Chapter 15
Poppy leaned over to the slick contemporary nightstand and shut off her phone’s alarm, ruing the early hour. Until she looked to her left and saw the sunrise spill over the water. She’d figured out that the guest room overlooked Lake Pontchartrain, while the living area of Brandon’s house had a spectacular view of the Mississippi. The house’s unique position had kept it from flooding during the storm.
Sonja and Henry’s place hadn’t been as fortunate. The bottom floor had seepage damage that didn’t look that bad to Poppy but Brandon assured her it would necessitate the entire hardwood floor being ripped up and replaced. He’d already hired a mitigation contractor for Henry, but with the high numbers of damaged homes it might be weeks before the house was repaired.
Poppy ran a hot shower and laid out her outfit. She’d picked up some pieces with Southern flair, such as a blouse or skirt, while keeping her signature sleek lines intact. Turned out that if people shopping in the boutique recognized her, they were happy to have a “famous stylist” help them with their wardrobe choices. They didn’t care about the rumors of her mental illness or lack thereof.
She walked into Brandon’s kitchen and found a bright yellow note next to the espresso machine.
Left early for meeting. Meet me for brunch at 10:30?
Brandon had scribbled the address of the restaurant at the bottom of the slip of paper. His strong scrawl reminded her of his lovemaking-deft, polished, but with enough wild to keep her on edge, wondering what he’d do next to bring her to another delta-shaking orgasm. The man knew his way around her body, that was a given. And she was trying to keep her heart out of this by always insisting on going to sleep in her separate room, apart from him. As if she could pretend it really was sex-only.
Getting involved with anyone after all she’d gone through with Will had to be a rebound. That was the only logical conclusion. She had no other way to explain the constant craving she had for Brandon. His body, for sure, but his humor, the sense that he completely understood her.
She took the note and neatly folded it. Nothing wrong with a little rebound action.
* * * *
Brandon sat in a comfortable chair in a minimally appointed waiting area of one of New Orleans’ top law firms. He knew it was one of the best because his father owned the top firm in the area. It was a mystery to him why Henry hadn’t landed this account. If the San Sofia procurement team had been handled by the Boudreaux firm, Brandon might have groveled enough to ask Henry for a leg-up on the competition.
Of course, that would be illegal and Henry didn’t do anything outside of the lines. Brandon didn’t either, in fact. And he wouldn’t want to put Henry at risk, ever, but he wished like hell he could confide in his brother about Jeb disappearing with the company funds. Henry would have succinct legal advice for him, as he always did. But he’d forevermore judge Jeb, and Brandon wasn’t an idiot. He knew that Jeb and he’s business partnership stuck in Henry’s craw. Henry never said as much, but it was there in the way they didn’t talk about anything but the most shallow aspects of Boats by Gus. Which was fine with Brandon because he had no desire to hear about how the old man was treating Henry to bonus upon bonus, how losing one son made him pour his focus on his remaining two children.
“Mr. Boudreaux?” A woman in a suit that fit her body like an alligator’s skin stood at the front of the waiting area. Brandon stood and walked past the half a dozen or so other contenders for the San Sofia contract and gave the executive assistant his killer smile.
“Thanks, Mary Beth.” He motioned for her to go first through the door and into the carpeted passageway. “How’s it going so far today?”
He didn’t miss her checking him out. Was certain she wanted him to notice, in fact. Her cat green eyes were offset by a smooth olive-toned complexion, made all the more enticing by her long, straight brunette locks.
“It’s been the usual, but I think it’s about to get more interesting.” Her perfect brow arched over her eye and he caught her message. He waited for the usual thrill of a flirt to swirl in his chest but…nothing. Mary Beth was his perfect type—brunette, tall, confident.
She absolutely wasn’t a bleached-blond petite woman with the sharpest tongue this side of the Mississippi.
“Gus? What do you think?” She knew from his file that he was the company’s namesake.
“I think the competition is fierce. No one wants to stand out and risk losing a multimillion-dollar contract.”
Disappointment warred with annoyance in her eyes and he offered her a bland smile this time.
“You’re probably right.”
“Any tips for me before I go up to bat?”
She laughed. Low and throaty, and he suspected she caught a lot of big fish with it. Two weeks ago he’d have been one of them.
