Chapter 2
Brandon took a pull from the Corona that the bartender had stuffed a lime slice into and made a slow perusal of the crowd. As he took in the party scene it was easy to pick out that it was comprised of couples, save for him and the woman named Poppy. After the initial introductions everyone was back to gripping and grinning with the people they already knew. Except him and the Poppy woman. He’d seen her before he’d pulled up to the dock, before he’d drawn alongside Henry’s pier. It was hard to miss her proud posture, the way she held herself so proper and contained. By-products of the Yankee stick up her ass, no doubt.
He took his fill of her now as she fidgeted with her empty cocktail glass, standing aloof and looking ill at ease near the bar. She was everything he registered as a warning flag. Her bleached-blond waves, designer dress that was supposed to look casual but cost more than most people’s monthly wages, shoes that would last a nanosecond in the bayou, maybe less in the French Quarter. She hadn’t taken her sunglasses off to meet him, either. Fucking rude.
“She’s been Sonja’s closest friend since college.” Henry cut in on his observation. Brandon hated when he got caught checking out a woman he couldn’t care less about.
“Uh huh.”
“Poppy’s a stylist to the stars in New York. Sonja was over the moon that she agreed to come down. She’s actually pretty famous, but going through a rough time right now. You didn’t hear it from me, though.” Henry stood next to him, looking a little uncomfortable in a short-sleeve oxford and chino shorts. Henry never looked at ease unless he was in a full-on custom-tailored business suit with a perfectly knotted silk tie.
Like their father.
“Tell me about Sonja.” He dragged his gaze off Poppy and focused on his brother. Henry’s pale complexion turned ruddy and he started talking. Babbling was more like it. Running his mouth like the brook that had run through their backyard growing up. Brandon couldn’t quite wrap his mind around it but his older brother appeared to be truly in love. Not that Brandon could relate. Or wanted to.
“You know that Dad hired her two years ago, right? She works in the New Orleans office with me. She was perfect for the firm right from day one. As if she were part of…” Henry trailed off.
“The family?” Brandon couldn’t help himself.
“Well, of course not exactly like that, but—”
Brandon slapped Henry on the shoulder. “Chill out, dude. I’m yanking your chain. Let me guess, Mom and Dad aren’t over the moon about you marrying an African American? Fuck them.”
Henry didn’t laugh at Brandon’s attempt at humor. Brandon watched his brother as he tried to take the high road, tried to show Brandon yet again that he’d made a mistake by basically disowning his family ten years ago. The moment Henry’s shoulders slumped Brandon knew his brother was done pretending.
“No, they’re not happy about it. They’ve threatened to disown me, to fire Sonja, the whole nine yards since we announced our engagement at Christmas.” Henry’s eyes, the same shade of blue as his own, glittered with frustration. “I’ve never told Sonja the half of it. Bottom line is that they’ve agreed to come on Saturday. I don’t expect them at the reception but at least they’re showing up for the vows.”
“Is that good enough for you?”
Henry shook his head. “No, none of it is, but what choice do I have? I’m marrying the woman I want to.”
Brandon didn’t reply. He’d be happy to tell his sanctimonious, bigoted, holier-than-thou parents to take their racist views and shove them up their tight asses. But Henry wasn’t like him, wasn’t one to rock the boat. “So you think once you’re married and back at work, they’ll go on as if it’s all okay?”
“No idea. Probably more like as if nothing happened. I’m not expecting invitations to their dinner parties any longer. I can let it all go, but I hate that it hurts Sonja.”
Brandon studied his brother’s profile as they leaned on the deck railing, backs to the party and facing the river. The setting sun lit the sky and it was probably the last stretch of cool evenings they’d see until next fall. Henry was a Boudreaux not just in genetics but manner and cocooned beliefs. Brandon almost felt sorry for him. It had to bite to have that protective Boudreaux bubble burst for something that was supposed to be the happiest event of your life.
Henry turned toward him.
“I wish I could be more like you, Gus. You’ve always known what you wanted and you never took any shit from them. Ever.”
