Mine (Dressing a Billionaire Book 3): A Romantic Comedy

by Jamie Lee Scott

“I took care of that with the valet before we left. Remember? Your car should be in the driveway.”

  I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to remember.

  Rolling over onto my back, I put my phone on speaker. “What’s the rush, we have until Tuesday?”

  “You have until Tuesday, but I have to spend the entire weekend working my tush off at the Merchandise Mart Winter show. I have buyers coming in from all over the country to purchase for fall and winter sales. This is a really big show. I’m not even going to have the energy for sex, much less the time to think about this Rawlings wedding, until Monday. So now or never.”

  “Okay. Let me wake up and I’ll be in around ten.”

  “Ten it is. Seven of the eight designers that messaged me back last night will be having packages delivered this morning..”

  “Fine, I gotta go. See you in a few.

  “I’ll pick up coffee and donuts on the way.” Orlean disconnected before I could even say goodbye.

  I looked at my phone before plugging it into the charger. Another text from Hugo. I didn’t even bother to read it. Well, I did glance at it as I deleted all of the messages I’d ever gotten from him. I almost took his number out of my phone, but a girl shouldn’t be too drastic.

  I tried not to think about him as I jumped in the shower. I really wanted to go for casual, wearing yoga pants and a T-shirt, but since I had no idea who I might run into that wasn’t possible. I pulled my hair into a sleek chignon, then slipped on a fitted silk blouse in a melon color, and a stretchy pencil skirt in Hawaiian floral print. Since I’d be running around like a crazy woman, I slipped my feet into a pair of navy blue Chucks.

  Turns out Orlean was running at about the same pace I was. I grabbed the container with two coffees and a bag of donuts from her hands as she tried to open the front door of her salesroom at the Dallas Mart.

  “So from the emails I got this morning, the designers sent their latest wedding gown sketches. Nothing that has been released to the public, as I’m sure Kelsey will want couture. These are just mock ups with fabric swatches, so nothing concrete. I mean, I gave them less than twenty-four hours to get this together.” She handed me a stack of thick envelopes. “Take these to my sales desk, and I’ll get the lights turned on.” Orlean rushed through the door, tossed her briefcase on the sales table, and disappeared out of sight.

  Seconds later, the entire showroom lit up. I don’t recall how many lines Orlean represents, but each line had a mini showroom within the large showroom. It was like those antique malls where each seller has its their own booth, without the stale smell. And because Orlean has excellent taste and style, each booth attracted buyers like kids to a candy store.

  Orlean practically jogged back to the sales table and pulled out a chair. I had barely sat down before she was tearing open the portfolios from the designers.

  “Between this and getting my studio set up my brain is fried today. I’ve barely even thought about Hugo.” I pulled the top off of my coffee and drank.

  Orlean flipped through the pages of one of the portfolios barely listening to me and completely ignoring my Hugo comment. “This one’s promising.” She pushed it at me.

  The portfolio she showed me was from a designer named Mark Jones. I snickered to myself, such a blasé name for a designer. But his designs were anything but blasé. The portfolio was for an empire waistline dress with a bateau neckline and closed back. The train would be what was called a chapel, which would flow about three feet along the floor.

  He’d chosen a batiste, which is a lightweight, soft fabric with a mercerized finish. It would be perfect for a summer wedding. At this point, I didn’t even know if we were preparing for a summer wedding, but I loved the design, and how the dress had an almost a vintage look.

  Before I even finished looking at the first dress, Orlean shoved two more portfolios at me. An Alex Marie dress in a moire fabric had crisp taffeta hanging in almost a watery design. If Kelsey was getting married in the fall or winter, this heavy fabric would be perfect. But I wasn’t so sure I liked the ivory color.

  The next selection: a Shantung, which boasted a rubbed texture and resembled raw silk. The not quite smooth texture is a more popular textile for wedding dresses, and I wasn’t sure Kelsey would want her dress to be like other dresses.

  I could hear my phone ringing from my handbag, so I pulled it out to see a voice message from Hugo.

  “You need to answer that?” Orlean asked.

