Chapter 7
“You had one job, Poppy. One job.” Brandon chastised her in between shots of bourbon, his tuxedo tie long gone and his shirt open to reveal a very sexy Adam’s apple. A body part that had too much use as the bridal party all crowded together at a bar in the French Quarter, where no one batted an eye at the group sans bride and groom.
“You try outwitting Sonja. She’s a genius, always has been.”
“If she’s so smart, why did she let Henry’s asswipe parents change her mind?” Daisy spoke up from the other side of the group, her dress crinkled and her glass of Chablis almost gone.
“Yeah, explain that one, Poppy.” Brandon’s voice was smooth and she didn’t hear anger in it, per se, but she couldn’t shake the gut instinct that he blamed her for the hot mess that the wedding of the bayou had turned into. Plus he was calling her by her given name, not something he’d done much until now.
“Wait a minute. You’re acting like I knew about this. As of last night Sonja was still excited to be getting married today.” Well, sort of. She and Henry had been unusually quiet, and Henry left after the rehearsal dinner to stay with Brandon. All in the name of tradition, which right now didn’t seem as charming as it had last night. “You’re the one who had Henry at your place last night. What did he say that might have tipped you off to Sonja running away today?”
“Nothing. He was as surprised as I was that our parents showed up, and had some concerns about how our father is going to treat Sonja after the wedding. In the office. Which is a moot point since no wedding ergo no issues at work.”
“It had to have been your parents. They said something to her last night. What else could it be?”
“Oh, I’ve no doubt it was my parents. This has Hudson and Gloria stamped all over it.”
“Did they…did they ever try something like this with you?”
His eyes pinned her for a heart-stopping moment before he threw his head back and laughed at the tin-tiled ceiling. “Honey, that’s all they know how to do.”
She let the endearment run over her skin like its moniker. The things that she’d do with honey and Brandon’s body…nope. She put her drink down. No more booze—it wasn’t a good way to keep her heart safe.
“Well, it’s a sure thing that when Henry catches up with her he’ll change her mind.” Pathetic words even if they were her own.
“Who says he wants to find her?” Brandon pulled at his open collar as if his tie was still there, revealing a smexy sprinkling of chest hair. Which probably indicated the start of a path to between his legs, where no doubt hung a magnificent cock. Because men like Brandon didn’t do anything halfway. “See something you like, Yankee?”
Caught.
“Not at all. It’s the artist in me—I scope out my surroundings.”
Heat flared in his eyes and her nipples were pressing against her pink chiffon halter dress as if they’d been imprisoned for years. And it had only been, what, a few months since she’d had sex?
Try six. Okay six months since Will stopped the bedroom activity. Three months since she’d had a man as much as run his fingers down her arm, scratch her back. Until Brandon.
A warm hand on hers, pinning it to the smooth oak bar.
“Stay here, Poppy. With me. Forget about whatever happened in New York.”
She looked at their hands, and at him. “What do you mean?” Her words came out like a torch, drawing a definite line between them. His hand lifted. They didn’t know one another well enough. What was he thinking?
“Just don’t want you to have another panic attack. None of this is your fault. I shouldn’t have teased you.” His puzzled expression underscored her pathetic neediness.
“I thought you meant stay with you. You meant stay here, in the present moment.”
His expression sobered. “I’d never tease you about staying with me.”
Her stomach flip-flopped. Rubbing her hand over it, she tossed her head and managed a smile. “I can handle teasing. And I’m not about to have a panic attack.”
“You drifted there.”
She had. And she wasn’t sharing why. Hell, he already knew, along with the rest of the world that paid attention to social media and reality television.
“I take it you’ve never followed the rules.” She stirred her Manhattan, preferring to stick to what she was used to. Besides, it was her comfort drink.
“I tried to. Until I couldn’t.” He motioned for the bartender to bring them another round.
“Oh, no, I’ll take a soda water.” One more Manhattan and she’d never be able to work in the morning.
“You have somewhere to go in the morning?”
“No, but I have work.”
“And you expect to still have the house to yourself for the next two weeks?”