“It’s not that simple, Henry.” And it hadn’t been, not for a newly minted college graduate, no matter how solid his engineering degree from Tulane was. Those first years completely on his own had been rough.
And this year, this past week…fuck. Not now.
“Look at you, Gus.” Brandon didn’t tell him to drop the childhood nickname—not that Henry would have. “You’re at the top of your game. The Picayune said you made fifteen million dollars last year. You certainly didn’t need Mom and Dad.”
“You still don’t get it, Henry.” He finished his beer and smiled at the bartender, who handed him a fresh one. “It’s not about financial security, it never was. Family isn’t supposed to be about the bottom line.” He’d made his break to be free of the controlling, arcane nature of his parents. And his financial status was in dire straits, but that wasn’t public knowledge. Not yet. None of it was anything he was going to talk to Henry about tonight, two days before his older brother got hitched.
“Easy for you to say, Gus. You’re brilliant, getting to do what you love to make your living. The rest of us had to work for our grades.”
Brandon let Henry’s passive-aggressive statement stand. Not his circus. And tried to convince himself that the slice of shame through his conscience was irrelevant.
“I’m happy for you, Henry, that you’ve found the woman for you.”
Henry’s eyes and smile softened in tandem as he dropped the edginess of sibling rivalry. “Yeah, I’ve done that, bro. She’s the only one for me. I still can’t believe she said yes.”
“Why wouldn’t she? You’re a catch—you’ll be partner soon, right? And from how pussy-whipped you’re looking, she’s getting a good deal. Two for one.”
“Sonja didn’t want me to have to fight my, um, our family. She thought she was driving a wedge between us. I told her the only thing worse for me than losing family would be if I lost her.” Henry’s expression mirrored the emotions they’d all felt when they realized Brandon wasn’t going home for any holiday meals, no more Sunday dinners. It’d hurt his older brother when Brandon had made the break he needed.
The squeeze of self-recrimination he thought he’d long buried took ahold of Brandon and shook. Lots of kids made peace with asshole parents, why couldn’t he?
Brandon had to choke back his beer around the lump in his throat. Shit.
“I’m proud of you, bro.” He slapped Henry on the back and nodded to where Sonja stood with a group of women, her face radiant with bridal bliss. “Sonja’s going to make a fine sister, I can tell already.”
“Thanks, Gus. What about you? Anyone in your life?”
“Naw. I’m not a hermit or anything—just not ready to pull the plug on the fun, you know?”
“Your tough talk doesn’t fool me. You still stinging over Kelly?”
“Kelly? Hell, no! That was in college, bro. I’m ten years out of that almost-mistake.” No, he wasn’t stinging over Kelly. Or even Joanie, the gal who’d dumped him a few months ago when, after two years, he made true on his promise that he was in it for the fun, no strings. Commitment always bespoke family to him, and his family wasn’t something he ever wanted to emulate.
“You can’t want to be single forever, can you?” Henry had caught the whiff of Brandon’s angst but attributed it to relationship woes. Not the real reason Brandon was off his game: his company was facing bankruptcy.
“Look, Henry, just because you’ve been bit, don’t think everyone else has.” He almost hated himself for being able to portray his Gus persona so well.
“By the way, have you seen Jeb? I thought he’d come in with you.”
“Ah, no, he’s been incommunicado since he left on a business trip last week.” He hated lying to Henry. Especially about Jeb.
“He’s practically family. He’s coming to the wedding, right?”
“Far as I know.” He sure hoped Jeb would show up. And tell Brandon what the hell was going on with their corporate financials. He totally relied on the man who was his best friend and had hung out with their family since they were all teens. Jeb was an ace accountant.
The sickening truth tried to push through Brandon’s denial and he shoved it back. This was Henry’s weekend.
“Okay, well, maybe he’ll show up later tonight downtown.” Henry straightened when he saw Sonja wave at him from across the deck, motioning for him to come over. “Looks like I’m being paged.”
Brandon called it something else, but whatever. “I don’t need to be babysat. And Henry? These are my only two beers for the night. I’m your duty driver for the downtown activities.” He gestured with his hand toward the swamp boat. “She’s our ride.”
