridge ahead. Along it a path.

  “This looks like a good place to run.” I point to the path alongside the Seine. You should drop a pin here so you can make it back when you want to go running again.

  “I bet Maisie would like it, too. Maybe I’ll take her for a walk today.”

  “I’m sure she would.”

  I watch her drop a pin on the map app as we continue walking toward the bridge.

  Once in the middle, she asks me, “Can you take a picture of me?”

  I take her phone and look at her. She’s just like every other girl obsessed with social media selfies. “I have to build a presence. My high school stuff wouldn’t work.”

  She stands against the brick and smiles. I snap a picture.

  Something catches her eyes and she hurries down about twenty feet away and leans over the side of the bridge.

  “Good morning, ducklings. Where’s momma duck?”

  I snap a picture of her profile, when she looks back, I snap another picture.

  She looks at me oddly and I feel fucking odd. “Looks a hell of a lot better than a posed picture. I’m sure you’ll have plenty of them in the months to come.”

  She takes in a deep breath, a look of worry and wonder combined crosses her face.

  “No need to be nervous, it is what it is.”

  “And it’s not like I’m getting shot at, right?” she asks, wiping her hands off on her spandex pants.

  Wonder dissipates and worry stares at me in that beautiful shade of aspen.

  “You’re gonna be fine. Just don’t get caught up in the whirlwind the industry can create. And once your name gets out there, don’t go running alone.”

  “Why, do you think someone will–”

  “You’re wealthy now, hire someone to stay at your side.”

  “I’m not wealthy, my mom is. I’m going to make my own way, just like she did.”

  I grab her elbow again when she almost steps into oncoming traffic at the next intersection.

  “You make it a habit of walking around oblivious?”

  “I’ve walked the mean streets of New York since I was fifteen and managed just fine,” she shrugs

  Curiosity eats at me. “You ever get hit?”

  “Never.” She smiles smugly.

  The pedestrian light changes and I put my hand against her back and begin to walk. “How many close calls?”

  “None.” She gives me that smug look again.

  I know better, at least I think I do.

  “I call bullshit,” I say, removing my hand from her back once we’re on the sidewalk.

  I don’t look at her, and she doesn’t reply, we just keep walking.

  In the early morning, there is little pedestrian activity on the streets as we walk past store fronts that are not unlike those in New York. Adidas, Gap, Swatch, even Disney. Natasha stops and peers into windows of stores like Ann Tuil, Guerlain, and other high-end fashion stores.

  When we get to de la Porte, she cocks her head as she looks up. “Angels.” Then she looks at me. “He had a thing for them, huh?”

  “It appears so.”

  “But not in New York, not one,” she whispers as she leans in toward the window to get a closer look. “It’s understated.”

  I nod even though she doesn’t see me.

  “Interesting, right?” she asks as she looks at me.

  “It’s a far cry from the home to de la Porte New York.”

  She smiles big and bright. “Do you love it there?”

  “It’s a job,” I shrug.

  “Oh, come on, its beauty is everywhere you look. Like a dream.”

  She then points toward a very recognizable building, the Arc de Triomphe. “Wanna go?”

  I shake my head. “We should actually get back.” She looks a
little disappointed. “Bass hasn’t let the cat out of the bag that you’re designing the winter line, and if we’re seen...” Not saying another word, I shrug and turn around.

  “True,” she agrees and follows me.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Oliver

  Since returning from my walk, I’ve been in what is called the conservatory working. Work consists of answering emails for approval from Autumn. I’m half expecting her to send me one asking if she can take a shit.

  She had been cutting me some slack while Maisie was in the hospital, but in just one day, she’s more than made up for that week.

  I googled how to send an automatic reply saying I was out of the office, and yeah, I knew it would piss her off, but then, like most people, she’d see there wasn’t a damn thing she could do about it and she’d probably chill the fuck out.

  I decided to dive into researching the history of de la Porte. I’d avoided truly believing Bass wasn’t going to sell off the company, but now I know he’s invested. Not so much in the business, but the woman he fell in love with in matter of weeks, and the girl whose dreams he was going to help come true, Natasha.