Faced with the same two weeks to house-sit, but not knowing if either Sonja, Henry, or both would appear sooner, Poppy planned to work on her home decor line for the following spring, fourteen months out. She’d already turned in the autumn designs for Attitude by Amber and was waiting to hear at any minute which distributors had picked up which designs.
“Sure, why not? For all we know they went on the honeymoon anyway.” She doubted it but hoped. Hoped that at least Sonja found true love, a real happily ever after.
“What do you have to work on? Now that your office in New York is, ah, on hiatus?”
“There’s more to Designs by Amber than personal stylist and event planning. I’m getting ready for a major launch of a home fashion and decor line. I have plenty to do.”
The large home on the banks of the tributary was quiet and the perfect place for her to set up shop. Thank God for the home decor line and associated women’s fashion line or she’d be sunk, career kaput. She wanted to sink into her too-familiar world of stewing over why she hadn’t been good enough for Will, what she could have done differently. Unfortunately Brandon’s annoying intensity wouldn’t let her go anywhere but the present.
“What are you staring at?” She used her best New York attitude.
“Come walk with me, Poppy.” The warmth of his hand on hers wasn’t clammy or suffocating as she wished it was. It would be so much easier if this man was a turnoff in at least one little way. Before she could come up with a protest, she was following him out of the bar, into the misting evening. Brandon’s profile under the streetlights was tall, dark, and combined with the heat of his hand holding hers, sexually potent. A little groan escaped Poppy’s lips.
“What’s that?” He sounded distracted as he led them through the more familiar streets, back toward where they’d been the first night she’d met him. Two nights and a lifetime ago.
“Nothing, where are we going? The others are going to wonder.”
“They’re halfway drunk by now.”
She couldn’t argue with that, as she probably was, too. She’d fought to not drink too much, hoping Sonja and Henry would call and the entire nightmare of a day would have a happy ending.
“Have you ever done something that you know is completely out of the norm for you, totally inadvisable?” He spoke as he tugged her along, impatient to get wherever they were headed.
“Sure, I mean, I don’t know. Maybe. Wait—we’re going back to the garden?” Poppy was all about atmosphere and ambience but what did Brandon have to say in the garden that he couldn’t tell her in the bar? “Are you talking about Sonja running away from her own wedding?”
“Sonja and Henry aren’t on my radar right now.”
Nothing sexier than for the man holding her hand to be determined, confident. Her mind raced with all kinds of sexy encounter ideas. Her stomach tingled at the possibilities and the heat between her legs, which had become a damned glow stick since she’d met him, raged.
“Brandon, wait, it’s raining. I don’t have a coat.” Actually, all she had was a wrap, which was a frothy pile of pink on her abandoned barstool.
They’d reached the private garden and Brandon led them through to a side area they hadn’t visited the other night. He smiled at her in the dark, his white teeth promising things her body would gladly beg for.
When they stepped up onto a small gazebo, Brandon took off his coat and placed it around her shoulders. As he drew her up against his hard length, she felt surrounded by him—his musk, his fresh-wood scent, his presence.
“Poppy.” He placed his hands on either side of her face and she didn’t stop him, couldn’t look away as he lowered his lips to hers.
* * * *
Brandon couldn’t let another chance to kiss Poppy Kaminsky go by. After tonight, he’d never see her again and—
Hell, who was he kidding? He wasn’t after one kiss from this incredible woman. If they ended up back at his place, that’d be even better. She wasn’t a shy debutante or young college grad who’d expect more from him. Poppy was as worldly as he when it came to sex, he was certain. And besides her burning body that he was insane to explore, he sensed they both needed this. Poppy had survived a huge personal loss and so had he. It didn’t matter that she had no clue what he was going through. He needed respite and inexplicably felt that she did, too. A healing. Two adults, helping each other. What he needed to do, wanted to do to Poppy, with her, for her, became clear.
Until his lips touched hers. All certainty, all of what he was so sure of, vanished like the millions in his bank account had. Instead of being absconded to God knew where, though, his thoughts formed into a tight, hot, uncontrollable awareness of the woman he held in his arms.
