by Mj Fields
Stella runs in and slides across the floor.
“Oh my God, what is that you’re wearing? Are you trying to ruin your chances of getting laid tonight by Aaron Esposito, Aaron Esposito, Aaron Esposito?”
“He happens to be a huge fan of granny panties.” She smiles then looks at me. “These still doing it for you?”
I nod over my cup of coffee then wink.
Then she runs up the stairs.
“Really?” Autumn asks.
“Apparently.” I shrug.
“Is that a thing?”
“It is. There’s a secret brotherhood and everything.”
When she furrows her brows at me, I smile.
“You’re lucky you’re so damn handsome, or I’d give you an earful.” She walks past me and toward the stairs with a bag in hand.
I look at Artois. The poor bastard isn’t happy with his yellow bow tie and matching cuffs on, but Stella insisted we all bring the sunshine today.
“Don’t look so pissed off. I’m wearing the same tie.”
Two minutes later, everything is quiet. This makes me nervous. Really fucking nervous.
Five minutes later, I can’t wait any longer.
When I walk into our room, I’m expecting a mess. But what I get is quite the opposite.
Stella is wearing a black, form-fitting dress that hits just above her knees with pin-dot-sized white polka dots and a thin yellow belt high around her waist, accentuating her curves.
Autumn sees me first. “We lost the granny panties, and it all came together.”
Stella turns and smiles at me. “Mom sent this to Autumn for today. What do you think?”
“Stunning.”
Sexy. I’m getting hard. I want to tear it off or maybe pull it up and fuck you with it on.
“On my half of the shelf in the closet is a gift from Bruno. He wanted you to have it today.”
Natasha pops out of the closet with the box. “This?”
I don’t even have the chance to respond before Stella snatches it, runs to the bed, and tears open the brown packing paper.
When she pulls out a pair of stilettos that match the belt, she hugs them and squeals. Then she turns and finds my eyes.
I wink.
She winks back and holds them out, swaying them back and forth. “Wanna help me put them on?”
“Wanna be late for your release?”
She nods and grins.
Autumn and Natasha laugh as I walk away because, if I don’t, I’m going to cause a scene.
“You ready in New York?” I smile at Ginny and the crew on the monitor as Stella paces, oblivious to the fact they are live.
“We sure are. You ready, Stella?”
She looks up and grins at her mom, waving with both hands as she shakes her head in the negative.
“Better get there. We go live in … ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one.” I wink then open the door at the same time that the staff hits the button, raising the blinds that have hidden the view of the “site” from the outside world.
Stella’s eyes widen as women begin to come in.
“That’s the one from the video!”
Stella looks at me inquisitively.
“I love that video. My daughter is obsessed with the Staten Island Starlet, and they say it was the same designer.”
“You didn’t,” she whispers.
“May have leaked the possibility.”
“I’m gonna hurt you.” She narrows her eyes, but it’s obvious that she doesn’t mean it.
I bend down and give her a quick kiss. “Be pissed later, Stella. Right now, enjoy your moment. I bet you sell out within the hour.”
“Oh, please.” She laughs.
I point at the screen. “New York’s got a line two blocks down the road.”
“No way.” She laughs again then looks at the screen and covers her mouth. “Ohmygod.”
“Go and enjoy, baby. This is all because of you.”
“It’s because of you.”
I shake my head. “I don’t even carry a purse. Now go mingle, help with the kiosks, have fun.”
It takes but minutes for them to recognize her. Selfies are taken, she’s asked to sign inside the bags, to sing, and she’s handling it all the way Stella does—with a smile.
Tyler, one of our school friends, is my point man in New York. He messages me within an hour, telling me that all the “Staten Island Bags,” as the public has dubbed it, are sold out in store. There were two thousand in New York. Here, half that.
Half an hour later, the bag is sold out online, on both sites.
“Can I steal you for a moment?” I ask Stella as I smile at the women surrounding her. I wave to Natasha, Autumn, and Angela, and then hit Ginny’s number to get her on Facetime. When she answers, I hold up the phone.
Stella, not knowing I called her, looks at her. “Is everything okay, Mom?”
“The Staten Island sold out.”
“Shut up.” Stella laughs. “All five hundred of them?”
Ginny laughs. “You mean two thousand?”
“Shut up!” She looks at me and laughs. “You broke a promise!”
“I took a gamble on you. Worked out.”
“And the interactive kiosk site thing”—Ginny laughs again a little incredulously—“is that a glitch or are they really all out, too?”
Stella looks at me, and I smile, telling her, “Sold out.”
“Shut. Up!”
“And Tyler just messaged that the online store itself is also out.”
“Shut! Up!”
“So, what’s that mean?”
I look back at the woman who is clearly eavesdropping. “It means, whatever we have here in store is for Staten Island.”
And just like that, they are all buying two bags.
Four hours after Simply Stella’s first launch, we lock the door and close the blinds in New York and London.
