by Mj Fields
He replies tightly, “Just trying to make her life more enjoyable, Autumn.”
Autumn responds the same, “But that’s her daughter, Bass.”
“I know you are her best friend, Autumn. You and I aren’t enemies or competing for her attention–”
“Says the man who has her an ocean away,” she huffs.
“That’s her choice. We’re a family now and–”
“In two months, you’re a family?” She laughs.
“In two minutes, I knew she was mine for a lifetime, so yeah. It was my idea to stick to Paris where she’ll be closer to Natasha, for her. It was her idea to bring Maisie here, knowing I wanted her close. We’re partners in this, Autumn, I assure you. Which reminds me, Angela wants you here for the holidays. Do you think it’s possible?”
Autumn has a new look on her face now, reminiscent of a cartoon character whose eyes are about to fall out of their sockets. “I suppose I could change my plans.”
Her words are a contradiction to the look on her face and it makes me laugh. She looks away from the phone and to me and sticks out her tongue at me.
If I were back managing the restaurant, she’d be getting reprimanded. Fortunately for her, because of Natasha, I don’t think she’s as much of a jackass as I would otherwise.
“Bass, let me get to work on securing some showings for the properties I’ve scouted in England and–”
“You mean Celine?” Bass corrects me.
“Yeah.”
At the clearing of Autumn’s voice, I look up and see her perfectly arched brow raising in a speculative way. “Want to clue me in on–”
My glare cuts her off, and then, my words, “I’ll fly in and meet with you and Angela as soon as I can to go over the details. There’s a board meeting Monday that I need to be back for, so possibly Thursday.”
“Sounds good.”
“Chat soon,” I say.
“Have a good one,” he laughs. “You too, Autumn. Goodbye.”
I look up to see Autumn’s arms crossed, still judging me.
“Is there a problem?” I ask.
“You tell me?”
I have an aversion to her standing over me. I push back in my chair and stand so she’s forced to look up. “I don’t answer to you. You have a question, ask. And if I think you need an answer, you’ll get one.”
She fires off, “Who’s Celine?”
“A trusted associate of mine.”
“Why are properties being scouted in England?”
“London,” I correct.
She argues, “You told Bass, England.”
Fuck.
“Well, Autumn, London happens to be in England.” She rolls her eyes. “I met Celine in England and we discussed an idea I had.”
She steps out of my personal space and I think I’m in the clear. I think that she’s going to be satisfied. She’s not. She sits down in the chair on the opposite side of the desk.
“What idea?”
I hate fucking lying, but just like last night with Natasha, I guess I can manipulate truths.
“With the change in power, I feel it’s best if de la Porte shows it’s strength and grows. I think the board will take the hint that they aren’t going to be sold out, that we’re not just stable, but growing. de la Porte has a strong physical presence in Paris and New York City. I think it’s logical for de la Porte to have one in London as well. Possibly Milan, if the men’s line is to grow.”
“I’d really hate to say that’s ridiculous, but it’s actually brilliant.”
And utter bullshit that I even know the Big Four fashion cities in the world. Two years ago, my focus was on demolishing terrorist cells and fighting wars, not where overpriced garments would fare best.
“If you’re all done–”
“Not quite,” she smirks. “I FaceTimed with Natasha yesterday and she was at lunch with this associate of yours, this Celine.”
“That’s nice.”
“Natasha said she used to be in the Army with you.”
Although I itch to correct ‘be in the Army’ with ‘served in the US military’, I don’t.
Autumn continues, “That she’s still in the reserves. That she does security work.”
Jesus, I don’t have time for this shit.
“Care to explain?”
“She’s secure,” I pause and then continue, “ing, for me, for de la Porte.”
“Explain what this has to do with Natasha being a child.”
“I didn’t say she was, that’s something you’ll need to discuss with Bass if you have an issue with it.”
I look down at my computer screen as I sit, hoping like hell she’ll get the hint and leave it alone, even though she’s the fucking one that started this shit.
I look up and she’s sitting there still eyeing me. “Is there something I can do for you, Autumn? Or do you think maybe you can get the finance report ready for the board meeting Monday.”
“And what are you going to secure today?” she asks as she stands.
I answer without looking up, “Hopefully a storefront suitable for de la Porte.”
For Natasha.
She walks out of my office and I give her a firm reminder, “The door, Autumn.”
She slams it behind her.
As soon as I know she’s not coming back in with a smart-ass remark, I pull out my phone and send Natasha a text.
-Please give me a call at your earliest convenience. Preferably before you speak to your mother or Autumn.
After I send it, I look at the time. It’s nine in the morning here, London time, it’s four in the afternoon.
Instead of giving in to my desire to look at her schedule, see if she’s in class, check her location, which I didn’t ask her to share with me, yet she did. I try to focus on narrowing down the properties and remaining calm. Instead, I feel like a kid on Christmas, thrilled I actually had a reason to message her. I spent much of the flight back trying to come up with one that didn’t make me look like a tool. Out of a hundred, not one scenario painted me proper.
