Chapter 3
“We shouldn’t be here. This is a private residence, isn’t it?” Her voice came out softer than she meant. They walked along a graveled path, through arbors of wisteria and beneath oaks draped with veil after veil of Spanish moss. It was hard to believe that only a brick wall could mute out the blare of the French Quarter. She supposed the lush fauna had something to do with it, too.
Brandon’s hand gently squeezed hers, a quick pulse.
“It’s okay, trust me. The owners are friends of mine and I happen to know they’re out of town this weekend. I’ve been here plenty of times, night and day, when I needed to get away from the noise.” Did he mean for his voice to sound like a caress on the night breeze?
“What do you mean by ‘noise’?” All she heard were groans and chirps, but what kind of animal made them she had no idea.
“You know, noise. People talking too much. Internal pressure stuff.” He stopped and looked at her. “Do you need quiet to work, or can you solve problems with music?”
Poppy wished she could see his eyes in the dark. Was this man really being nice or mocking her, patronizing the Yankee who’d fallen into her own pile of shit?
“I never thought about it. There always seems to be music in my studio, and at the events I work.”
“Henry said you’re some kind of fashion director?”
Poppy laughed. His drawl made the question sound as if he were a NASA scientist interviewing an alien. “I’m a personal stylist. I help people get the look they want or need for their special day or for their life—whatever that is for them.”
“And you get paid for that?”
“Yes. If you’re very good at your job.” And she’d been very good. Until the last few months, when she hadn’t even known if it was what she wanted anymore.
“Are you? Good at your job?”
“I’m okay.” She tugged her hand from his. This was ridiculous. “I’m fine now, Brandon. We can go back.” Her stomach twisted at the thought of going back to the crowded bar, but she caught her breath. Calmed down.
“Do you really want to do that, Poppy?” His voice lowered and with their hands no longer connected, he stepped closer, shrinking the space between them to inches.
“Honestly? Hell, no! I want to be in my room, curled up and sleeping like a rock. But this isn’t about me, it’s about Sonja. And Henry.” She wondered if Sonja had told Henry she was pregnant yet. Was she really planning to marry a man before she let him know she was pregnant?
“They aren’t going to miss either one of us. The night is getting late and they all have a limo ride back to the house. If you want to go back home now I can make it happen.”
“Do you run your business like this? Coming off as the nice guy but really just manipulating everything to your advantage?”
“Why would taking you back to Henry’s river house be to my advantage, Poppy?” His voice was impossibly low and as rough as the gravel they stood on. This was a man used to getting his way—she’d dealt with enough of them in New York. Knew the way they never took no for an answer. Knew how easily they threw you aside when a younger, more nubile college intern appeared.
“Let me guess, Brandon. I mean, Gus. You think that you have the magic potion in your wand that will make it all better for me?” She motioned to his crotch, figuring he didn’t see her hand in the dark.
He grabbed her hand and it wasn’t a gesture of comfort this time. She froze, wondering if he was going to put it on the spot she’d referenced. She’d met men who would, who got off on ridiculous banter and a vulnerable woman, casting themselves as a sexual savior.
When instead he lifted her hand to his mouth and kissed her knuckles, she experienced the kind of lightning bolt insta-lust she’d only ever read about or watched in romantic comedies, her version of girl porn.
“I don’t do fix-it sex, and I most certainly don’t take advantage of jet-lagged, post-almost-panic-attack women.” He dropped her hand. “Decide what you want, Poppy.”
“I want to go back to the house.”
“Done.” He fished his phone out of his back pocket and tapped open an app. “We’ll have a car outside of the gate we entered in no more than five minutes.”
* * * *
Brandon helped Poppy step down onto the boat from the pier, a small part of him thrilled that she’d accepted his hand as she wobbled in her too-high heels around the French Quarter and garden. And that she trusted him as he helped her onto the deck. He hated that small part that resented that he gave one shit about the welfare of this stranger. Close enough to stranger.
“Next time, you’d be best to wear more practical shoes.”
“These work for me.” She looked down at her strappy leather concoctions that, while totally impractical, made her legs and feet too attractive. Too sexy. The sandals drew too much attention to her smooth calves, and up her thighs, and made him wonder what was under her sundress at the apex of her legs.
Not that he didn’t know. He knew, of course. In fact he considered himself a pussy expert. But he didn’t know Poppy’s pussy.