Stella thanks everyone profusely and tells them all how much she loves them. She also invites everyone here for dinner then looks at the monitor.
“When I figure out when we’re coming back for a visit, we’ll have dinner at the Staten Island dinner cruise.” She looks at me. “Right?”
“You’re the boss, babe.”
“Well”—she looks around the room, doing a full turn, and then looks back at the camera—“I guess that’s it?” She looks back at me. “Are we done?”
“One last thing. I am proud of you for taking a chance on your dream. Not many people do that. You fought your little ass off to get through school. You worked while attending college. You’ve done everything with grace, class and, of course, some of that Stella sass. You’re an inspiration, Stella McCarty. Too many of us give up. So, I’m going to ask you to help me make my biggest dream come true.”
“Of course. Let’s get at it.” She smiles.
When I kneel on one knee, her eyes grow wider, her smile bigger, and then she starts giggling nervously. When I pull the ring from my pocket and open the box, her mouth gapes open as she looks at the ring that I had designed for her.
The pale-yellow, square, cushion cut diamond is a beauty, accented by a row of white diamonds around it. On the platinum band are diamonds haloing the ring.
“Marry me, Stella? Be my wife, my partner, my everything?”
She nods up and down quickly. “Yeah. Um, yep. I mean, yes, yes, yes!”
As I stand, I slide the ring onto her finger then wrap my arms around her, lifting her and kissing the lips of the woman who brings the sun to even the grayest of days.
“I promise you, Stella McCarty, I’ll make you smile forever.”
Acknowledgments
To each and every one of my readers and blogger friends that decided to take a chance on this book, thank you. Your support and love of written words means the world to me. I am so grateful for each and every one of you.
To Kris: Thank you for stepping in when I was past my original edit date. <3 U.
To Donna: Thank you for all the finishing touches that you make to ensure I don’t look like a total idiot. So excited to have you.
To Bobbie, Diana, and Elizabeth: Your feedback and encouragement help more than I can even put into words.
To Mandy: Thank you for loving Aaron Esposito, Aaron Esposito, Aaron Esposito.
To my reader group, Ladies of Love and Steel: You make me laugh, you make me smile, and you make me remember daily that I have made the choice to surround myself with HEARTS SO BIG, mine grows bigger each day. Forever Steel, ladies.
To my ARC crew: I love your passion and support for every book I put out. From the bottom of my heart, thank you, thank you, thank you.
To Bobbie, Jamie, Paige, Ivy, Laurie, Renee, Christa, KA: Through thick and thin….
To Kate Stewart: You talked me off the ledge…again. I love you!
To Autumn: I hope you never forget how much I appreciate you, even when I’m crazy AF. Thank you.
To Ally: I’m sorry for using one of your friends’ names in a book. But it’s like this, Stella, Elijah and Aaron weren’t really supposed to have a story. But then her character wouldn’t shut up and it was obvious he had to be the good guy, since he IS a good guy. I’m ‘woke’ enough to realize that I would have seen him hanging around and would have probably disliked him at no fault of his, if he was the bad guy in the story. Also sorry for using ‘woke’ I know that irritates you. (Hehehehe) Ps- You are the yellow to my gray.
Book Four: Couture Love
A de la Porte Fashion Novel
Couture Love
A de la Porte Fashion Novel, Book 4
Copyright (c) MJ Fields, 2019
1st Edition, Blue Valley Publishing, LLC.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of MJ Fields, except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976.
This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Edits by C&D Editing
Proofing by Asli Arif Fratarcangeli
Line Edits and Proofing by Donna Cooksley Sanderson
To all those who love pretty things, I give you the stars.
Go ahead, take them.
XOXO
MJ
(And to Taylor Swift)
Songs That Inspire
Our Song by Taylor Swift
Hey Stephen by Taylor Swift
Mean by Taylor Swift
22 by Taylor Swift
The Story Of Us by Taylor Swift
I Knew You Were Trouble by Taylor Swift
We Are Never Ever Getting Better by Taylor Swift
Delicate by Taylor Swift
Send My Love by Adele
Love Song by Adele
Ready For It by Taylor Swift
Like I’m Gonna Lose You by Meghan Trainor
Leaves by Ed Sheeran
Chapter One
Eric
Stepping out of my black Land Rover Sport and onto the sand covered pavement outside of The Sound, I look up at the clear evening sky exploding with a million stars. Then I stretch the stiff muscles of my six-foot-two frame that has been folded behind a steering wheel for nine hours.
I made good time from my new place in North Carolina. Hell, I’m a day earlier than I expected. This means I have a night to myself before I have to plaster on a smile, shake hands with people I don’t know, or worse, people I do know and can’t stand.
Home sweet fucking home.
I laugh haughtily to myself when I see an abandoned, red convertible BMW, not a four-wheel drive vehicle, parked just past the dunes on the beach. A beach that is peppered with signs that clearly state, ‘Do Not Drive On
The Beach.’ A law.