Now all he could see in his mind was how Poppy looked in her yoga pants and sloppy T-shirt, sipping chamomile tea as she looked at her phone. It was only because they’d been spending so much time together, both needing human touch.
“They’re not an easy crowd. Limited funds, for the type of boats they want.”
“How many of these kinds of contracts do you work each year?” If this didn’t work out, maybe he’d have another chance before he had to shut down Boats by Gus.
Mary Beth shook her head. “Hard to say. We don’t get a lot of foreign nations in here. But I’ve only been with the firm for five months. As soon as I pass the bar I’ll either be offered a position or I’ll find another place to work.”
“Well, thanks.” They’d reached the door to the conference room.
“Anytime, Gus. But you know that already, don’t you? Good luck and I hope you have something to celebrate after this.” Somehow, she knew he had another woman on the line. He’d been definite in his boundaries with her. This was new territory for Brandon. He’d cared for more than one woman in his life, but none that left some kind of invisible stamp on him. Discounting it to nerves, he nodded.
“Thanks, Mary Beth.”
Showtime.
* * * *
“Hello?” Poppy had wanted to let the call from her lawyer in New York go to voicemail but she’d never been a chicken.
“Poppy, good to hear your voice. How are you doing?” Louise’s tone revealed a rare glimpse of compassion. Usually the Manhattan attorney was strictly business, no-nonsense.
Poppy looked around at her new office in the back room of Bianca’s boutique. “I’m doing very well, thank you. What’s up?”
“The initial suit from your former assistant is weak, as you already figured out. She doesn’t have anything going for her, honestly. I expect the judge will throw it out.”
“But she doesn’t have any assets, either.” Except Will. “How will she make reparations for the damage to my reputation and business?” Anger pushed heat into her face and she stood up, needing to pace. “I lost the deal for Attitude by Amber.”
Silence. Even her loquacious attorney whom she’d known for five years was lost for words.
“I’d hoped the reports I read were incorrect.”
“Nope. Absolutely accurate. Done, gone. No payment rendered.”
“I’m sorry, Poppy. I do wish you’d called me with this as soon as you were informed. You need to countersue.”
“There was nothing you could have done. They were adamant. Frankly I’m surprised they waited this long to put out a press release. As for countersuing, I want to be divested of any ties to those two idiots as soon as I can.”
Louise’s sigh sounded hurried. “Listen, it’s imperative that you countersue. I’ve known you for too long, Poppy. You’re too giving and while I admire your spiritual intention, because that’s what it is, legally I cannot advise you to let anything go.”
“This is why you’re my lawyer, Louise.” She thought about it but didn’t need to. “Yes, let’s go for it. What do you need me to do?”
“Nothing right this minute. I’ll file the petition against Will and Tori, since they’re married. There might be a way to free up enough of your funds to at least pay for your legal fees and help you get started again.”
Poppy toyed with shiny plastic Mardi Gras beads that spilled from a clear plastic container on her desk. She wanted to create an entire palette from the bright purples, greens, and golds. “I’ve come up with a new business plan but I can’t go full speed ahead until I have what’s left of my funds. I still have a few loyal clients in New York, I’m exploring some other options for a new career.” It would be much, much slower than her Attitude by Amber deal. Regional to NOLA, and only if she was very, very lucky. And it would never be as lucrative as her stylist business. But it might be the most satisfying thing she’d done to date. Since that time right after Hurricane Katrina, when she’d volunteered alongside Sonja.
“It may take months to get to your corporate accounts again. You had something put away in your personal funds, right?”
She managed a shaky laugh. “No. I’m flat broke because, like the overconfident stylist I was, I put just about all of my own money into my business.” She told Louise to call her as soon as she had word on the judge’s decision, and disconnected the call.
“Hey.” Bianca stood at the door, a large empty basket on her hip. “I didn’t want to interrupt your call but I’m going to move the rest of this stuff out of here.” She placed the basket on a shelf and Poppy helped her fill it with assorted scarves, wallets, and belts. “Were those new clients?”
“No, unfortunately, not yet. You didn’t interrupt anything, trust me.” She paused, then decided to jump in with both feet. “I know we haven’t known each other long, and you’ve already given me an office, but since you’ve read up on me, you know my former executive assistant is suing me for copyright? She claims that my sunflower design was her idea.”