Instead of acting on it, I came up with a brilliant idea. I Googled properties in London, hell bent on finding a more secure housing situation than a college dorm full of salivating dipshits. Which led into a hundred situations in which I could end up holding her again, because I didn’t fucking dream about war, about abuse, about terrorists and guns and death and angry dogs and crying children. I dreamed of a beautiful young woman with a paint brush, painting all that was black and white, vibrant colors.
Then I decided to look into ensuring it became a reality. Turned out to make perfect business sense.
Now I have to choose where de la Porte would flourish best. Oxford Street, Knightsbridge Street, Bond Street, Kings Road, Carnaby Street, or Covet Garden; all are suitable.
My phone rings and I feel my heart hammering again. It starts slow and steadily increases.
Instead of using speaker, which is my preferred way, I would rather Autumn not listen in on my conversation.
“Hello.”
“Oliver, is everything okay?”
She sounds anxious and I immediately want to calm her, like she unknowingly does me. “Yes, of course.”
“Okay?”
The question in her voice makes me feel even more ridiculous than I had when I realized I couldn’t wait to jump at the chance to hear it.
“If I were a young rich woman who gave a shit about money where would I go, in London, to shop?”
She gives a near silent chuckle and then lets out a breath.
“Close your eyes and imagine, where you’d go.”
“Hmmm, lets see.” I can imagine her right now, eyes closed, smile forming on her perfect little bow lips, with the tiny scar, a reminder she’s lived more than her nearly nineteen years. “Bond Street is where the rich and famous flock. Kings Road is another area with high end fashion. Knightsbridge is where Harrods is and lots of visitors designate it as must visit shopping areas here. Designer shops lik
e Armani, Gucci, and Christian Dior are close by.”
“Which one of those draws you to it the most?”
“I like Knightsbridge, but love Sloan Street that’s very close to there.”
“Could you see your designs there?”
“de la Porte’s brand would do well there. But,” she laughs, “Never mind.”
“I want to hear what you have to say, tell me.”
“I can imagine my dream designs in something similar to The Closet in New York. A boutique with more one of a kind designs. A place women can go and have an individual experience. One that makes them feel beautiful, not simply shopping off the rack. Something much more intimate.”
I hate shopping. Hate. It. But fuck, if I wouldn’t want to see someone who loves fashion melt in a place like she imagines. No, not someone, her.
She laughs, “Is that why you really called?”
“No. I spoke to Bass this morning and your friend Autumn walked in and asked a million questions about Celine and why I was in London, so I think it would be a good idea to let your mother know that Ines messaged you.”
“What did Bass say?”
“He’d prefer she didn’t know, and I understand that. However, Autumn is asking a lot of questions as to why I was in London, and I’m pretty sure she’s going to ask more.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning, when I told her I met Celine in London, she wasn’t satisfied with the answer that she was scouting locations for a new storefront, and because of your conversation with her yesterday, Autumn knows she works security. I think she’s reading this wrong.”
“This meaning?”
“Natasha,” I sigh. “She’s the one who began this fake boyfriend shit, and I have no desire to betray your confidence by telling her I found you getting shitfaced.”
“So, you think I should tell them she messaged and,” she sighs now. “I hate lies, hate them. How do people keep them straight? Why would they want to?”
“Autumn put us in an odd position. Not that I don’t think it’s helpful in giving you the ability to better focus without little dipshits drooling down your back, but if you tell your mother Ines messaged you, then you can let Autumn know the same. I’d hate for Autumn to run back and tell your mother before you had a chance, and I really dislike her looking at me like I’m bullshitting her.”
“This is crazy. Mom doesn’t need the stress.”
“I know, and I know that’s what Bass will say, too. But you and your mother appear to have a very open relationship and if I were her, I’d want it to continue that way.”
She’s quiet for a minute then she whispers, “Should I tell her about the bar, the–”
Fuck no!
I interrupt, “I don’t think that’s necessary.”
“Me either,” she says under her breath. She clears her throat. “I hate that bitch.”
“Yeah, but–”
“I know. But, Oliver, Mom won’t like that Bass didn’t tell her and I don’t want to cause issues with them. They’re just starting out. They’re happy. And she’s still a bitch.”
“Your mom’s not always going to be happy with choices Bass makes, but that doesn’t mean they won’t be happy, Natasha. You and she are close. Men like Bass and I may not have had that, but we sure as hell would have liked to.”
Reel it in, man.
“I think it would be best if I tell her in person.”
“FaceTime her,” I say, looking at my computer and Googling Sloan Street and clicking the map. It’s just on the opposite side of Hyde Park, less than three miles away from her school. “Wait a minute.”
“Wait a minute?” She asks confused.
“Hold on, Natasha.” I hit a few keys and see a brick building, painted black. It’s on the corner and appears to have been a restaurant. It’s five stories, the first three commercial, the top two open space.
I shoot Celine a message asking her to check it out and sit back feeling relieved.
“I spoke to Bass earlier about an idea of expanding de la Porte’s physical presence. We’re currently in two of the Big Four. If we expand to London as a test, Milan could be next.”