The Hamptons in the summer. Playground to the rich and famous, and some of the biggest douchebags in the world.
I pat the back pocket of my shorts, checking for my wallet, as I hit the lock button on the key fob before I venture inside to grab a drink.
This may be a place where the rich and famous come to relax, but just because they’re rich and/or famous doesn’t make them subhuman or righteous. I’ve lost my fair share of personal belongings from my vehicle or those left on my beach towel over the years from people who just can’t keep their hands to themselves or off others’ belongings.
Even those closest to you sometimes think what’s yours is theirs.
Not the fucking case, yet here I am.
Walking in through the double doors, I see familiar and unfamiliar faces, drinking and dancing to the songs of the three-piece beach band playing covers on the outdoor deck.
Labor Day weekend and everyone’s whooping it up before heading back to the city or back to the reality of a three-piece suit or sensible heels and a job they hate, yet affords them a lifestyle that most people blindly think would make them what they’ve been led to believe is successful.
Not me. I don’t want this shit. I want normal...whatever the fuck that is.
I stall momentarily to take in the crowd, to find the people I left less than a month ago who seem to never have departed. All of them living their lives on trust funds or off the backs of others’ hard work. All of them oblivious to anything outside of their day-to-day lives. Lives wasted sitting behind a bar or behind the lenses of a cellphone camera where they’re quick to snap a pic of them with their tanned bodies and toothpaste commercial worthy, whitened teeth, drinking a beer some aren’t old enough to even have in front of a slew of others doing the same thing with a hashtag #workhardplayharder.
Please, motherfuckers, you haven’t worked a day in your life, is always my thought as I lie in bed, mindlessly scrolling when sleep evades me.
But who am I to talk?
I’m one of them.
I’m an entitled, rich asshole who could choose to do nothing at all significant with my life and still have this lifestyle, the American dream. This life of bright smiles and bromances. A life of different pieces of sweet perfumed and perfectly groomed pussy every damn day if I wanted.
I’m all about friends, money, and who doesn’t enjoy fucking?
I enjoy them all immensely.
But I need more.
More than being an entitled bastard on a goddamned silver leash, held by a man who also happens to be on a gold leash, seized by an asshole who easily forgets he’s playing bitch to the man yielding a platinum leash, toying with him...because he can.
In my moment of detesting those around me, those who I have no reason to feel bitter about because they are like me, something happens. I hear an almost whimsical laugh. Not one with the force of a man stroking the ego of one with a bigger dick or wallet. Or from a woman who is trying to sound cute so she can get under a man other than the one who can’t satisfy her anymore.
The laugh...it’s honest, real, unforced...completely natural. The kind of laugh that makes you wish you heard the reason behind it or, better yet, caused it yourself.
I allow myself to look left and search for the something strange in a room full of completely predictable, and my eyes fall on the back of a woman in a thin, flowery, multicolored dress, whose thick, brown, highlighted hair is tossed back as she laughs at Toad Simmons, an arrogant fuck who owns one of the art galleries in town. He looks at her in confusion; his face even turns red. It’s comical.
I need a closer seat to this shitshow.
I slowly make my way through the crowd, intentionally avoiding familiar faces, which is impossible unless it’s summertime.
Thank God it is.
As I get closer, I watch as she raises her delicate hand and note there is no wedding ring before she waves it flippantly, shooing him away, then turns her back to him.
Burn.
His face is now crimson, accepting defeat, as he turns and walks away, leaving the barstool next to her vacant.
Perfect.
She doesn’t even look over as I sit down beside her.
As the bartender, thankfully one I don’t know and, more importantly, have not fucked, walks past her and toward me, she reaches her hand out and snaps her finger to grab her attention. “I know I may not look like someone who is gonna slap down a black card and leave a tip the size of old Frog’s ego”—she thumbs over her shoulder toward who she thinks is Toad, but is me—“and I’m sure I also don’t look like a camel, so could you kindly get me a glass of champagne or your manager, before I die of thirst?”
Jesus Christ, her voice is sexy, though her confidence is even sexier.
The brunette bartender looks at me, annoyance evident, and then turns back to the sexy woman with the amazing curves, magnetic laugh, and confidence that’s almost unseen in these parts. “What can I get for you,” she pauses and plasters on a smile as plastic as her C cups, “Ma’am?”
“How about we start with a glass of champagne?” She shoots her a mirrored smile, and I can’t help laughing.
Her back stiffens as she looks to her opposite side, where another woman sits. She’s a bit older but beautiful as well.
There’s something about older women, ones who don’t reek of old money and attitude. Women that I’m not used to being around, and now find wildly...alluring.
She turns farther around, putting her back to me completely, as she sets her hand on the curve of her hip and shakes her head. “Ang, did I not just tell the frog to jump off my lily pad and find someone else who’d buy into the line he was tossing around?”
The woman, Ang, smiles softly at her before she looks over her shoulder at me.