“Poppy.” He spoke against her lips, afraid if he broke the intimate contact she’d disappear. Her mouth opened to his and her tongue met his with sinful hot need. When she wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed against him he lifted her a couple of inches off the gazebo deck and turned them around until he had her back up against a smooth white column. He took his time to set her down, allowed her front to run along his, allowed her to feel his erection against her softest parts. Even through layers of clothing his cock felt her heat as he ground into her. She rewarded him with gasps and sharp, short pants. Not anxiety breathing this time but turned-on, let’s-keep-it-going gulps for air. Seeing that she wanted him as much as he did her was the biggest turn-on. Ever.
He kissed her throat, licking at the creamy skin, his nape and scalp tingling from being this close to her, finally kissing her the way he’d imagined nonstop for the past forty-eight hours. And he thought he didn’t do “tingled.”
“Brandon.” Her ragged voice told him all he needed. All he wanted.
“Come back to my place, Poppy.”
“Not smart.” She kept moving her hands over his back, pulled his shirt out of his pants, and pushed her hands under to touch his back. When she moved to his abs the floor under them felt like his boat deck.
“Christ, Poppy, not yet.” He grabbed her hands and held them above her head, flush with the gazebo column. It was natural to take full advantage of the position, to kiss her with a need beyond his experience. And he considered himself most experienced with women and raw, unapologetic erotic sex.
He knew in that moment that it wasn’t a fluke, or coincidence of a family wedding. Poppy had something no other woman could give him.
* * * *
Poppy wanted to blame her light-headedness on the cocktails, on the long, sad day. Not on the fact that she couldn’t catch her breath when Brandon kissed her like this because the way he kissed was knock-it-out-of-the-park good. Expert. Exactly what she needed to escape the heavy. When he lifted his head and broke their kiss she let out a cry of dismay.
“There’s more at my place, Yankee girl.” He licked her bottom lip, sucked on it gently until she had to totally rely on the gazebo post and Brandon for support. Poppy had experienced intense sexual attraction before, but this was different in ways she wasn’t willing to admit. Not tonight, not when her skin was on fire for Brandon.
“I want to, Brandon, I do. But then there’s tomorrow and we’ll have to face that we did this and…” She stopped talking as he switched his hold on her wrists to one hand and explored her body with his free hand. He touched her so lightly, so provocatively on her face, her throat, the side of her body where the dress perfectly fitted her along her ribcage.
“Brandon, this is torture.”
“Patience, Yankee girl.” His hand cupped her breast and his gentle squeeze through the chiffon would never be enough, nor would the way his thumb flicked at her hardened nipple.
Her heart pounded against his hand but she was more aware of the velvet heat that pulsated between her legs. Brandon had to feel her need, and not only because she was writhing her hips against his pelvis as if she were a dog in heat.
His chuckle was rough around the edges and betrayed his want. As if his rock-hard cock hadn’t. She tugged to release her hands, needing to feel the length of him. “Not yet, Poppy.” In one motion his mouth was back on hers and his hand under her silky skirt, his fingers seeking her center. No words were exchanged as he found her, dripping with want for him, and plunged two fingers into her.
Poppy let out a squeak and would have died of mortification if his fingers, his kiss, weren’t pushing her to the precipice of what she was certain would be the best orgasm of her life. When Brandon’s thumb, that magical thumb, pressed her clit at the same time his mouth sucked on her tongue, Poppy broke apart. Wave after wave of complete sensual release hit her. Brandon let go of her hands and her arms clutched at his shoulders as the climax wrecked her. When she finally floated back to reality, her cheek was on Brandon’s shoulder, his arms wrapped around her as he dropped kisses against her hair and murmured sexy talk in her ear.
“That’s only a teaser for later.” His deep voice vibrated in his throat, his chest, and she was loath to lift her cheek.
“I don’t think my heart could take more than that.” The words were a no-filter expression of what she felt, but as soon as they came out she realized how he could take them. She pushed back and looked up at him. His eyes reflected the same desire she felt, as well as the same defensiveness. “I don’t mean that in an emotional sense. I’m saying that the cardio workout you just gave me was better than any spin class. Not that it wasn’t more. God I suck at explaining my emotions!”