“Was it?”
Poppy laughed. “That woman couldn’t draw a stick figure, much less use the graphics program I did to come up with that logo. And I had it copyrighted before she started getting a paycheck from me. She’s messed with the wrong person.”
“But she got your fiancé.” Bianca’s expression was open and sympathetic. “You wouldn’t be human if you didn’t want retribution.”
“A few weeks ago, yes, I wanted to claw her eyes out and kick Will’s balls up to his nose. Now? I’m looking for other ways to enact revenge. Isn’t living well the best revenge and all that? I want to grow a new business, the one I’ve started here with you.”
“I couldn’t help overhear that you lost your deal for your own brand line?
“Yes. My one big regret. The buzz over the breakup and my erratic behavior was too risky for the retailers.” She shrugged. “It still stings, I can’t lie. But if it had gone through, I wouldn’t be standing here and dreaming up ways to empower women with fashion in New Orleans, would I?”
Bianca smiled. “No, you wouldn’t.”
“So you’re in? My plan is to establish a solid base here in downtown NOLA before trying to expand. Frankly, I don’t see it going out of the local area.”
Bianca’s wide grin flashed her affirmation. “Bring a pen when you bring me the contract.” The bells over the boutique entrance chimed and Bianca left to greet the customer.
Poppy couldn’t help it. She did a crazed happy dance on the spot.
* * * *
Poppy peered up at the sign “Flapjack Heaven” and compared the address to Brandon’s note. Yup, she was in the right place. “Dive” didn’t describe the dirty-windowed café, and she was using “café” in the loosest sense of the word. She was ten minutes early and she looked up and down the street for a nicer coffee shop to wait, but she stood far off the French Quarter, on a side street that more closely resembled an alley. It was an odd place to show up to wearing her sexiest thong set under her outfit.
She pushed open the front door and an ancient brass bell clanged overhead. The greasy-aproned man at the cash register didn’t look up, merely continued to scroll through whatever on his phone screen. In the middle of the wall, a rectangular opening to the kitchen revealed several cooks, all industriously whisking, flipping, and ringing the bell on the counter across said window. From a back door two servers rushed in, each grabbing armloads of plates laden with pancakes, French toast, and grits before they disappeared through the same swinging door.
“I’m meeting someone for brunch.” She stood in front of the cashier. He looked up as if she’d caused him an extreme inconvenience.
“Go pick out a table.” He motioned over his left shoulder with his head and went back to his phone.
Poppy looked around the tiny front of the building, where there were no chairs, no benches. She walked back toward the only other door, wondering why the hell, with all the incredible places in New Orleans to eat, Brandon had picked this dump.
She shoved open the swinging door, bracing in case one of the servers came crashing through at the same time. A few short steps across an Art Deco–era tiled corridor, with his and hers restrooms on either side, and she opened a second, screen door onto a courtyard garden. She was embraced by an enormous lush tropical escape from the hot, humid street with nothing remotely urban in sight. Red- and violet-hued macaws hung out in giant cages, tearing with relish into mango slices. The sweet chirp of songbirds flitted down from the high tree boughs that covered the space, allowing shafts of sunlight to float down when it wasn’t obscured by clouds.
Only after she inhaled the sweet jasmine, touched the leaves on a low-hanging magnolia branch, did she notice the patrons. And what looked like dozens of servers, not just the pair she’d seen earlier. Tables were scattered all through the parklike setting, most in their own alcove to offer privacy to the diners. The place was packed and she had to walk deeper into the garden before she spied an empty table partially obscured by a hanging palm tree branch.
“Coffee?” Her bottom had barely hit the cushioned chair before a waiter in a crisply pressed white shirt, rolled sleeves, and with a linen towel over his forearm smiled at her, his shiny silver coffee pot reflecting her stunned expression.
“Yes. Please.” She noted the tiny silver pitcher of cream in the center of the table. “I’m meeting a friend—I’m not sure he’ll find me in here.”
“No problem, we’ll send anyone who describes you back here.” The waiter spun and walked off before she had a chance to laugh at his response. The inescapable New Orleans charm reached into her chest and hugged her heart. It wasn’t the first time since she’d landed at the airport almost three weeks ago that she’d felt it. Only now, it wasn’t the simple thrill of being in a new part of the world. It was more definite, as if the city were wooing her.