  I turned the screen to show her. “It’s just Hugo, again.”

  Orlean slapped her hands together. “What do you mean, again?”

  “He’s sent a few texts. I deleted everything from him earlier today.” I turned the ringer down on my phone and put it back in my handbag.

  “What does he say?”

  “Mostly he says he wants to get together and talk.” I didn’t really want to talk about it, so I pretended to be engrossed in the next design.

  “Darling, he is your new landlord. Don’t piss him off.” She put her hand on top of mine.

  “I’ve already signed the lease. I can piss him off all I want for the next twelve months and there’s nothing he can do about it. Unless I don’t pay my rent.” I pulled my hand from under hers and flipped through the next portfolio.

  I was amazed at how each designer had come up with something totally different for Kelsey.

  “Who do you think will wear the pants in this marriage?” Orlean asked.

  “Hugo will definitely wear the pants, it’s just that she’ll tell them which ones to put on. And probably how to wear them,” I replied sarcastically.

  With saccharin in her voice, Orlean said, “It should be you telling him which pants to put on.”

  “Well, if he re-hires me, I can tell him which pants to put on. Or at least I can tell him which ones to purchase. Since he fired me so he could have sex with me, and now we aren’t doing that anymore, does the firing still count? Or is it null, and instead of rehiring me, we can just pretend it never happened.”

  Orlean looked up at me. “Here’s the thing; was he any good in the sack?”

  I licked my lips.

  “Doesn’t that just say it all.” Orlean grinned. “Then I say, yes, he fired you and, yes, you had mind-blowing sex, but no, you aren’t finished blowing him yet.”

  “I blew it, so now I can’t blow it anymore.” It was meant as a joke, but the idea of it sucked. Ha, pun intended.

  Orlean pushed the last of the portfolios toward me and said, “Think of it this way, husbands are like kids, it’s best when they belong to someone else.”

  “I have no intentions of ever doing someone else’s husband.”

  She shoved me. “That’s not what I meant. I meant, it’s better to not be married. Dummy.”

  I shook my head.

  I thought I’d turn my phone all the way down, but I heard it ring again. This time, a text message. I couldn’t ignore it, because it could be from a client. I pulled my phone out to read the message.

  Dinner?

  I didn’t want to respond, but I didn’t want to be that bitch either. I message back: Crazy busy with the studio and a couple of clients. Rain check.

  Did he think that I would just accept a dinner invitation after ignoring his texts and calls? I shouldn’t even have responded.

  “Everything okay?” Orlean asked.

  “Everything’s fine. I just have so much going on today. As soon as I’m done here I have to prep for Arianna Harden’s closet makeover, then hopefully I finish in time to go shopping for studio stuff.”

  Orlean rubbed her fingers against her thumb in the making money gesture. “Busy is good.”

  Busy was good in so many ways. It kept my mind off of the things I shouldn’t be thinking about, like Hugo’s man parts, and his perfect fiancée who probably had crusty lady parts and a stick up her…and how after he was happily married I’d be seeing him every day. Well, maybe not every day, since my studio was in a different tower. I hoped we’d see very li
ttle of each other, even though I expected Stella to be a regular fixture.

  I pushed four of the seven designs back to Orlean. “Unless I’m way off the mark, I think these will make Kelsey swoon. But with your contacts in Dallas social circles, you might know better than me.”

  Orlean spread them out across the table. She pushed one of them away and pulled in one of the ones I hadn’t picked. “Other than this one, I think you’re dead on. I do think we should switch this one out, or just keep that one and add this one. The other two are way off the mark.”

  I stood up and walked around behind her, looking at the five styles spread in front of us. Each one drastically different, and yet all Kelsey. At least for what I knew about Kelsey, anyway.

  “It would really help if we had a date for this wedding.” I walked back to my seat and pulled my phone out once again.

  “What now?” Orlean sounded annoyed.

  “I’m texting Kelsey to get the date for the wedding.”

  That girl must have her phone attached to her fingers, because she texted back immediately.

  Third week in August.