“Enough.” He leaned in and she allowed the kiss without any hesitation. Instead of the passionate come-on she expected, however, Brandon’s lips were sensual in their exploration, his tongue completely claiming her again but without the possessive stamp of earlier. He lifted his head and smiled at her. “There’s no need to fret, Yankee girl. Let’s call it a night here.”
“But you’re…you’ve got to be in discomfort.”
“Nothing I can’t handle. And trust me, Poppy, the pleasure was all mine.” He kissed her on the forehead and wrapped his arm around her waist.
Poppy walked out of the garden with Brandon, and it wasn’t until they neared the French Quarter again that she realized she hadn’t thought about anyone or anything going on her life since they’d left the bar.
For a blessed hour, Poppy had been totally herself.
* * * *
Brandon didn’t make any attempt to sit near her for the rest of the evening but she felt his gaze on her, the hot caress of his baby blues. Each time she sought to meet his glance he looked away as if to prove his point that whatever they’d shared back in the garden was definitely “no ties.”
“I want Sonja to be happy.” Daisy chattered away albeit much more sloppily after the pre-dinner cocktails and dinner drinks turned into shots. Poppy enjoyed another cocktail but nothing to get her drunk or even buzzed. It wasn’t her scene and she didn’t need to justify herself.
Another new feeling since being in New Orleans. She was feeling so good, in fact, that the old Poppy whispered in her ear that something was bound to go to pot at any moment.
“Sonja will be happy, Daisy. And I do think Henry could still be the man for her. They need time and space, I suppose. To work things out.”
“I’d like to work things out with him.” Daisy leaned drunkenly against Poppy as she pointed at Brandon. The jealous reaction in Poppy’s stomach was familiar—hadn’t she lived with it these past two months as she watched her assistant and Will plan their life together? The jealousy she experienced now wasn’t so sophisticated, though. It wasn’t about her career, her aspirations to marry the “perfect” man. It had nothing to do with the sense of possessiveness she’d experienced before, over Will.
It was a more melancholy, primal type of jealousy she wasn’t familiar with. And it was laced with deep sadness. As if her heart knew she’d never have the likes of a man like Brandon Boudreaux. A man who could touch her like that but still challenge her mind. And make her laugh.
Kaminsky women don’t do lucky in love.
As if to prove her point, her phone vibrated and lit up. She’d kept it out on the bar in case Sonja called or texted. Her stomach flipped at the ID. Carolyn. Her agent in New York, the woman who’d brokered the entire Attitude by Amber deal. On a Saturday night when Carolyn knew Poppy had scrammed out of town to escape the social media meltdown and attend her best friend’s wedding.
“Hi, Carolyn.”
“Poppy. I’m sorry to bother you today, but we need to talk.”
“Sure, go ahead.”
She had to press the phone to her ear and plug the other.
“Poppy, I know it’s your sister’s wedding, which I trust went well, but, well, I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news.”
Poppy’s skin started to crawl and a flush of heat rose up her throat, her face. “No problem. I’m getting together the designs for the next season’s release.” The words came out in a rush. As if they could stem the bad news Carolyn was trying to break to her.
“Poppy, there isn’t going to be another season.”
Poppy laughed, a nervous reaction to what she hoped was a garbled statement. She wasn’t hearing well amidst the Saturday night revelers.
“Wait, Carolyn. What did you say? Hang on. I’m in a bar in downtown New Orleans. I’m walking outside now.” The bar was noisy and she grabbed her clutch and slid off the barstool. She made a beeline for the door, grateful for the break from the din and Brandon’s subversive intensity.
Once on the side street, dark and deserted compared to the main thoroughfare, she spoke. “Okay, go ahead, Carolyn. Sorry about that. It was so loud I didn’t make out what you said. I thought you said there wasn’t going to be another season!” She smiled, knowing the impossibility of Attitude by Amber being canceled this close to the first season’s release. It was too big of a deal for the distributors to back out of.
“That is what I said, Poppy.” Carolyn’s voice was kind, compassion oozing from each word. Each. God. Damned. Word.