She poured a dollop of the rich cream into her cup and stirred with the exquisite silver filigree coffee spoon. The first sip was pure pleasure on her tongue. She closed her eyes and soaked up the scent of the fresh brew, the surrounding vegetation, and the flowers. Allowing a sigh to escape her lips, she existed in this moment as if none of her Manhattan transgressions ever happened. If it were only this simple. Maybe it is.
Solid footsteps on the crushed-seashell path forced her eyes open and she gazed up into the brilliant blue of Brandon’s contemplation. He took in her hair, her eyes, lingered at her lips before going down along her throat to the cleavage she’d left professional but still obvious, telling herself she hadn’t left the extra blouse buttons undone for him. She hadn’t been anticipating their brunch like it was a date or anything. Liar. His gaze continued its downward sweep, and the way he looked at her bare toes in her gladiator sandals made her press her thighs together. A movement her short skirt couldn’t hide, and one that Brandon didn’t miss. He slid into the seat across from her and nodded at the server’s offer of coffee, all the while keeping his eyes on her. A seductive smile lifted his mouth as he noted the heat in her cheeks.
“Good morning, Yankee girl. You look incredibly sexy, as always.”
“Hey.” He had her breathless and wet and he hadn’t touched her yet. ‘Hey?’ As if they were more than friends or associates meeting to discuss his meeting. His meeting. “How did it go?”
“In a minute.” He reached over the table and kissed her, full on the lips with a tantalizing quick lick of tongue. Poppy breathed in the scent of Brandon as much as she savored his taste. He drew back and his eyes sparkled, his skin crinkling. “Isn’t this a nicer way to start the meal?”
“Um, if you’re into putting on a show.” She couldn’t stop the blush if she wanted to, and knew her face had to be the color of the crepe myrtle behind her.
He opened the menu and after staring at the barrier between them, Poppy did the same. Good Lord, there had to be no less than three dozen versions of flapjacks to include gooseberry and gumbo.
“Is there any kind of flapjack they don’t have?”
“No.”
“What are your favorites?”
“Strawberry. Sometimes peach.” The way he said the fruits made it clear that he was thinking about something other than brunch. She jumped back as he snapped the menu down and leaned toward her.
“Peach like your skin and strawberry like your nipples after they’ve been in my mouth.” His smile was the devil incarnate challenged only by the way his eyes glittered.
She leaned in, because in the short time she’d known Brandon, she’d learned that any sign of weakness only encouraged him to keep teasing her.
It wasn’t always teasing. A vision of him taking her from behind as she bent over his massive kitchen island set her center into the low, steady throb that demanded relief. She crossed her ankles and kept her knees straight ahead, avoiding his feet.
“I liked it when we did that, too.”
She laughed. “Give me a break. You’re a mind reader?”
“Close enough, from the way you’re trying to catch your breath.” His gaze lowered again to her cleavage. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in a regular business suit.”
“That makes sense since when I’m home I like to be in workout clothes.” The server appeared and kept her from obsessing over how she’d said “home” as if she lived here. As if she’d let it slip to Brandon that she was hoping to make New Orleans her home. It was too soon to tell him. She was doing this for her, not a man, not a relationship.
She clenched her eyes shut for a minute, shaking her head. Brandon ordered peach pancakes and she picked banana nut. The server warmed up their coffees and left. The wall of green next to and above them leant an air of romantic intimacy to their table, and Poppy leaned back. She could enjoy a unique dining experience without worrying about whether Brandon figured out the track of her thoughts. It wasn’t as if they were like the other couples here, the ones who were completely into one another.
“You okay?” The dainty white porcelain coffee cup was tiny in his hand, but he wasn’t awkward handling it. Everything seemed to come naturally to Brandon.
“I’m great. Just clearing my head of silly thoughts.”
“Care to share them?”
She sipped her coffee. “No thank you.”
He laughed. “Poppy, when are you going to learn that you can trust me?”
“I do trust you. I trust you to be who you are.” Guilt nudged her. She didn’t trust him enough to let him know she might stay here. She put her cup down on its saucer. No more seductive lines. “So tell me. What happened with the contract?”
Brandon’s pleasure pushed a smile across his features and she knew in that moment that he was a modest man. Humble, even. Not like in bed when he loved proving his vast skill.