“London,” she repeats and I hear the smile in her voice. I like it.
“I think I found the perfect location. I will have Celine look at it. It’s new to the market and–”
“Where?” The excitement in her voice lessens the worry that she’ll read my intentions wrong… or right in this case, but I prefer her to remain naïve to the bullshit in my head.
“Sloan Street.”
“Are you serious?”
“He’s open to the idea of expansion, and is going to discuss it with your mother, so yes.”
“It’s just a few blocks away, I can go check it out.” Her voice carries so much excitement I wish I could see her face.
“Natasha, Celine is looking into it, and if it’s a safe neighborhood, it’s something you, your mom and Bass should check out together.”
“And you, Oliver!”
She now sounds giddy, and my need to share in that drives me to ask, “What are you imagining?”
She lets out a sigh. “When I close my eyes, I imagine ‘la Placard’, London.”
What I wouldn’t give to be able to close my eyes and see what she does. “Christ.”
Her voice is tenser when she asks, “Does that sound ridiculous?”
“No, not at all, I was just thinking.” I stop before I let my fucking thoughts fly out of my mouth, and sound like a little bitch.
“Thinking what?”
When I don’t answer immediately, she laughs, “Come on, tell me.”
So I do. “The way you see something in your head when you haven’t even seen the building–”
“Does it have windows on each corner of the storefront?”
I look at the screen. “It does. How the hell do you know that?”
“Does it have a black double door entry on the Sloan Street side?”
Holy shit, I think as I shake my head and answer, shocked, “Yeah. How the hell–”
She starts laughing. “I can use Google, Oliver.”
I chuckle, “I suppose you can.”
“I’m going to go see it. It’s perfect.”
“Natasha,” I warn.
“Oh my God, Oliver, it’s three miles away.”
“And when Bass and your mother come and check it out, do you think your mother will be able to tell if you are truly excited, or if you’re faking it?”
She huffs, “Fine.”
“Good.”
“When can they come?”
It only takes an hour to secure a showing for the next day. When I spoke to Bass, I told him I’d fly in tomorrow morning and stay with Maisie and he and Angela should take the flying Love Shack to Paris, christen it, and take Natasha to see it. Then Natasha could fly back to Paris with them and then onto New York, and I’d catch a commercial flight back Sunday.
Both Bass and I agreed it would work out best for all, and I’d get to see Maisie without interruption.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Natasha
Standing under my red umbrella outside of the Audi, I watch my mom and Bass’s plane circle before it lands, trying to come down from the high of this past week.
The high of my first dance, the high of waking up hungover from my first experience with alcohol, the high of telling a bully to basically suck it, the high of feeling less pressure to date, from society and my friends, namely Shana, the high of possibly bringing my favorite place in the world, ‘la Placard’, to London, and yes, the high I get from breathing in the air around Oliver.
Tragically Beautiful.
I hear Celine clear her throat from behind me and I look over my shoulder. “Are your feet ever firmly planted on the ground?”
I laugh, because every time I’m around her she makes a similar statement. And I give her the same sort of reply, “Not if I can avoid it.”
“Well then, I suppose I’m doi
ng my job.” She winks.
“You are, and I hope I’m not making it terribly challenging.”
“I can’t give you names, but I can tell you, compared to the divas I’ve dealt with in the past, you’re a breath of fresh air.”
I know Celine has served as security for people whose wealth is nearly unimaginable. Only nearly, because I have been blessed to have a mother who worked for a man with unimaginable wealth, and I’ve been allowed into de la Porte and blessed to breathe in its magic. And I’ve been blessed to have been given a warm blanket of protection, by a mother who encouraged me to dream.
Unlike Bass and Oliver.
Curiosity gets the better of me. “Do you have tattoos like Oliver?”
“No identifiable markings as of yet.”
“So, how does he have as many.”
“It’s a choice.” She shrugs. “In the Army, you just have to make sure they’re not visible with a tee shirt on, so above the elbow a bit, no neck. Clearly, he added to his since he left service.” She smirks, “Damn, you’re an art lover, so you must think Oliver is–”
“Not like that.” She laughs at my interruption. “No, really, he’s not my type.”
She nods and looks at the plane, now descending. “He’s everybody type, girl. Hell, there were moments in the desert that I was in need of a connection and I even went for it.”
“You slept with Oliver?” I to act like it doesn’t bother me, but for some reason, it seems to.
“He talked me out of it,” she laughs. “I mean, he fucked half the desert and declined me.”
“Why? You’re beautiful.”
“A couple reasons. First, I was drunk. He made it clear he doesn’t hook up with drunk women, especially those who seem emotionally unstable.”
“He called you unstable?”
“I’m a lesbian, Natasha, I was trying to just… feel something other than death and destruction. When I woke up feeling like shit because I’d thrown up all night, he was sitting in his bed shaking his head. I was embarrassed and bitchy. He put me in my place. Told me I should be thanking him. Then he told me I’m not his type anyway. Oliver has a type and I’m not it.” She shrugs.
“What’s his… type?”