  This August? I texted back just to be sure.

  Yes.

  “Holy shit,” I mumbled.

  “What?”

  I looked at Orlean, my eyes wide, then removed three of the designs from the line up. “Of these designers, who is the best, most reliable, and quickest?”

  “Why did you do that?” Annoyed, Orlean pulled the three files back.

  “The wedding is the third weekend in August, Orlean. We have to move very quickly.”

  Orlean scooped all of the files together and tapped them on the table to straighten them. “I thought you said she wasn’t going to be a britch.”

  “Britch?”

  “Yeah, bitch bride.”

  I laughed and shrugged.

  Orlean tucked the files in her arm and stood. “I’m putting all seven of the files in the lineup. I’ll make some calls to get some sample fabrics and timelines from the designers. I’ll ask to have them by Monday afternoon. Those who get the samples to me make the cut, those who don’t can’t be relied on. So you go dress Arianna’s closet, and I’ll get started on this.”

  I hugged Orlean. With her connections and my clients, this was going to be a match made in heaven. Or hell, considering we both like to be in control.

  “Thank you so much for doing this. I appreciate all your help.”

  I texted Kelsey back to thank her for her quick response and ask what time she’d like to meet on Tuesday.

  “Can you meet at Kelsey’s parents' house at nine in the morning on Tuesday?” I asked Orlean.

  “You bet your wedding that’s going to happen too soon, I can be there.” Orlean did a little hop. “I’m fighting my head over this. I’m excited to be helping with the wedding gown for Kelsey Rawlings, but hating every moment of it because it breaks your heart.”

  Before I could let myself think too much, I said, “Had my heart broken before, and I’ll have my heart broken again.”

  “You really should sit down and have a heart-to-heart with Hugo. It’s not like he knew Kelsey was going to be at the cottage when you got there.” Orlean put her hand on my back.

  “There’s so much he could’ve done in those initial moments, and yet he chose to shut me out. No way am I going to give him the chance to talk his way out of this one. He’s no longer my client, my lover, or my friend.”

  “I think you’re making a mistake.” Orlean shook her head and walked away.

  Mistake or not, I didn’t have it in me to talk with him face-to-face, and I sure as hell wasn’t doing this over the phone.

  Chapter Eight

  I chose not to fret about the wedding dress over the weekend, and work instead on my style boards for the website. All day Friday, I called designers from my phone book, asking if they’d like to provide samples for my showroom. Many practically hung up on me when I said my name. Well, their assistants did. Rarely did I get to speak to the actual designer. But by late in the afternoon, I had over a dozen designers willing to work with me. I suppose dropping Stella’s name may have helped. I even had one designer, whose assistant had been short with me, call me back with an “I’d be honored.” It was a smaller designer with very chic style. I did a little dance when I disconnected. Late Friday afternoon, I contacted the owners of the boutiques in Dallas that I wanted to work with. Most were willing to work with me, but a few didn’t understand the process, so they said they’d get back to me.

  I hadn’t heard anything from Hugo since the last message when I’d been with Orlean. He was probably busy helping Kelsey with wedding plans. I’d bet she was demanding. But he’d get to make up for lost time with her.

  Monday morning came before I knew it.

  Arianna Harden’s McMansion turned out to be a condo in the city. Apparently, they had a country house, but spent most of the time in the city. So Arianna and her husband had purchased three lots, meant for three separate condos, and built one huge condo resembling a brownstone. I’d learned this while going through all of the details for this meeting.

  As I walked up to the front door, security cameras followed my every move, and before I could knock, a gentleman opened the door.

  He wore loose, short lime green running shorts and a matching running tank top. His face leathery with watery brown eyes, hinted at mischief. “Miss Maisy Tucker?”

  “Yes, and you are?”

  He stuck his bony hand out at me, and said, “I’m Clive Harden, Arianna’s husband.”

  “Nice to me you,” I said.

  He opened the door wide to let me in. “Arianna’s upstairs, doing her best to straighten her closet before you got here.” He chuckled.