“We’ve hired a couple of limo drivers, Gus. But thanks.”
Brandon found himself ignoring the sting that Henry’s refusal made. “You can always change your mind, bro.”
Henry stared at him. After a few seconds he nodded. “You’re right. Let me ask Sonja.”
Of course they’d hired drivers. Henry wasn’t one to spare any expense. Just like their dad. Water transportation was more fun, as far as Brandon was concerned.
* * * *
“Okay folks, I need y’all to get on the boat.” Henry held up his cocktail as he grinned at his guests. “My brother has offered to get us to New Orleans in a straight line.”
Poppy looked from Henry to the “boat” in question. What. The. F—
“You’re going to love this. It’s Poppy, right? I’m not always the best with names.” Brandon stood in front of her and she’d bet the last swig of her Cajun cocktail that he was, in fact, excellent with names.
“Sonja told me we were taking limos tonight.” She hoped the women still were. Let the guys have this rough ride.
Brandon’s lips curled in a half smile she knew had to be practiced. “Obviously she and Henry have seen the light. The only way to traverse the bayou is on water.”
“Is that made for passengers?” She sniffed at his floating monstrosity. “What kind of boat is that? I mean, what’s its purpose?”
“It’s a swamp boat, meant to be able to ride over the marshes without a hitch. It also gets around the Mississippi and her tributaries pretty well.”
“Is it a hobby of yours?”
“Hobby?” Why did he look like he was about to choke on his ice water? “Yeah, something like that.”
“I can take one of the limos—there won’t be enough room in your boat for all of us.” Hadn’t she been through enough? She’d fled the hot mess of her life less than twelve hours ago. The last thing she needed was any kind of reminder that Will was hosting his prenup party on his yacht right about now. Not that this metal canoe in any way resembled a yacht. She snorted. “We’re going to the French Quarter, right? We’ll all meet down there.”
“Do you have a fear of the water?” Blue-jean-colored eyes crinkled at the sides as he threw out the question like a challenge. A gauntlet.
“No, Brandon, I don’t fear the water.” Or anything this bayou babe wanted to throw at her. “It’s just that I didn’t realize we’d be wrangling gators before the festivities. I’m not dressed for it.”
He laughed, and from his expression he hadn’t expected to. “You’ve never been down here before, have you?”
“Au contraire. I was here to visit Sonja when we were seniors in college.” They’d worked on a build site for victims of Katrina but she wasn’t about to share that with Mr. Dixie.
“Did you get downtown?”
“To New Orleans? Of course.” It had been a mess, most everything closed, but she wasn’t going to tell him that.
“It’s pronounced ‘New Orlinz’ down here, Poppy.” His intonations made it clear he didn’t miss one bit of her judgment, no matter how innocuously she meant it.
“I’m not from here, Brandon.”
“That, you’re not.” He made a purposeful perusal of her from head to toe, stopping at her feet, which were getting more and more uncomfortable in the five-inch gladiator sandals. “Nice toes.”
It took every ounce of self-control to not wiggle said toes, painted violet and topped with tiny white flowers. Another part of her break from the polished Poppy the world knew as Amber. That woman wouldn’t be caught dead with nail art.
Poppy silently shook off any thoughts of who she was before this moment. Time to step into her new life.
“I did them myself.” Stupid line. He didn’t care.
“I’ve no doubt.” Was he patronizing her?
She gritted her teeth. “Where do we sit?”
* * * *
“Don’t worry about us, Poppy. We’ll keep you safe and unseen.” Daisy, Sonja’s law school friend, shouted over the turbines’ roar as they and eight more of the wedding party skimmed the river. Poppy and Daisy were seated side by side in the last row of seats, directly in front of Brandon’s place at the helm. He stood behind a large metal wheel, surrounded by a small building with windows on each side. The front window was open so she wasn’t sure how much of their conversation he heard.