Fuck. So not the time for this. His life was enough of a mess. He couldn’t bring a woman into the picture now, even if it were for just one night or one wedding weekend.
“Do you need any help getting us out of here? No? Then great—I’ll be up in that seat if you need anything.” She pointed to the chair farthest from the helm, as far distant as she could be from him on the swamp boat. Her humor was tempered by her recent anxiety and yet it warmed him. Something about Poppy spoke to his soul.
“Enjoy the ride.” He untied the lines from the pier cleats and neatly wound them onto the boat’s deck before sliding behind the wheel and starting the engines. He knew these waters as well as he knew how to build a boat. All through his childhood he’d learned each tributary to the Mississippi, each offshoot of Lake Pontchartrain. So he was able to allow his mind to wander, to meditate, even, as he cruised the boat at an easy speed toward Millersville where Henry had bought his house. It figured Henry had purchased a lot on the water, same as Brandon had. Only Brandon’s house was in New Orleans, and Henry’s was an hour’s drive north, twenty minutes by boat. It was closer to their parents’ in the almost exact middle between the New Orleans office and their family’s main law office. Brandon was happy for his brother and for the life of him couldn’t figure out why he gave two shits about Henry’s financial status or apparent ease of life. Sure, Henry hadn’t ever faced bankruptcy, had never had to live in a dingy one-room walk-up in downtown New Orleans. But Henry’s life had been molded and shaped by their parents, specifically their father, since day one. Brandon had a freedom that Henry never would.
At least, until this week when he found out Jeb had absconded with Boats by Gus’s entire financial portfolio. The dead weight that sat in the bottom of his gut was starting to turn rancid, discontent with simply staying silent. The initial denial of the now most certain betrayal by his best friend and practical brother had worn out.
You’re a fucking coward.
Was he? Yeah, probably. He hadn’t mentioned one word to anyone about it yet. Hadn’t called in the authorities. Because of the company’s current two-week hiatus from direct sales, he was able to focus on the production of boats that had already been ordered. Except he didn’t have the funds to pay his employees at the factory and distribution warehouse. As for Jeb, the idea of taking legal action against his best friend and business partner still bothered Brandon. The anger he knew he should be feeling wasn’t there yet. As if by waiting and ignoring that his entire life’s work and savings was gone he’d somehow figure out that Jeb was playing an elaborate prank. Or needed the money for something grand and worthy, that he’d be back at any time and redeposit the funds.
“It’s cold up front.” Poppy’s voice spooked him. He’d been so deep in his sucky prospects he hadn’t noticed she’d moved. She kneeled on the bench near him, her arms wrapped around herself.
“It won’t be much warmer here. There’s a jacket on the bench there if you want it.” A waft of her scent, something to do with jasmine, brushed his nose as she maneuvered behind him to get it. “You don’t have to be all Gumby, getting around me. I’m not going to take advantage of you.” He needed to call his lawyer in the morning. Take action on the Jeb situation.
“Do I give the impression that I’m worried about it?” Her eyes were steady on his and she had remarkable balance on a flat-bottomed boat that thumped rhythmically across the black water.
“You’ve been around boats before, I’d guess.”
Even in the soft moonlight he saw the immediate change in posture from sassy New Yorker to wary animal, as though she’d had to chew her leg off to get out of a hunter’s trap and would never again trust another human being. “Some. But only in a social way.”
He made it a point to keep his eyes on his route and not look directly at her. It kept his sexual attraction to her in perspective, made the possibilities of what he would have loved to do with a woman like Poppy only a week ago less real. But not less tempting.
She finally stopped staring at him and looked out at the shore lights that twinkled but were no competition for the almost full moon. “I’ve been on a lot of frivolous boats. The entertaining kind. You know, like tour boats that go around Manhattan, and yachts. I’ve styled people to look their best at social functions that are really business meetings. And some fun ones, too, like, like…weddings.” She ended on a quieter note.
“Are you the stylist for Henry and Sonja’s wedding?” He assumed she was, since Henry had said she was Sonja’s best friend.
She shook her head and he hid a smile at how the motion fluffed her hair out, making her look like she had a huge fuzzy halo around her oval face. “No, Sonja didn’t want me to do anything but enjoy her wedding. And as it turns out, this is a perfect time for me to stay down here for a while.”
That weight in Brandon’s stomach kept it from turning over in interest. “What do you mean, ‘stay here’?”
