Chapter 8
Brandon ripped the earbuds out and rested his head on the back of his shipbuilding office’s chair. He’d managed to track Jeb to the NOLA airport, but that was it. Forced to hire a PI, all he could do now was wait for more information. Short of reporting Jeb as a criminal, he was fucked. The roar of silence in his ears mocked him, a constant reminder than there were no new custom orders coming in. Hence the quiet shipbuilding facility. When he’d walked the floor of the flat-bottomed boat factory earlier today, every employee had been upbeat, focused on their work. Because they didn’t know what was coming down.
Nothing had gone smoothly in the week since Henry’s almost-wedding. Not one damn thing. His only respite was working on a custom order for a sailboat that he wasn’t sure he’d be able to scrape up the funds to finish. The customer had put down the full payment, in cash, but it had been eaten up by overhead. Brandon spun his chair around and looked at the rivulets of rain webbing down the windowpane. He’d never thought it all could turn on a dime like this. His only option was to file for bankruptcy.
Unless he put a bid in for the San Sofia contract. The small Caribbean island nation had reached out to Boats by Gus about contracting for ten hybrid boats that would allow their national drug defense agency to patrol and apprehend their territorial waters. Brandon wanted the contract so badly he could taste it.
But he wasn’t a Foreign Service Officer. He could be diplomatic, sure, but didn’t have the savoir faire needed to pull off a meeting with foreign country representatives, for God’s sake. And he’d be competing against much larger, more experienced shipbuilders. Even if his bank accounts were flush, his former best friend and accountant not a scum-sucking thief, he’d be hard-pressed to land even a portion of what was on the table. His gut churned at the thought of his employees becoming job hunters overnight.
His text dinged and he absentmindedly checked it, still holding out hope that Jeb would reach out to him.
It was Henry.
Saw storms coming in. Please check on the house for me. Key under flowerpot with gecko decoration on side. Don’t let Poppy get stranded in flood. Won’t be back until my vacation days run out.
Brandon hesitated, wondering how much of this was his business, before he texted a reply.
How long will you be gone?
Henry’s response was swift.
At least two more weeks. Maybe 3. Thanks.
Henry gave no clue as to where he was, what he was doing with Sonja, if he was with Sonja. What the hell? And wasn’t he supposed to return from his honeymoon by the end of next week? Brandon wasn’t in any place to judge his brother’s emotional needs. But he thought it was okay to be annoyed at him for forcing him to deal with the one woman he hadn’t been able to forget about. The woman he wanted to believe was back in New York. That she wasn’t still this close and hadn’t so much as texted. He’d left the next move up to her but deep in the crevices of his betrayed heart a tiny ghost of himself had kept a light lit with the tiny hope she’d been as turned on by him as he was her.
Henry thought Poppy was still house-sitting, but Brandon wasn’t so sure. The way she’d left the party at the bar last weekend, disappearing without notice, made him think she’d left NOLA. That was good, if she did. Because she’d crept into his thoughts too many times over the last few days. He hadn’t allowed himself to contact her. He’d wondered too often if he’d made a mistake, letting her go like that.
He shook his head and punched in a reply to Henry.
Are you sure she’s still there? I’ll go check either way. Hope you’re well.
He’d bet his last dollar that Poppy had taken the next flight out of Dodge, back to her familiar habitat in New York City. The city reminded Brandon of a gerbil tube. He’d appreciated the museums and being able to have whatever kind of food you wanted, sure. But he’d felt he was inside more than out and if he didn’t have claustrophobia that would give it to him. As unsure of his life and future as he was right now, one thing he knew about himself was that he had to be in nature every day, no matter for how long. Office work wasn’t his gig.
He didn’t have a last dollar to bet on Poppy being gone, though, and tapped on his weather app. There had been some notifications that heavy rains were possible, but since he’d come into the office this morning the advisories had turned to warnings.