“I appreciate it.” She smiled at Daisy before turning pointedly back to the view. As unlikely as it was that Brandon could hear them, she wasn’t about to risk anyone overhearing the details of her catastrophe.
The sun disappeared across the water as they moved toward the city, and the sky was illuminated with intense shades of violet and peach. The colors took Poppy’s inner artist’s breath away. The hues were so unlike her usual neutral palette, so vibrant.
“It must be hard to have something so personal blow up in such a public way. A major crisis that everyone can see.” Even in the wind, aboard their odd transportation and with Daisy’s appealing Louisiana lilt, there was no mistaking the prying.
“People around the world are starving, surviving wars. My private life is hardly a crisis.”
“And then you had that incident at The Plaza. My mother took us there for high tea a few years ago—me, my sisters and grandmother. It was so fancy! And very classy. I imagine the anniversary party for your ex’s parents was over-the-top. Had you broken up by then?”
Daisy had read the People article, apparently. And then there was that Huffington Post piece….
“Has anything you’re not proud of ever been made public, Daisy?” She blasted Daisy with what she thought of as her thousand-watt smile, wanting to slap the faux innocence off the Southern belle’s face.
“No, not that I can think of. I’m boring that way—I’m the nice girl who never has any fun. Your typical Southern gal.”
“Good for you, Daisy.” She wondered if Daisy realized that similar to a gently spoken Southern “bless your heart,” “good for you” was Yankee-speak for “fuck you.”
And then it hit Poppy. The angle Daisy had her body angled toward her wasn’t to speak to Poppy but to display her scantily clad breasts most advantageously to their ship’s driver. And was that glitter on Daisy’s boobs? Poppy looked from Daisy’s sparkling cleavage to Brandon’s face, and to her shock he wasn’t looking anywhere near Daisy or her glitter. He was staring at her, Poppy, blatantly watching for her reaction. He must have seen the desire in her eyes because he commenced a very slow, very deliberate assessment of her, from head to toe, lingering on her breasts and hips.
Hot awareness flushed through her as his obvious interest in her female attributes was reflected in the way his half-lidded eyes perused her curves. Unlike Daisy, whose glittered décolletage indicated a fun streak, Poppy preferred a more understated exposure of her breasts, as evidenced by the peekaboo slit in her sundress, strategically cut over her cleavage. Apparently Brandon liked to play hide-and-seek, as his gaze was riveted on the small opening.
He blinked, his eyes widening as he realized he was caught looking at her. She wasn’t sure who was more surprised. He continued to stare at her for a full second. She waited for his gaze to dip, to slide over and check out Daisy’s sparkles. Instead, a flash of anger before he looked away, focused forward and steered the boat around a bend. She felt bereft, dismissed as though she hadn’t passed his muster.
Poppy angled her body to her side of the boat, her chest exposed to the sunset. She refused to engage either Daisy or Brandon. The scenery was sublime, a true welcome to Dixie, something she shouldn’t miss. Besides, Brandon Boudreaux was the last man she wanted looking at her boobs.
* * * *
“Thanks.” Poppy nodded at the bartender, took her hurricane in its tall wavy plastic container, and moved to the far edge of the group. She fingered the purple beads partygoers had thrown from the balconies lining Charles Street as the wedding party had strolled down the center of the French Quarter. She wondered how long this crowd would last. They’d been drinking since the deck party, with the only gap the speed-demon ride to the wide, downtown New Orleans pier that Brandon somehow had reserved ahead of time. Getting an open spot on a pier in Manhattan was next to impossible and she didn’t think New Orleans was any different.
Sonja and the other girls were up on the stage, dancing and singing with the band. The bachelor party had gone to a different bar and she told herself she was relieved to be without the constant sense of Brandon Boudreaux judging her.
Her head throbbed to the beat of the booming music and she promised herself she’d get a tall glass of water next. She hated that she was making sure she didn’t get a hangover. It’d be so nice to loosen up and party like she hadn’t just gone through hell.
You deserve to let your hair down. You’ve been through so much.
Her inner whiner needed to shut up. Poppy’s idea of letting loose was watching a Hallmark Channel movie and eating organic air-popped popcorn on the nights after she’d had a particularly difficult client.
