Chapter 4
“I’ll have the po’boy, fully dressed, and the seasoned French fries.” Poppy gave her order to the waitress, doing her best to ignore the rehearsal dinner guest to her left.
“You know what ‘fully dressed’ means, right?” Brandon’s voice was so close to her ear that his breath blew her hair onto her cheek. The room shrank, her focus on only the two of them. If she thought about it too hard she’d realize that the sense that she somehow knew him, was connected to him, began the minute she’d met his blue-eyed glance.
“Yes, and I like pickles and hot sauce and anything else they want to put on it. It’s not my first time here, remember? And there are several great Cajun restaurants in my neck of the woods.” Damn but she sounded like a stuck-up Manhattanite. Something she’d usually accept as part of her identity and public persona—it had earned her several spots on reality television, after all, and more importantly, earned her a decent paycheck. But in this moment, in this laid-back restaurant where the Southern hospitality wrapped around her like the hot humid air outside, her words sounded rude. She sighed.
“I’m sorry, Brandon. That didn’t come out very nicely, did it?”
“No, but that’s what I like about you, Yankee girl. You don’t hold back.” The innuendo meant only for her let her know that he wasn’t just talking about her verbal sarcasm. He’d only kissed her hand yet had her as worked up as if they’d been doing the horizontal zydeco since yesterday.
Brandon Boudreaux had a way of plucking on her tightest strings, starting with when he’d pulled up to Henry and Sonja’s deck in that crazy boat.
“What are you having, honey?” The waitress was young with the beautiful glow on her skin to prove it. Poppy wondered if the constant high humidity had something to do with it. It’d be like having a misting treatment during a facial, but constantly and free.
“The same, but skip the fries. Do you have any dirty rice back there?” Of course Mr. Bayou was also a health nut. Don’t let any fat gather on those washboard abs. Abs she’d only taken brief note of. No sense wasting time on something she wasn’t going to touch.
“Stop staring at me, Yankee girl.”
Why did it have to be his voice that was the first male vibration to get her wet since the breakup with Will? Instead of answering, she made a point of visually perusing the laid-back restaurant. And kept a side eye on Brandon.
Brandon was completely at ease in the low country diner, obviously a favorite of his and Henry’s since they’d picked it for tonight’s celebratory meal. Sonja had been thrilled when she’d told her that Brandon had insisted on helping Henry with tonight’s plans, since their parents weren’t involved in any of the wedding planning. Poppy was surprised that her detail-oriented bestie had agreed to such a casual venue, but knew from working weddings that the rehearsal dinner was often an area the bride relented on to coax her groom to go along with her wedding day plans.
“You surprise me, Poppy. I thought this might be too down-home for the likes of Park Avenue. Aren’t you worried the aroma of the hushpuppies frying in all that grease will pack the pounds on?” He rubbed his chin as if perplexed. “I had you pegged as one of those zero-carb types.”
“Back off, Brandon.”
“My old friends call me Gus.”
“Exactly. I’m not old and we’re not friends.” She sipped her sweet iced tea, savoring the pucker from the juicy sliced lemons. Even in winter, citrus was fresh and brightly colored in Louisiana.
His half smile took the smirk off her lips, which threatened to match his sort-of smile.
“Careful there, you look like you might laugh at Southern humor. Can’t have that from the Queen of New York High Society.”
“Save it. I’ve styled my fair share of Southern belles, and their husbands. A handful of men from the South, too. A portion of my home decor line was inspired by memories of my time here in college, as a matter of fact.”
His brow lifted, his eyes never leaving hers. Well, except to look at her lips. Did he know he was a walking sex god?
Yes. Like her, Brandon had been around the block several times. Too many, maybe. He appeared to wear it better than she did, as he looked fresh and energized. Two things she’d not felt in months.
“Go on.”
“The ins and outs of the fashion industry would bore you. You’re used to way more complicated challenges building ships, I’m sure.” She shouted the words, her throat sore from talking over the cacophony of conversation, platters being slapped onto tables, all punctuated by the steady stream of Lynyrd Skynyrd through deceptively tiny speakers.
He scooted his chair close enough for one of the worn wooden legs to bump her seat. Tremors of awareness would have run up her spine but never made it past the hot pounding between her legs. He leaned in close and she fought to stand her ground. Holy Cajun grilled shrimp, he wasn’t going to try to kiss her, was he?
“Relax. I can’t hear your tough Yankee girl voice over the din in here. I want to make sure I don’t miss a word.” His breath formed words against her ear and she breathed in his clean but tinged with river scent. Very natural, very Brandon. Another side to the man who’d saved her from herself last night. “What you said about the house in New Orleans that you toured—do you remember which house it was?”
“The 1850 House.”
He smiled appreciatively when she mentioned the landmark.
“That was right after Katrina.”