“Shit.” The weather was nothing to mess with in New Orleans or the surrounding bayou. Flooding happened at the drop of a hat and it was indiscriminate in whether it affected residential areas or not. Henry’s place was up on a bit of a rise, but nothing was high enough for the torrential downpours that NOLA was known for. According to the forecast, the rain that was currently a steady drizzle wasn’t going to let up for the next five days, with the heaviest bands moving into the area in about an hour and lingering for seventy-two. He was going to have to make sure Poppy was okay. Or rather, check on Henry’s place. If she was there, whatever.
“Double shit.”
“You okay, boss?” His office administrator poked her head in his door. She knew he talked to himself regularly, but he hadn’t realized how loud he’d been.
“Fine, Greta. Have you seen the weather? I think we’d better close up shop so folks can go prep their homes.”
“Already done. I’ve let anyone who asked to leave earlier go, and the rest got ready last night. They’ll finish out the workday but I think we’ll be stuck at home for a few days.”
“Right. Thanks. You’d best go home now, too. I take it they’ve let school out?”
Greta laughed. “Yeah, my kids have already texted me a grocery list of the snacks they want on hand.”
“Stay safe and we’ll stay in touch about when to return to work.”
He’d been so wrapped up in finding Jeb he’d missed the weather threat until now. Thinking about Poppy’s heat for him, and she had been hot for him, hadn’t helped, either. If she was still here he couldn’t see her—it’d only lead to more crazy. Checking the weather and local news again he saw that the airport was still open but expected to shut down within the next several hours.
First, he’d try her cell. If she was still in town he’d have to convince her to get out and fly back to where she came from. Gerbil habitat and all.
* * * *
The Piggly Wiggly grocery cashier didn’t bat an eye at Poppy’s order as it passed by her on the rubber belt. The well-groomed, if a bit heavy on the blue eye shadow, woman moved her crimson acrylic nails over the register keyboard as she scanned a brick of processed cheese followed by a can of spicy tomatoes. Poppy half expected the cashier to say something about her lack of nutritional food. Hell, she judged her poor choices but still planned to indulge. Cow Tales, Chocolate Kisses, and other junk food joined the array of colorful fruits and veggies she couldn’t resist. The Piggly Wiggly’s produce section was robust and cheery, a happy place on the overcast day. A bright spot in the perpetual gloom of the depression she’d sunk into. She’d failed to keep her best friend’s wedding from being canceled and oh, by the way, lost the biggest deal of her career, probably her life. How was she expected to recover from this without licorice whips? Register five’s cashier, “Brandy” according to the embroidered name above her heart, rang up the last item, a half-gallon of Blue Bunny ice cream Bunny Tracks, and raised one perfectly drawn red eyebrow at Poppy. “That all, sugar?”
“Yes.” Wasn’t her sugarfest enough?
“How about a case of water?”
“Water?”
“Storm’s hitting tonight. Last time it was this big there was no drinking local water without boiling it first. It lasted for two weeks.”
“Okay, two cases of water.” Poppy didn’t need to be strong or act like a know-it-all. Not to the ageless copper redhead cashing her out.
“Got it. Jimmy!” The petite woman bellowed in a volume to match a pro wrestler’s. “Two cases on five!” She turned back to Poppy.
“You visiting, sugar?”
“Yes. Housesitting for a friend.” She pushed back her greasy bangs. Showering had been too much of an effort since the wedding. Since that awful phone call from Carolyn.
Since the most incredible sex of her life, and even that had been one-sided. Brandon hadn’t wanted her to reciprocate. Add “failed blow job attempt” to her list of reasons to stay depressed.
“Did your friend show you where they keep their canoe?”
“A boat?” An immediate image of Brandon standing in his flat-bottomed boat flashed in her mind. “No, I’m pretty sure they don’t have a boat.”
“Then you better find out which neighbors do, sugar. There’s going to be flooding if the weather guessers are right, and you’re going to need a way out of your place, just in case. You might want to try to get a hotel reservation, if there are any left.”
“Um, we’re up on a hill. I’ll be fine. Thanks.” She silently begged the chip reader to finish digesting her credit card’s code.