Clients. She didn’t have any left, unless she’d hallucinated her most recent cancelations. But she still had the dream deal with her Attitude by Amber franchise, and by the time her products hit over 4400 outlets in North America alone, the public would have forgotten all about her Plaza meltdown.
A twangy song with a hard rock beat started to rattle the bar and it felt like the whole place moved to it.
“Come on, Poppy!” Sonja screamed from the band’s stage, pointing at her.
“Can’t!” She shook her head and pointed at her drink, holding Sonja off. No way was she getting on that stage, in front of all these drunk patrons.
“I’ll hold that.” Brandon’s voice was in her ear and he was next to her. She jumped back and stared. He held out his hand for her drink and she spotted the other guys in the wedding party behind him. So much for a girls’ night out.
She handed him the glass.
“You can have it. I never drink from a glass I’ve left unattended.” Shoving past him, she wound through the sweaty sea of partygoers and joined the bridal party in a line dance. She could do a Southern shimmy with the best of them. At first she felt good, on the verge of enjoying herself after months of internal badgering. It was almost possible to believe that she was as young and free as she’d been the last time she’d line danced with Sonja. They pivoted in perfect unison, laughing in sheer delight at how in sync they still were. The sandals were killing her feet but she didn’t care. Although the next time she danced in New Orleans she vowed to do it with cowboy boots on.
“Welcome to the Boudreaux wedding party!” The singer of the band called out over the rollicking beat and Poppy cheered along with the other women, hands up high as if to keep the ceiling from caving in. This was what a wedding was all about. Pure celebration. It was what she’d wanted at hers, but all the fun, spontaneous ideas she’d come up with had gotten the kibosh from Will. Of course, he’d already been involved with Tori and had no intention of going through with his marriage to Poppy.
The reminder of her shattered heart was all the space her ugly anxiety needed.
No, no, no. Come on, not now. Not here.
The room grew too small, her dress too tight. She tried every tool she knew. Deep breaths, tapping her sternum, picturing she was in her happy place. But her happy place—the vision she’d used to short circuit her anxiety for the past two years, her dream wedding with her dream groom—was gone.
Poppy panicked.
* * * *
Brandon didn’t know what possessed him to be nice to the Poppy chick. Jesus, she was a pill. And it wasn’t because she wasn’t falling over him like he was used to women doing. He could have her eating out of his hand given the right circumstances—there was a palpable sexual chemistry between them. But she’d been standing on the outskirts of the fun, sipping that tourist cocktail, in her fancy New York City clothes, with the saddest eyes. She’d reminded him of how he felt when he tried to be a salesman for his bigger boats, pitching to CEOs or celebrities. Out of place, a catfish not only out of water but far from the mud it was most at home in.
He tried to make it look like he wasn’t watching her dance from the corner of his eye, that his focus was on Henry and the other groomsmen. Poppy sure knew how to shake it to all kinds of music, not just the electronic beats from the uppity club scene he remembered from his sojourns to New York. He wasn’t only watching her body move, though. It was a delicious package, that bod of hers, but he found himself mesmerized by her face. She carried herself like a woman who’d accept nothing but the very best in life, but her expression screamed “I’m hurting.” Did he see her pain because it was the same kind of visceral knife-on-bone pain he was in?
And her breathing—he’d noticed it on Henry’s dock, when they’d met. The little hitches of breath that made her ample breasts quiver under the gauzy sundress she wore. The sundress exposed the start of her cleavage, the creamy skin of her chest. Shallow breathing was something he understood well—it was what always preceded the panic attacks that had plagued him through college. They were at their worst right before important exams, and right after his first long-term girlfriend unceremoniously dumped him for a more outgoing, socially fluent rugby player.
As the band pumped on with a throwback millennial hit, Poppy’s effortless steps were no longer in line with the other gals’ and he watched as she looked like she was going to pass out. And she kept doing this weird thing with her fingers, hitting herself on her sternum and then in the area between her mouth and nose.