“Yes.” Their eyes met, no longer than the heartbeat it took for another bead of condensation to run down her beverage glass. Enough time to acknowledge that nothing had been the same here since the natural disaster.
“It was so beautiful, so untouched. I felt like I’d caught a ride through a wormhole and landed in antebellum Louisiana.”
“That house was part of so many of my grade school field trips.” His nostalgic smile gave her a sliver of insight into the boy he’d been. Happy. Content.
She nodded. “It captures the height of middle nineteenth century culture in America, and the kind of home I pictured every kind of woman of Scarlett O’Hara’s generation grew up in.” She’d created one of her idea journals about it, mostly photos she’d shot while there.
“You know it was only the wealthy who enjoyed the pretty lifestyle, right?”
“Yes, and I know there were slaves there. Which made it more meaningful for me, because I was on the tour with Sonja, and we looked at one another while we were standing in one of the slave’s cottages. We realized we wouldn’t have been allowed to be friends back then, not even one hundred years later. Not without a lot of effort. Sonja wouldn’t have been able to ever go to school as a slave.”
“No women did, except for a rare few.”
“True, but for a black female slave? Her life was predestined from the moment she was born on the plantation.”
“And yet you used the charming, overly decorated style of the main house to inspire styling a Southern couple?” His distaste couldn’t be more clear. She didn’t think Elvis had a better sneer. She stayed silent, regrouping.
“Let me guess, the bride was a white sorority sister who wanted to have the perfect society ‘vintage’ wedding.”
“No, they were the Calvins.” The starting quarterback of the New Orleans Saints and his wife had both gone to LSU and happened to be African American. “I was able to imbue the sense of where their families had come from while keeping the natural beauty of the South in her dress.”
“Come again? You turned James Calvin’s wedding into a civil justice statement?”
His words cut across the din at the right moment of quiet, when the streamed music was between songs and the majority of guests appeared to be drinking, eating, or watching the large-screen television as LSU fought for the national championship.
“Catering to the rich and famous can be done with civic duty in mind. Unlike slapping a pre-fab boat together and adding whatever gold-plated faucets your most recent tycoon asks for.”
He leaned back, his brow near his hairline. “Don’t sling mud when you don’t know what you’re aiming at, Yankee girl. It strikes me that your ‘catering’ to the rich and famous hasn’t worked out so well for you lately.”
She couldn’t help the gasp that blew out of her mouth. Her stomach felt like it did when she’d been five and fallen off a swing set belly first onto the hard Buffalo dirt. It didn’t last long, though, the disorientation, the shock at his well-aimed barb.
“So much for Southern manners, Gus.”
So it was official. It was to be war.
* * * *
Her anger was more beautiful than a keel for one of his custom sailboats. He created the sailboats as part of a side business, the workshop in a part of his boat production facility. It allowed him to get away from the constant stress of the higher-end yachts and factory production of the flat-bottomed boats.
He savored the delicious satisfaction that he’d goaded her to this point. Where she was totally fixated on him, her eyes sparkling and her delicious mouth drawn in a straight line, all the while her nipples studded through the thin cotton of her fancy schmancy haute-whatever top. Pure exhilaration fueled his pounding pulse.
Except for the part where he felt like a complete ass. Poppy and her Maker’s Mark eyes brought out the brute in him. Brute. If only. A brute would use every ounce of seduction he possessed to get Poppy into his bed. Brandon couldn’t do that, not now, and probably not ever. Even if the time were right for both of them, they were salt and road rash. Who was the more damaged and who rubbed the salt in was a toss-up.
Although the music had picked back up, the din of conversation at their party’s table hadn’t. He shot a quick glance around, meeting the gaze of each person he could in the span of three seconds. It gave him the space he needed to figure out how to dig out of this hole. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
Nothing. She didn’t smile, nod, nor blink. Christ she was a ball-buster.
“I’m sorry. I was only trying to poke some fun at you for being from New York City. I don’t mind Manhattan.” Murmurs turned into conversations and the protection of the din allowed him to relax his shoulders. So he wasn’t braced for the shove that landed solidly in the center of his right shoulder, making him rock back on the rear legs of his chair.
“How many times have you been to New York, Gus?” It was the second time she hadn’t called him Brandon and he didn’t like it. He didn’t hate it, but he liked how his given name sounded with her TV-talk non-accent.
“Too many to count. You’d be surprised who orders custom yachts and then decides they can’t deal with the upkeep.”
“No, I’m not surprised. Dealing with the mega-rich and celebrities can often be difficult. It sounds like you get twice the fun, though. You build, sell, and help to resell?” Her interest was genuine.
“Something like that.” He was so not going to tell Yankee girl that each boat was like a child; he had to let it go to the owner but if the kid was going to be sold Brandon wanted the boat back with him rather than risk it winding up in the hands of someone who wouldn’t take care of it. It made him sound like an idiot, or worse, a control freak.