Cashier Brandy cackled. “Sweetheart, there are no ‘hills’ in these parts.” Fluorescent purple nails highlighted her air quotes. “Some patches of property are higher than others, but we’re all on the tributary around this neighborhood. When you’re right at or below sea level it’s all the same, trust me.”
Ding. Finally. She grabbed her card and her cart, filled with three week’s worth of self-pity food for her remaining eight days in New Orleans. The bayou, she reminded herself. Not NOLA proper, where she’d had the best kiss of her life and the worst phone call of her life. For a city below sea level NOLA packed a wallop of life’s extremes.
“Thanks for the suggestions, Brandy.”
She beat feet out of the Piggly Wiggly and threw her goods into the trunk before she scrambled into the luxurious interior of Sonja’s car. Blasting the air against the heavy humidity, she drove the short distance through three or so neighborhoods until she reached the turnoff to the river house. It was hard to believe that all of these streets would be under water. It was January, not spring or summer, when she imagined the truly heavy rains came. And hurricane season was over, wasn’t it?
As she pulled onto the short gravel driveway she frowned at the strange vehicle in front of the garage. Damn it. If Henry was back then she’d have to leave. And if he’d brought Sonja with him, she’d have to leave now to give the couple space.
Poppy parked the car, got out, and went to the front door. She’d bring the groceries inside in a minute. First she had to determine whether it was the bride, groom, or both who’d returned.
The decorative front door opened to the empty house and she looked around the foyer and living room. “Hello?”
At no response she listened for running water. Maybe Henry or Sonja were in the bathroom. Walking further inside, she checked the kitchen, dining room, and side balcony. No one.
Sighing, she put her purse down on the counter and continued into the family room. And stopped short, fighting a scream at the unexpected man sitting there.
Brandon.
Maybe her blues were making her crazy and this was a hallucination. The man had terrorized her dreams and popped into her waking thoughts all day, every day since last Saturday.
“Hello, Yankee girl.”
He sat on the sofa, poring over her portfolio albums. It was her personal, safe place to work on her artistic visions while in the house. The invasion was as physical as if he’d broken into her own home and ransacked her most private rooms.
“What the hell are you doing here?”
Only after a long moment did Brandon look up and study her, much as he’d been doing with her design concepts. His eyes widened as he took her in from head to toe, and damn it if her skin didn’t feel an electric jolt of heat from his attention.
“What’s going on with you? You feel okay?” He nodded at her, as if she’d shown up in her worn terry bathrobe with used tissues in the pockets. She looked down at her pull-on Capri yoga pants and wrinkled T-shirt. The robe might have been a better choice, if it weren’t already draped over the sofa.
“I feel fine, thank you, and you didn’t answer me. How did you get in here? Wait—Henry keeps a key with you, I suppose. You knew I was here—why didn’t you call first?”
“I did try to call and text. Your voicemail is full or your phone is off. I even emailed you through your website. And there’s a spare key under the front flowerpot as backup.”
She’d shut her phone off Saturday night and refused to go online since holing up here. Or rather, house-sitting. The thought of someone being able to unlock what had been her fortress since the wedding made her shiver. Was anything what it seemed?
“I’m too busy to have outside distractions right now.” She crossed her arms over her chest, dreadfully aware of the thin comfort bra she wore under the crumpled top. It wasn’t the best presentation of her breasts. Fine for Piggly Wiggly, but not hot-as-sin Brandon Boudreaux.
“Do outside distractions include showering?” His comment was dry but non-accusatory. As if maybe he’d had a bout of no-shower days himself. Although his skin looked freshly scrubbed, his hair damp from the sprinkling rain. His teeth contrasted next to his tan skin screamed fit and healthy. Completely opposite of how she knew she appeared.
“I prefer baths, and my hair needed deep conditioning.” What made him an expert on female beauty regimens?
“Stay down here long enough and the humidity is all the moisturizer you need.” He snapped her largest journal closed, the one with all of the Southern-inspired designs, and held it up in the air. “You did this?”