“It went well. As well as it could. There were several other boat builders there. I recognized a few of the company names and spoke with them in the waiting area. There were some reps from companies that I’d never heard of, too.” He rapped his knuckles on the linen tablecloth. She noted how a sprinkling of yellow-orange pollen across the table from the single hibiscus bloom in the vase contrasted with the dark hair on his forearm. “This is a big deal, bigger than I’d imagined. The good news is that I don’t need to deal with all of the intricacies of the U.S. Government—that’s what the law firm representing the San Sofia government is going to take care of. They’ll make sure whoever gets the contract has all their ducks in order, which is a huge relief.”
“Does the firm represent you or the San Sofia military?”
“Both. The San Sofia team has their own set of attorneys, of course, looking out for their best interests. The law firm here keeps the rest of it running smoothly.”
“Could Henry help you with this?”
His hand stilled and he moved his head to crack his neck. “Right now I’m not in need of any legal help. That will come in to play after I get the contract.”
“So you didn’t get the offer yet?” She wanted him to succeed, to have the lift out of his rock bottom that he’d given her when he’d asked for her help.
“Hang on. I did okay in the presentation, and I feel I answered all of their questions and concerns to the best of my ability. According to Mary Beth, the firm’s intern in charge of the administrative process, I was the only one they showed that much interest in. On the way over here she texted me that I’m one of three callbacks for next week.”
“Why do you have to wait a week? I’d have thought San Sofia would want to go to contract as soon as possible. You said the boats are needed to fight their opioid epidemic, right?”
He nodded. “Yes. They’ve got help from the U.S. Coast Guard for now, but it’s never enough. And there has to be a week between the interviews to allow for recording the process with our governments; federal, state, and local.”
“It’s the same in New York City. Everyone gets their piece of the pie.” What she’d accomplished in a month in New Orleans would take several months, even a year or two, in New York. She’d lucked out when she walked into Bianca’s shop.
His eyes darkened when she said “pie” and she silently cursed him. Would they ever have a conversation that wasn’t laden with sexual innuendo?
“A piece of—yes, death, taxes and all that.” He reached across the table and grasped her hand as it lay on the table, surprising her with the sudden intimate gesture. “I wouldn’t be this far without you, Poppy. You asked the exact questions I needed to be prepared. I don’t think there was one you hadn’t thought of in advance.”
She ignored her pulse as it jammed in tune to her attraction to him, somewhere alongside her throat. She swallowed. “I was using your notes. Anyone could have helped.”
He shook his head. “Kill the modesty, Poppy. You got me all pretty on the outside”—he motioned with his chin to his suit—“but more important, you played the role of inquisitor to a T. You were correct—the folks they sent were mostly civilian politicians. Only one had worked with the military when they served in the U.S. Navy years ago. No question was too simple or too complicated. And I was prepared.” He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles, the warmth of his mouth too brief before he let go and leaned on his forearms. “I’ve got a good chance of landing this account, and you’re a big reason why.”
“I’m glad I could help.” It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him she’d decided to set up shop in NOLA. But she couldn’t. It’d only place unreasonable expectations on what they shared.
Brandon detailed the interview and she replayed all the work they’d done together the last two weeks. It took effort to shove aside the visions of the incredible sex, something she’d have to address later, on her own, when Brandon wasn’t around to see her unguarded expressions. They had worked well together in and out of bed, and she had to admit the satisfaction that thrummed through her was the result of both of their recent successes. The same sense of purpose she’d had when she worked with Sonja down here in the bayou all those years ago, after Katrina had decimated the area.
“Here you go.” Their server placed large white china plates heaping with pancakes on the small table. “Will you be needing anything else?”
Brandon looked at the syrup on the table and shook his head. “Nope, I’m good. Poppy?”
“I’m good, too.”
* * * *
Brandon liked how Poppy dug into her flapjacks the same way she’d jumped into helping him prepare for the San Sofia negotiations. Her manners were impeccable, no doubt the result of her many social obligations in New York. But polite protocol couldn’t hide the way she devoured her brunch as if she never had to watch her calories. It reminded him of how she gave herself completely to sex, savoring each touch, each sensation. He adjusted his seat.
“Glad to see you’re enjoying your meal.”