“Wait. Do you actually buy back the boats you’ve already made a fortune on?”
“Yes. And the boats themselves are the fortune, the investment as far as I’m concerned.” Besides his employees, who were his family. “Profit margin is something else.”
“Profit on your net can’t be that bad. But how good is it for business to buy back your own product?”
“Very, actually. I let my accounts manager take care of it.” The response was automatic, what he’d always replied before Jeb had taken off with the company treasure.
At the moment the only boat he had to sell needed at least a month’s worth of rehab, and a lot of it included the pricy interior of the sailboat. “The last boat I purchased back had the cabin torn to shreds. The owner used it for a pit-bull tournament.”
Horror flashed over Poppy’s features, but to her credit she quickly compensated with what he thought of as her professional, high-fashion stylist detachment. “Did you get it back via the police?”
“No, the loser never got caught. I couldn’t report him, as it was only hearsay, and my word against his assistant telling me that’s what happened.”
“A sense of entitlement is my least favorite character trait.” Her mouth was set in a grim line. “Remorse would be nice every once in a while.”
He laughed. “You do get it, don’t you? Something tells me that our clientele have a lot in common.”
“Maybe. My work is done with an event or wardrobe purchase. I can’t imagine what you’ve invested in an entire custom boat.”
“It’s always a piece of my heart, that’s for sure.”
“How long does it take you?”
“No telling. Depends on the customer, their requests. At least six months, one time almost two years.”
She regarded him with what he thought was respect. Maybe they wouldn’t be at each other’s throats except in the most pleasurable of ways.
Christ he had to stop thinking about sex with her. At least, his dick did.
“So you do mostly sailboats?” Her trademark flush illuminated her creamy skin and he knew she felt it, too.
“With full power and custom luxury fittings, yes. Think of them as yachts with sails. Smaller, but lacking no convenience.”
“Do any of your owners actually sail or is it all crew?”
“A fair number want to learn to sail, or at least they act like it when they’re touring the production facility. A handful have been lifelong sailors and pick us because of our reputation for quality. Then there are the sailors who save a lifetime for a Gus boat, and maybe they come into money from an inheritance or decide to let go of a retirement fund or two and cash it in for a boat.”
“That’s pretty dedicated. Giving up your retirement for a boat.”
“There’s a freedom in sailing under your own skill, in the middle of all that blue ocean. It’s a sacred experience, being out where no other boats are in sight.”
“Freedom?” She squished her nose. “Sounds like a lot of hard work.”
He didn’t expect her to get it, just like he didn’t expect his clients to all share his sailing zen. He had to make the bottom line to keep Boats by Gus afloat, so he’d sold a boat or two to buyers he knew damned well would never appreciate the beauty of what they’d purchased. But it bothered him that Poppy didn’t get it.
Why was he wasting his energy on her, a woman he’d have to spend, what, one more day with? So far from what he’d heard she had major trust issues, or should, by the way she’d been mistreated by her ex. With his own psychic wounds any consideration of involvement with her, no matter how casual, sent up flares of fiery premonition. The warning kind. As in, “this is lethal to your heart, buddy.”
He met her gaze and the wariness behind her cool composure reminded him why he couldn’t stop talking to her. Why he had to fight an erection at her mere scent or husky voice.
“That reminds me, we need to exchange phone numbers.”
“You’re kidding.” Her deadpan reply threatened to coax a laugh out of him.
“No. With my brother and Sonja keeping the early part of tomorrow traditional, at least you and I should be able to communicate in case one of the limos gets lost or gets a flat.”
“It’s funny how people can be so modern, so hip, and yet when it comes to weddings, tradition shows up.” She sipped her tea and the way her mouth closed around the straw made him want to press closer, force her to either back away or preferably cozy up as snugly to him as his jeans fit across his hard dick.
Jesus.
This woman was waaaaay too much work, way too complicated for him, even when he wasn’t facing career annihilation while simultaneously feeling the effects of losing his lifetime best friend.
“Okay, I’ll phone you. What’s your number?”
He told her and watched her slim, adept fingers fly over her phone. No fancy nail polish for Poppy. She left that for her toes. Within seconds his phone rang with a 212 area code.
“Got it, thanks.” Did he sound casual enough? She didn’t think he wanted her number for anything other than the needs of the wedding service, did she?
“Let’s hope we don’t need to use our phones tomorrow.” She always lectured her wedding parties to forget about the technology for one day. Let the wedding photographer do his or her job and put the phones away.
“It’s hard to know.” As he spoke he caught a movement up at the head of the large mass of tables that had been shoved together to accommodate their group of a dozen or so. Two recognizable figures, even after years of dodging family functions, stood next to Henry and Sonja. Hudson and Gloria. His parents.
Holy hell.