  I’m not sure why I expected him to be younger, since Arianna’s photos showed her to be at least sixty.

  “She’s gonna be sorry she did that, because I’m going to tear it apart again.”

  The mansion could be the entry to heaven’s gates. White. White as far as the eyes could see, so Clive’s lime green nearly blinded me against the lack of other color. Everything from the marble floors, to the wood stairs and railings, to the furniture and flowers, white. A housekeeper’s nightmare.

  He looked back at me as he jogged up the stairs. “I’m hoping you’ll make her trash at least half of it, our closets are overfull as it is.”

  With a hint of a laugh in my voice, I said, “Better be nice. I hear I’m going through your closet next.”

  And more white in the upstairs hall. But at least a hint of color graced the walls, as there had to be a hundred family portraits on one wall.

  Thank God he had a sense of humor. “I’ll pay you double to say everything in my closet is perfect.”

  We both laughed as we walked into the bedroom, a study in beige.

  I didn’t know what to think. Bright clothing and a very light, subtle, subdued home.

  “You’re early.” Arianna stepped out of her closet.

  Arianna wore a track suit and looked like she might be a runner, too. Only her track suit fit tighter than Clive’s shorts, and even though it was the same shade of lime green, it wasn’t nearly as bright. I loved they way they seemed to fit like puzzle pieces.

  “‘Ten minutes early is five minutes late,’ my father always says.”

  We’d already spoken so much on the phone, I felt as if I knew her. She apparently felt the same way, as she stepped up and gave me a warm hug.

  “This is perfect timing, because I just set up accounts with several New York and London designers, along with some local stores, and I’ll be opening my studio soon. We’ll be able to get you anything you want from anywhere, hopefully. And all you have to do is come to my studio or I can bring the samples to you.”

  Clive put his hands up. “Whoa, whoa, whoa, let’s not get ahead of ourselves. We made an agreement that she has to get rid of five pieces for every new piece she brings in. I don’t care if it’s donated to charity, or you sell it on eB
ay, but five for one was the deal.”

  I looked at Arianna and raise my brows.

  Arianna’s face turned to stone. “It’s true. I have too much crap. Half of the stuff in this closet still has the tags on it.” She glared at Clive. “We made a deal.”

  I open my arms in a wide gesture and did a slight bow. “And this is why I’m here, at your service.”

  Clive excused himself, and we started to work on Arianna’s closet.

  My phone buzzed. I didn’t even bother to pull it out and check it.

  “Aren’t you going to check that?” Arianna asked. “You’re a fledgling business, it could be a client.”

  I pulled my phone from my handbag to see it was only Stella, confirming a two o’clock appointment with her architect.

  I messaged back that I would be there, and put my phone away.

  “Just a meeting with the architect for my new studio.”

  “And where is this new studio?” She asked.

  I’m not sure why, but I blushed. “Stella and Hugo have rented me a space in Tower Three.”

  Arianna smiled wide. “You could do worse than to have those two as friends.”

  The last thing I wanted to do was talk about the Popovits twins. I stepped into Arianna’s closet once again and pulled out another armload of clothes. I laid them out on the bed, and said, “Anything that still has tags on it that was purchased more than a year ago, goes.”

  Arianna sucked in a deep breath, then blew it out her nose. “You don’t know how hard this is for me. I grew up very, very poor. I tend to be attached to material things, afraid someday I’m going to be poor again.” I’d heard about this fear of scarcity among people who’d grown up poor or whose family grew up during the Great Depression. They horde food and clothes, so they’ll always be ready if they lose their wealth. “These clothes mean nothing to me, and yet they mean everything. I’ve always had a hard time letting go. You should’ve seen when my kids went to college, I was a blubbering idiot. And they both went to Baylor. Only a few hours away.”

  It was amazing when I went through these closet transformations, how many secrets came out. At least one out of five clients spilled their guts as to why their closets were overstuffed, or why they spent so much money on clothes, shoes, and accessories. And just like the medical profession, this information I always kept to myself. I don’t know why they felt the need to justify their spending to me, I was just the stylist. Not the psychiatrist.