“Excuse me. Move.” He shoved past the gawkers, drooling as they enjoyed the show. The wedding party women were all beautiful and liquored up to the point of demonstrating their most sensual body movements and had attracted quite the crowd. He reached Poppy, at the end of the line, just as she sank into a squat, her fingers frantically beating out some Morse code on her temples. He touched her shoulder. “I’ve got you.”
She looked up and he knew she didn’t see him, not really. He leaned in close. Her pupils were dilated and her mouth was open, but instead of gulping the air her body needed, she was panting and looked like she was on the verge of tears. He hauled her up by her upper arms and pressed her against him, knowing the shock of a practical stranger holding her might shake the panic away, if only for a few moments.
“What, why—wait a minute.” Poppy was back, her mouth curled in a shadow of the snarls she’d cast his way all night. “Let me go. I’m fine.”
“In a minute. Let’s get some air.” She didn’t argue and in fact leaned against his side when he put his arm around her lower back, his hand covering her hip bone—Jesus, he was going to go to hell for noticing how fucking sexy she was, in the midst of her suffering—and half walked, half carried her out of the bar. Charles Street was crowded with partygoers and he took her hand, made direct eye contact. “You okay? Can you walk?”
Her answering nod was imperceptible except for the way it made a blond lock fall across her eyes. She didn’t brush it away and he saw her chest do the shallow breathing routine again. “I’ve got you, Poppy. Let’s take a stroll and find a quieter place. You’re all right.”
* * * *
Poppy struggled with her embarrassment and frustration that this stranger—well, okay, not a complete stranger, as she knew it was Brandon and holy fuck he was one sexy dude—was witnessing her at her absolute worst. Her anxiety had been a thing of the past, so she thought, and since it hadn’t acted up even when her fairytale wedding and life had blown up, she’d assumed she’d outgrown it.
Wrong.
“Where are we going?”
He held her hand and she grasped his back—if she was going to make a fool out of herself, then she’d earned this one reassurance. Human touch that relayed strength and a sense of compassion she hadn’t picked up from the man who’d pulled his swamp boat next to his uptight, socially conscious brother’s pier.
Was this Brandon really the same asshole she’d been avoiding all night?
“Not sure. For now, I have a place in mind where you can chill out, take some time to get grounded and come back to yourself.”
“And then what, you’ll resuscitate me with a night I’ll never forget? Let me guess, all the girls tell you that yours is the biggest ever?”
He squeezed her hand but didn’t let go. “Nice to have the real Poppy back. Five minutes ago I would have sworn you were on your way to passing out.”
Shame she hadn’t experienced in years came rushing back. She tried to tug her hand out of his but he wouldn’t release it. Relief flooded her senses. “Thank you. You didn’t have to take care of me.”
“I’m not taking care of you, believe me. Just giving you the space to take care of yourself.” He let go of her hand and guided them to a large wrought iron gate that he pushed open. “Follow me.”
She walked a step behind him, taking in the overwhelmingly dark, heavily perfumed space of what she guessed was someone’s private garden. Huge white blooms the size of dinner plates wound their way up the side of an arbor. “Is there a house in here somewhere?”
His laughter was brief, gone as soon as it reached her ears. He stopped and turned, forcing her to halt. “It’s a residential garden, yes. But most folks don’t even know it exists. These brick walls make it look like any other colonial building.” He patted said wall before he reached out his hand to her. She couldn’t see his eyes even in the bright moonlight; the round opal disc hung in a cloudless night over his left shoulder, the dark shape of his head framed by a gazillion stars. But she saw his hand, the way the moonlight reflected off his upturned palm. She shouldn’t want to take it again, to accept his offer of strength, maybe even compassion. Men weren’t to be trusted and she knew this in the depths of her being. And it wasn’t as if she needed his reassurance to keep the anxiety at bay; as quickly as the attack had rushed her it had subsided like a rogue wave that brought her back to shore after sucking her under just long enough to let her know she was in trouble. But she wasn’t on a familiar shore or even in a familiar land.
She took his hand again.