“I’m house-sitting for Sonja while they’re on their honeymoon. Two weeks. Since I’m launching a new line of home decor and fashion within the next ten days and don’t want to go back to New York at the moment, it’s worked out better than I could have planned.”
“Good for you.”
She laughed.
“What’s so funny?”
“Don’t tell me you don’t know. Saying ‘good for you’ where I’m from is like when you say ‘bless your heart.’” Her head was tilted and her lips puffed in a tiny pout. If they’d met at another time, if she wasn’t giving off such a prudish air, it’d be the perfect time for a first kiss. Her eyes widened slightly as if maybe she was thinking the same thing. He knew she was getting the same vibe as he when she took a step backward.
He laughed easily. “Aw, come on now, Yankee girl. Tell me what it means.”
Her chin tilted up and she crossed her arms over her chest. “It means ‘fuck you,’ Brandon. Fuck. You.”
* * * *
Dear sweet baby Jesus, please let me live through this night. They couldn’t be more than ten more minutes to the house, ten more minutes and she’d be rid of Brandon Boudreaux. And his dark looks, the sexy eyes that promised a different kind of southern heat. It tugged at her, she had to admit. The thought of letting loose and letting him put those capable hands on her breasts, her ass. But then she’d wake up, because she always woke up, and she wasn’t up for the self-recrimination and low self-esteem that would greet her with the sunrise. If they’d never see each other again, it would be one thing. Two more full days of having to deal with one another at a dress rehearsal and then the wedding, though? No way.
She hadn’t meant to be such a bitch but then she couldn’t believe he hadn’t put the moves on her after being so damned nice in the French Quarter. So gentlemanly. Acting like he understood her panic attack, as if maybe he’d known someone else who had them. The walk-through-the-garden Brandon had disappeared in a New York minute when he’d eyed her minutes ago, looking at her like she was a chump and he was a hungry shark cruising for a substantial snack. She shivered and in the jacket that smelled like him it wasn’t from the chill of the breeze off the dark waters. It was from the side of Brandon that had looked like he’d enjoy nothing more than stalling the boat and pulling her against him for some bayou boinking. His look, even his silence, had made her knees quake and it wasn’t from her high heels.
They pulled up to Henry and Sonja’s dock and she shrugged out of the jacket, dropping it back on the bench where she’d found it. “Thanks for the ride, Brandon. See you at the rehearsal tomorrow.”
“Hold on, Poppy.” He cut the motors and expertly threw the lines to the deck, lassoing one on a cleat and pulling it taut before hopping off the ship to tie the second line. He reached down to give her a boost.
“I don’t need your help, Brandon. I’m fine.” She focused on making it off the boat and onto the dock without catching her heels in any spaces or, worse, tripping. She stood and faced him, her back to the house. “You didn’t have to secure the boat. Thanks again.”
“I’m not letting you go into an empty house on your own.”
“You’re not ‘letting’ me do anything. Thank you for the ride. Good night.” She made what she thought was a graceful exit considering the tumult of the past two hours. At the sound of his steps behind her she stopped at the back patio French doors. Without turning back she spoke to his reflection in the glass. “I’m safe. You can go now.” She tried to open the door and close it right behind her, but it wouldn’t budge.
“You have to undo the latch up here first.” His arm reached over her head and she heard the click of whatever fastener he unlocked.
She turned and looked at him. “Thank you.” His expression wasn’t very readable in the dim light, as clouds had started to play peekaboo with the moon. He said nothing and her old sense of everything being her fault tugged at her. “Do you need to use the, um, facilities before you continue on?”
“As a matter of fact, yes. My house is another twenty to thirty minutes, back toward the city.”
“I’m sorry you went so far out of your way.” She was glad, really, to be able to be away from the happy crowd they’d left. Happy was a bit elusive to her, too hard to grasp or pretend.
“Like I said, no problem. You have a good night.” He reached around her and opened the door. Poppy went in and bolted for the stairs, needing to be alone, yes, but more, needing to be away from Brandon and his manners.