“Yes.”
“Ever think of interior decorating, design? Instead of being a personal stylist?”
“That’s what I was doing with my Attitude by Amber line.” Using the past tense hurt her heart.
“I want you to outfit the cabin on a boat I’m building.”
“I’m not into boats.”
He held up a hand. “I know you’re all busy with your brand deal, but I promise I’ll pay you well. Your nautical take on furniture in this book lends perfectly to what I need in this boat. I realize you’ll have to work around your Attitude by Amber launch. But since you might be stuck here longer with the weather coming in, it’ll give you something to fill the hours.”
“I…I don’t have much to do with that deal right now.” He hadn’t picked up on her clue that Attitude by Amber was off the table, which was just fine. She didn’t have to admit her failure. Not yet. Not to him. Especially not to him.
“It’d be a new area for me. Outfitting boats.” She was reluctant to meet his gaze but when she did, his blue eyes assessed her without scorn. His arms looked buff and strong in his T-shirt. She remembered how wonderful it had felt to let go in the most basic, intimate way in those arms. They’d feel good in a hug while she cried on his shoulder, too.
She stood up straight and reminded herself that she didn’t need anyone’s shoulder.
He cocked his head. “So you’ll do it?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You’ve been a stylist for several of my clients. And I know you’ve been on their boats. So you’ve already seen what I do.”
She nodded. “Yes, I have. I didn’t know they were your boats at the time. It seems we’ve both created businesses that attract the same client demographic.” A demographic she wanted to change. She’d learned so much from her high-end clients, as much from the divas as the humble. But it wasn’t enough anymore.
He scratched the back of his head, looking a little less comfortable than he had when she’d walked in on him.
“This is a bit off topic, but what do you do for your male clients? As a stylist.”
Standing in Sonja’s house, in jeans and a T-shirt, he looked every bit the sexy man he was, and it would be too easy to give him an erotic reply. Just for the hell of it. If she was freshly showered, and her hair wasn’t plastered to her scalp in her best pity-party style.
“I help them decide on a basic look that they’re comfortable in, and riff on that. Take your jeans and T-shirt. You seem to make a uniform out of it, so I’d suggest keeping the jeans but updating them, and maybe putting a collared shirt over your T-shirts.”
He looked down at his outfit as if seeing it for the first time. “I spend my days either on a computer or the phone, negotiating deals, and the rest of the time building boats. I don’t need fancy. Not usually.”
“Do you ever give your clients tours of your facility? You said you’ve been to Manhattan to deliver your boats. Do you meet your customers dressed like that?”
“I have several suits for when I need them.”
“Off the rack, right?” At his shrug she continued. “There’s nothing wrong with that, but you’re selling million-dollar products. You need to look the part of the successful business owner.”
“Maybe in Manhattan but not here. People in the bayou are more laid-back. Visitors expect the local charm.”
“Give me a break. Southern style, especially here in New Orleans, takes its cue from the early settlers. The Duke of New Orleans and French culture in general has left an indelible mark here. Just look at all the fleur-de-lis!”
“Someone’s been reading her history.”
Brandon didn’t miss a thing. He must have seen the thick book on New Orleans she’d pulled off Henry’s shelf, lying on the wide ottoman. And he mocked her for it. Didn’t he realize a trip into the complicated, rich history of this area was the best kind of escape when your life was in shambles?
A bright flash of light startled her but not nearly as much as the immediate crack of thunder. “What is this, the Great Flood? It sounds like Poseidon’s right over the house.” She shouted at him, needing to be heard over the sudden cloudburst.
Brandon was unmoved by her declaration, his hands on his hips, his face down. As if he were shoring up for a huge battle, calculating his next move. When he looked back up his blue eyes reflected the stormy winds that lashed crepe myrtle branches against the windows.
Awareness, as intense as it was instant, pulsed desire through her veins. It all pooled between her legs and she knew her panties weren’t daintily damp but in fact dripping with her want. Her need.
“I didn’t come here to talk about business, Poppy.”