She grinned through a mouthful of banana nut flapjacks, a drop of maple syrup on her chin. “Delicious.”
He leaned forward and swiped the syrup away with his forefinger, then licked it off. Poppy’s eyes grew wide and he laughed.
“You’re too easy a flirt, Poppy.”
She swallowed and took a long drink of her water.
“You’re relentless.”
He laughed. “What made you get into fashion?”
She studied him for a moment before sliding her gaze to the bright pink flower in the table’s vase.
“I never picked fashion as a career. I studied psychology in undergrad and expected to go into social work.”
“Social work. That’s a vocation, not a career.”
“Yeah, well, I wanted to give back to the world for being able to get out of—I mean, go to college in the city and start a new life.”
He leaned back, taking a break from his stack of flour and sugar. “You know about my family—all you need to know happened the wedding weekend. What about yours?” He watched her closely. She never brought her family up to him. He heard her talking on the phone and assumed it was to family but didn’t want to pry. And if she was speaking to a love interest, he didn’t want to know. Although Poppy didn’t strike him as the type to keep two or more guys on the line, not right after such a major breakup. And if he had his druthers he’d keep her occupied for the foreseeable future. As long as he got the ship contract. Without it he had nothing to offer her.
“Brandon, did you hear what I just said?”
“Sorry, I drifted.”
“I asked if you’re really certain you want to hear all of this. It’s pretty standard, actually.”
“Try me.”
She blew the curled lock of hair off her forehead and he watched her lower lip puff out. “My mother raised my younger sister and I. Our biological father was out of the picture by the time we were walking—my sister’s eighteen months younger than me. Mom, well, she has the worst taste in men.”
“In what way?”
“In the stay out of their way or they’d kick the shit out of you way.” She grimaced. “I know it sounds awful to someone from a normal home, but getting knocked around was part of our lives for so long, through three different boyfriends, the last one a stepfather, that we didn’t know how bad it was.”
“I don’t believe that. We always know when it’s bad like that.”
Her eyes flashed on his. “You’ve been in an abusive family?”
“Not physically. Emotionally and mentally? You saw my parents at the restaurant. Do they look like the epitome of warm and caring to you?”
“No. It’s sad that with two sons like you and Henry, and I’m sure your sister, too, that your folks never opened their minds.”
Her observation drove a wooden stake through the part of his heart that was off-limits to all. He’d shut if off from his parents after Hurricane Katrina. He’d opted to never discuss it with his siblings; it wasn’t their fault that their parents had made such a mess of things. And he didn’t blame Henry or his sister for still engaging with Hudson and Gloria. It was their choice, their conscience.
“Brandon, are you okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
He took in the concern in her eyes, the uncanny way she could tell whether he was daydreaming or thinking about something deep like his lack of relationship with his family. How had this happened, in only four weeks?
“I’m fine.” He shifted in his seat and pushed away his plate. His appetite had disappeared with the cold reality of his life. “Keep talking.”
“So, my mother’s last husband had a violent temper. Nothing new to us, we knew as kids to clear out of the house if one of her husbands or boyfriends came in drunk and pissed off. But by the time I was thirteen and Ginger was eleven, we knew too much. And we’d become the parents to our mom.” She fiddled with the tiny silver sugar spoon that stuck out of the covered dispenser. She wouldn’t meet his eyes.
“Ginger woke me up one night when the fighting was getting particularly intense between Mom and our stepdad. It wasn’t loud and that was the problem. I knew that when it got quiet whatever was happening was probably really bad. As in deadly. I made Ginger lock herself in our bedroom, and told her to call the police on my cell phone. She didn’t have one yet. We had to wait until we were teens, Mom’s rule.” She reached for a vining flower and caressed the soft white petals.
“I crept downstairs and found the bastard straddling my mother, his hands around her throat. She was pushing at him, still breathing, but I knew he had her right at the point of her letting go. I still don’t know how I did it. I grabbed this old milk-glass lamp with a frilly shade—do you know the kind I’m talking about, the white glass that looks fragile but it’s really heavy?”
“My grandmother had some.” He and Henry had knocked one over with an indoor plastic golf set, much to his mother’s horror. Their grandmother had laughed and swept up the shards as if it were a dime-store purchase.