  Every second she is close to me is a painful reminder of Grace. I loved her, and I’d lost her, and there wasn’t a thing I could do about it. As painful as it was hefting that burden for so many fucking years, it would be more painful to break a dying woman’s heart. And Maisie isn’t just any woman, she is everything a woman should be.

  Yes, I want to leave, but my conscience won’t allow it.

  After a couple hours of reading Jean de la Porte’s biography on Wikipedia, as well as the history of de la Porte, my body is sore.

  I know there is a gym in the home, and I need to work out some frustration.

  After changing, I find my way down to the basement gym.

  Even though I shouldn’t be shocked, I am; it’s unbelievable. There’s a steam room, and a double shower surrounded by glass blocks inside the room full of state-of-the-art machines. A stationary bike, stair machine, treadmill, an elliptical, free weights and benches, a speed bag, and a hanging bag, which is exactly where I will begin.

  I pop on my wireless headphones and commence beating the fuck out of the bag.

  When Disturbed’s Indestructible plays, I let all my frustrations go as I beat the fuck out of my parents, because they beat the fuck out of me. When Drowning Pool’s Bodies begins, I beat the fuck out of terrorists, because I can’t shoot the fuckers anymore. When Papa Roach’s Last Resort begins, I beat the fuck out of the black and white images that keep me awake, of all my fallen brothers that I couldn’t get to in time. Godsmack plays I Stand Alone, and I beat the fuck out of the past because it keeps staring me in the fucking face. Man in the Box by Alice in Chains begins when I start beating the fuck out of cancer, because it’s beating the fuck out of Maisie, and because it’s beating the fuck out of her, it’s beating the fuck out of me.

  When I’m still not tired, I start all over again, beating the fuck out of a life that’s done nothing but kick me in the balls.

  Welcome home, soldier.

  Forty minute later, my knuckles are almost bare. I kick off my shoes and begin kicking the hell out of it.

  When I’m finally tired and soaked with sweat, I hit the sauna to sweat some more. Then finally, I hit the shower.

  With my hands against the glass blocks that are just about five-feet-tall on all but one side, I’m standing under the water trying to calm my heartrate when I hear Bass.

  “Hey, man.”

  I look up and he’s grinning but I’m not in the fucking mood. I won’t put that shit on him. He’s happy. He deserves it.

  “Gotta share a top-secret bit of intel.”

  I roll my eyes as he pretends to salute me as I finish rinsing my body.

  He continues, “Can’t tell a soul.”

  I turn off the water, grab a towel, dry off my hair a bit, and then wrap the towel around my waist. “Yeah, top secret implies that.”

  His face nearly splits as he cheeses, “Angela’s pregnant.”

  I have no idea what to say. They haven’t been together long at all, and Bass never wanted kids, ever.

  “You’re good with that?” I ask as I step into a pair of shorts.

  “Hell yes, I am. I found my heaven, my person, and she’s carrying one we made together. I am so fucking good with it.”

  Instead of asking the million questions running through my head, I congratulate him.

  I spend the rest of the day in the conservatory, doing more research on the fashion industry, hoping to find something, anything to ignite a fire inside me, to give me a reason to roll over in the morning and look forward to something, anything.

  “Hey.” Natasha appears in the room holding a plate. “You didn’t eat lunch with us. You missed dinner.” She sets the plate in front of me. “Figured a guy your size doesn’t miss many meals.”

  “You saying I’m fat?” I lean back and link my hands behind my neck.

  Her face starts to flush. “Of course not. I just thought you might be hungry.”

  “Thanks.” I lean forward and look at the plate of pasta and breaded chicken.

  “Chicken parmesan,” she says, sitting on the chair across the desk from me. “It’s good.”

  She pulls her leg up and sets her foot on the seat, resting her chin on her knee and looking out the window, but says nothing. She looks pensive.

  “You need something?” I ask, pulling the plate in front of me.

  She sighs as she shakes her head and stands. “Nope.”