“But we’re only weeks—”
“Your brand is too risky, Poppy. There’s the public debacle of your breakup with Will, and now the lawsuit from your former executive assistant against your brand has gone public in a big way. You’re a liability the buyers are unable to risk. I’m sorry, but with over eighty percent of the retail sites refusing to carry Attitude by Amber, they’ve decided to cancel your entire line. They’re voiding your contract in its entirety. I’m so sorry, Poppy. I know how rough the last few months have been for you.” Carolyn had known her since she’d started her personal stylist business and had encouraged Poppy to reach further, to stretch her creative talents beyond catering to rich celebrities. To build something more solid, more independent. Something of her own.
“Carolyn, what the hell am I supposed to do now? There has to be somewhere else to send the designs, the entire concept. What about an online launch?” She heard the desperation in her tone as if she were viewing the scene from high above the weathered pavement.
“You’re free to keep the samples you’ve already received, of course. For your future inspiration. But for the foreseeable future, Poppy, you’re out of the design business. Why don’t you use the two weeks you were going to spend working on Attitude by Amber to unwind, decompress. Think about what you really want out of your talents.”
“I want my own label on decor and fashion, Carolyn. Which apparently you’re telling me is not going to happen. Ever.”
“I didn’t say ever, exactly.”
“You’ve never been one to beat around the facts. Please don’t start now.” Poppy pressed her palm to her forehead, hoping against all hope that she wouldn’t start to panic or get a migraine. Not on top of this.
“You’re tired. How was the wedding?”
“About as good as my career. It didn’t happen.” She briefly filled Carolyn in, still feeling as though she were in someone else’s body.
“How can this be happening?” She fought to breathe, fought against the pounding in her ribcage, stomped her foot in her high heels, let the pain in her toes confirm this wasn’t a dream, that she wasn’t in an alien body.
Carolyn’s sigh came from twelve hundred miles away but sounded crystal clear in Poppy’s ear. “It’s business, Poppy. You have a lot of talent, and you’ll eventually land on your feet again. But no one’s willing to risk launching your line when your brand has plummeted.”
“Attitude by Amber is the new line the retail stores need. You know how much they’re struggling, unable to compete with online sales. Please, talk to them again. Talk to anyone who can help us. Convince them to let the first season launch. Give me a chance. We can rename it if you want.”
“It’s not that simple, Poppy. What is clear is that Attitude by Amber is dead, and you need time for the public to forget your recent mishaps. And time to come out with a new, commercial game plan.”
Accusations she’d hurled at Will for being a fake and imposter roiled in her mind, the accusations suddenly applying to her. She was a fake. She wasn’t a designer, the one thing she thought was bulletproof in her arsenal of talent. Nothing could take her talent away. Wrong. Bad timing, an uneven temper, and unfortunate circumstances with her ex-fiancé had led to this point. She let out a soft moan.
“Give yourself time to process this. We’ll talk after you’re back in the city. Call me in a couple of months.” Carolyn ended the connection as abruptly as ever. Usually Poppy accepted it as the cost of having such a highly competent agent. Now she realized it was because her agent had lost faith in Poppy’s competence.
The line went dead and Poppy gulped. In a few short weeks her brand had gone from a potentially multimillion-dollar commodity to zip, nada, zero. Negative zero.
She was an utter failure, alone in a city she barely knew, and stuck in a huge empty house while her best friend traipsed the country trying to find herself.
Worse, Poppy had no idea who she was anymore. What did it say that the only time she’d felt one hundred percent natural and totally the woman she was meant to be had been in the arms of a man she’d known for less than a week?
The music from the bar sounded like a hollow echo in the alley and she watched a couple stumble out of the exit, laughing and hanging onto each other. Was that how she’d appeared as she’d gone into the garden with Brandon?
She’d lost her focus. And now she’d lost all she’d ever worked for.
She had to get out of here before Brandon came looking for her. She saw the flash of car lights on the cross street a block up and headed for the main thoroughfare. The anonymity and relative safety of a well-lit street in the French Quarter oddly calmed her. She’d be back at Sonja’s in under an hour, thanks to her Uber app.