“Yes, this lamp, it was from my mother’s mother. I took it and started hitting him over the back and head. It surprised him enough to let go of Mom, and she was able to crawl away once she caught her breath.” Her shoulders shuddered and her eyes had a distant focus. His arms trembled from the want to hold her, comfort her. Instinctively he knew that if he touched her, did anything to shake her out of the nightmare of a memory, she’d shut down. So he waited.
“He was so angry. I could tell he didn’t see me, that he wanted to get rid of whatever, whoever had stopped him from hurting my mother. I’m damned lucky he was drunk and tripped over the leg of our end table. He was chasing me into the kitchen—I was trying to get out of the house. We only had a front door, which we kept closed most of the time, and the side door off of the kitchen. I knew that if I got out of the house he’d come after me and then Mom and Ginger would be safe.”
She grew silent and his compassion for her ordeal internally wrestled with uninhibited abject rage at her stepfather.
“Did you make it out? Before he could hurt you?”
She shook her head. “Only to the kitchen door. He had me cornered, but then the police showed up and it eventually worked out.”
Brandon suspected there was a lot more to the story in the “eventually worked out” part, but didn’t press. Poppy looked as agitated as she had when he’d gone to get her from Henry and Sonja’s during the storm. And he didn’t want to ever see her plummet back into the panic attack she’d had that first night.
He should have realized then that this woman wasn’t a passing distraction for him. She wasn’t a fuck buddy or business colleague, either. She was…Poppy.
She ran her slim fingers over the white tablecloth. “It sounds pretty awful compared to your upbringing, I’m sure.”
“It was awful and I’m so sorry you went through that, Poppy.”
Slowly she lifted her gaze from the flower, to the plants surrounding the table, and finally, rested it on him. “Thank you.”
Damned if he didn’t feel an invisible line between them, as strong as any ship’s line, wrapping around his heart.
* * * *
Poppy considered herself an expert at judging people, at least from an energy perspective. She could always tell if someone had anger issues, or was putting on a show to the world while suffering on the inside. Brandon wasn’t so easy to read, and she knew that was part of what made him so damned hot to her. The challenge of figuring him out.
Right now she really wished he was more transparent. She’d never felt more exposed, not even when he’d taken her clothes off the first time and laid her out on his bed, his eyes devouring every nook and cranny of her body.
He leaned back and the movement pulled his dress shirt taut across his chest. His tie had an aqua-blue diamond pattern and the color brought out the turquoise flecks in his eyes.
“Nothing to thank me for, Yankee girl. It’s my privilege to hear your story.”
“More like my history.” She was not defined by that time in her life. She couldn’t be.
“History has a way of hanging around. If we’re lucky it’s the best threads that weave into our mainsail.”
“Say what?” She knew he was talking about sailing but boating wasn’t her bailiwick.
“The mainsail, the largest sail on a boat. I’m using it as a metaphor for life.”
“I didn’t know ‘poet’ was on your résumé alongside ‘naval architect.’”
That blinding flash of his teeth accompanied by his deep dimples brought out the masculine cleft in his chin. “I minored in English Lit, focus on early American poetry.”
“That sounds…intriguing.” From Brandon, it did.
“It was a good counterpoint to the engineering classes I needed for the naval architecture certification, that’s for sure.”
“You don’t have to act like it’s all okay, that you don’t think less of me because of how I grew up.” She remembered Will’s incredulous expression, followed by flat-out denial when she’d mentioned her childhood. Will hadn’t even wanted to make the trip to Western New York with her to meet her mother and sister. He’d finally relented and they’d stayed in Niagara Falls for a single night before he declared they should go to Toronto. Will found Buffalo boring.
“Your background only makes me admire you more, Poppy. You’ve accomplished in less than three decades what many never do in a lifetime.”
“You should know. You’ve done the same in many ways.”
“Yeah, we’re a couple of overachievers. Each for different reasons, though. So you were saying you originally wanted to be a social worker?”
“Yes.” She fiddled with her utensils. “But then in college I got a summer internship in the Personal Stylist department of a major department store. I was hooked. Being able to pick out clothes I’d never afford for others to wear, and to help them feel better about themselves was pure fun. I used those skills that one summer here, when I came home with Sonja for spring break. It was right after Katrina. There was so much homelessness, so much devastation.”
“The people who could afford a stylist weren’t suffering.” Brandon’s face was still, as if he had his own flashbacks to deal with.