  When she starts to walk toward the door, I feel like a total dick. It’s not her fucking fault she looks like Grace.

  “Natasha, I apologize. Like I said before, this isn’t my thing, but I can try to–”

  “No thanks,” she whispers.

  I flop back in the chair and push the plate away. “Nice, asshole, real fucking nice.”

  I try to focus on the article in front of me, the history of Paris fashion, but I can’t, because I am really fucking hungry.

  Fifteen minutes later and I’m taking the empty plate to the kitchen. As I walk across the marble floor, I hear the television coming from Maisie’s quarters.

  I hear Angela and then I hear Natasha. I’m sure Maisie is loving having them around.

  When I walk out of the kitchen, I hear Maisie yell, “Bastien!”

  I see him run from the bathroom into chateau la Maisie.

  I quicken my steps to her, worried something is wrong.

  She points an accusatory finger at Bass. “Do you have something to tell me?”

  “Like…?”

  I’m glad I’m not going to miss this, her reaction. I actually think it’s comical that he thinks he could keep it from her.

  “Like Angela and I are…” He pauses, and I look at Maisie, who is smiling from ear to ear. He smiles back. “Pregnant?”

  She sits straight up and slaps her hand to her leg. “Thank you, Lord! I have grandbabies!” She squeezes Natasha’s hand then reaches for Bass’s. “I have grandbabies.”

  He leans in to hug her and smiles proudly.

  He laughs, “That means you need to get to work on physical therapy, so you can hold him.”

  “Or her.” Maisie winks. “Or them.”

  “Oh no,” Angela intervenes. “One. Just one. And we wait three more months before spreading our joy outside these walls.”

  Bass looks at me, and the fucker is glowing. I glance at Angela, who is looking at Bass. Any worries I’ve had, are diminished.

  I look at Natasha and her aspen eyes are on me with a million questions looming. Questions I’m sure she would have asked, had I given her the chance.

  I’m such a fucking dick.

  I head back into the conservatory and open my laptop. Then I fire off an email to Autumn asking for a list of key suppliers, reports on the board members, any other pertinent information and timelines for the upcoming line release.

  When I get an au
tomatic response, I think, “Well done.”

  I close the laptop and sit back, trying to think of what I could do now, to pass the time and avoid people, namely Natasha.

  Annoyed at the situation, upset with my actions, and irritated because I’m bored as hell, I stand and force myself to go sit in the room and spend time with Maisie. When I walk in, they’re watching a movie. A cartoon.

  You have got to be fucking kidding me.

  And again, the only place to sit is by Natasha.

  She moves her legs that are curled up under her, behind her to give me more room.

  As I sit, I say, “Thank–” My mouth goes dry and can’t finish the words.

  “Yep,” she says and leans her head back on Maisie’s shoulder.

  Christ, I need to get a grip.

  “Kiss the girl,” Natasha sighs.

  What the fuck? Screams inside my head and my head whips around. On the tip of my tongue is, What the fuck did you say?

  When her eyes meet mine, she looks shocked and her face turns red immediately. When she turns away, my fucking heart hammers, my throat burns, and I’m more uncomfortable than I ever was in the middle of a fucking battlefield.

  Then a little fucking red crab starts singing on the big screen, then the chorus begins and his words, kiss the girl.

  Natasha looks over her shoulder and cocks her eyebrow, then looks quickly away.

  Fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck.

  After watching the stupid fucking crab try to convince the man in the boat to kiss the girl, I glance over again and see her lips twisted up in the corners.

  When the movie ends, Maisie sighs, “Ollie?”

  “Maisie?” I look over.

  “I’m tired. Would you help me to my chair?”

  “I can help,” Natasha offers.

  “That one is big as a bear and you’re just a tiny little thing.” Maisie pats her knee. “He can help.”

  As I help Maisie into her bed, she’s whistling.

  “Good day?” I ask as I lift her legs under her knees and then pull the blanket over her.

  “You missed it.”

  “Missed what?”

  “You missed lunch, dinner, and four movies,” she smiles.

  “Since when are you a movie lover?” I ask sitting next to her.