* * * *
Brandon meant to use the bathroom and then leave, but he’d found himself wandering from room to room downstairs. It was clear Henry and Sonja had lived here together for a while, since the place was comfortably decorated and appeared well lived-in, save for the empty spots that still needed furniture. His attention was initially caught by all the photographs on the grand piano in the expansive family room. He clicked on a small reading lamp and looked at photos of Henry and Sonja, Sonja with what he assumed was her family, Henry with college friends. His gut took a sucker punch at a recent photo of Henry with their parents. God, his father looked every bit the son of a bitch Brandon remembered. He hadn’t seen him since two weeks before college graduation, well over ten years ago. His father had issued his ultimatum for Brandon to apply to law school with the promise of joining the family law firm afterward. For the umpteenth and last time, Brandon had refused his father’s manipulation.
Hudson Boudreaux looked the same, save for his hair being more on the white side than the glossy silver it had been for decades. His mother, however, looked so much older than Brandon remembered. Gloria Boudreaux posed with Dad, Henry, and their sister Jena in front of a huge poinsettia-laden Christmas tree. His mom’s figure looked the same but the lines around her eyes had deepened and the strain in her smile was palpable.
He’d missed a lot. Years he’d never get back.
Muffled sounds came to him as he set the frame back on the black lacquered piano top. He moved to the base of the stairs and the sounds were clearly sobs. So little miss Yankee stylist had needed to come back here not to rest but to cry her heart out. From her conversation with Daisy and what he’d pieced together from the other partygoers, she sure had a lot to weep over. Not that it was any business of his, or that he cared.
He kept up his perusal of Henry’s house, telling himself it was to learn more about the brother he’d missed and to gain insight into the woman Henry had fallen for. Sucker. When quiet descended over the house like a blanket on a cold night, he chanced a walk upstairs, to make sure Poppy was settled. Then he would go home. Brandon never liked leaving anyone or anything unsettled.
A bedroom door at the top of the stairs was cracked open. With the glow of a cat-shaped night light, he made out a huddled figure under a coverlet on the double bed. A few locks of her bright hair haphazardly poked out from under the blanket. Who slept so far under the covers but a distraught child?
The ticking of a Big Ben alarm clock on the nightstand was the only sound, save for quiet little gasps of what he discerned were Poppy’s soft snores. Glancing at his watch to confirm the glowing hands on the bedside clock were accurate, he swallowed a deep yawn. It would be daylight in less than two hours, and he was suddenly, incredibly, exhausted. He could crash on Henry’s couch downstairs, but would be woken up when the rest of the folks came home. And have to explain why he’d stayed. He couldn’t go into another guest room, because they were all occupied, as Sonja had mentioned the house was “full to the brim.”
He stared at the wide window seat that stretched the full length of the bedroom’s only window. He might need to bend his knees but he could catch twenty winks there. A couple hour power nap was all he needed. He’d be gone before anyone woke, especially the woman in the bed before him.
He eased onto the cushioned ledge and let out a quiet sigh of relief that he didn’t have to go home yet, where reality would crash in and he’d be reminded he might not have his home for much longer. By no means was he crashing here because he gave a rat’s ass about a Yankee girl stylist from New York.
* * * *
Poppy woke from a deep snooze fest and remained still, taking a minute to remember where she was. New Orleans. Louisiana. Sonja. Henry. Henry’s brother, Brandon. Brandon. Brandon’s boat. Oh God, Brandon’s lips on her hand.
What the hell was that noise? Maybe everyone had returned and their drunken movements had awakened her. The clock on her nightstand said it was almost dawn but the house was still, the light barely starting to change. Shock jolted through her when she saw the figure on the window bench. What the hell was he doing here? In her room? Son of a bitch.
She rose to wake him, preferably by choking, but when her bare feet hit the rough pine planks it was as if the house halted her, made her stop and take a breath before reacting. Because wasn’t reacting to events in her life what had gotten her to this deep, dark pit that was her current emotional and professional status?
As she stepped closer to the window, Brandon’s profile became clearer and for the second time that morning shock stilled her. He was as sexy in repose as he was awake, every taught line on him begging for a woman’s touch, promising delights only the most skilled lover can dole out. What was different was his face. While his profile was very similar to Henry’s and what she imagined was a Boudreaux genetic stamp, his expression was…vulnerable. The lines of contempt and judgment she’d observed yesterday were softer, yielding to an expression of desperation.
Yeah, right. She silenced a snort behind her hand and went to the bathroom down the hall to get a drink of water. Obviously her dramatic life events of the past months had caught up to her, as the Brandon Boudreaux she’d met yesterday barely resembled the man sleeping on her window seat.
When she returned to her room, armed with verbal reprisal and her own scathing expression, he was gone.