“I know. I didn’t work as a stylist in the traditional sense. I volunteered at a church with Sonja. We handed out clothing to families who’d lost it all. They came in to get whatever their gift certificates and prepaid store credit cards couldn’t cover.”
“I remember the gift certificates. So many businesses donated them for years after the storm.”
“Right. But you can’t get back everything, not without an income. So many were out of work for months, or had to move. The women and their kids would come in, looking for something fun in the piles of donated clothes that poured in from all over the country, the world. I’d help them piece together outfits. They could use their gift certificates to affordable department stores to get basics like tank tops and T-shirts, and then find a donated designer scarf or bag to accessorize.”
“I’m impressed.”
She shrugged, but her cheeks warmed from his praise. “It was so easy for me. It was then that I decided to look into becoming a personal stylist more seriously.” And now she wanted to do more by doing what looked like less. Support women through disastrous circumstances into the change they needed. Her New York career seemed like a previous life, a faded memory.
Realization jerked through her. What was going on here? In New Orleans, in Brandon’s home, in her heart?
Was she learning to let go of when she’d been wronged and move ahead?
“Is it because you’ve been working on something different in the shop you told me about?”
Now would be the perfect time to tell Brandon that she was making her work here permanent. That she was staying.
“A new project always helps with attitude, doesn’t it?”
* * * *
Brandon picked out a bunch of daisies for the kitchen island. Only because he wanted to make a nice dinner for both himself and Poppy tonight, not because the flowers reminded him of the daisies painted on Poppy’s toes the evening he’d met her.
He wound his cart through the aisles, taking extra time on the cuts of steak, wondering if Poppy even ate meat. He hadn’t paid that much attention, thank God. Relief granted him a brief respite from his concern that he was becoming too invested in what Yankee girl thought of him. What he thought of her. He was thinking of her too often, too much. He had a business to save, after all. But just when he thought he had her figured out, she brought up something that totally sideswiped him. And not because she knew she was knocking him to his knees, stirring up shit he’d thought he’d forgotten. Like when she’d been talking about working here after Katrina hit, and mentioned the gift certificates. That was a tough time for his city. Brandon had wanted to cry when he saw other New Orleanians still struggling to find a job or pay for groceries for their kids. And his parents had packed up and left, started over far away. To him, they’d ignored what had happened.
“Hey, Gus. How you doin’, sugar?” He was caught in the ice cream aisle, looking for the flavor he’d stepped on during the start of the storm. When he’d had Poppy up against the car.
Fuck.
“Hi, Brandy.” He greeted the cashier whose presence was a legacy at this Piggly Wiggly. Brandy LaCroix’s family had known the Boudreauxs ever since they’d all gone to the same parish church. “Just getting some things for dinner.”
“Looks like you’re having a date.”
A date.
“No, nothing like that at all. You know me, Brandy. If I wanted to impress a girl I’d take her out, not burn steaks on my grill.”
“Save the self-deprecation for someone who believes your bullshit, Gus Boudreaux. I still remember the time your mama brought you and your brother in here, trying to get groceries while she was sick as a dog, pregnant with your sister, Jena. You were raising hell in the carriage, throwing out everything she put in it.”
Brandon shifted from foot to foot, looking around to see if he was blocking anyone who needed to get around them.
Brandy put her hand on his forearm. “How are your mama and daddy? I haven’t seen them in years. As you damned well know.”
“They’re well.” He didn’t mention he’d last seen them at Henry’s failed wedding rehearsal dinner, and that was the first time in a year that he’d laid eyes on them.
“Please tell them I said hello. I’ll let you get back to it—come see me when you check out if you please.” Brandy sashayed down the aisle toward the back where he dimly remembered there was an employee break room. He’d dated a girl in college who’d worked here part time.
Brandon looked at the ice cream selection again. He’d made meals for girlfriends before, this was nothing new.
But Poppy wasn’t his girlfriend. God, she’d cringe if she ever heard herself referred to as that, especially after her spectacular betrayal by her loser ex. He recoiled again from the term fuck buddies, as they weren’t buddies and…
Jesus. Joseph. And Mary. They weren’t fucking. He’d made love to Poppy Kaminsky. They were lovers.
He was in love with the Yankee girl.