Fully Dressed

by Geri Krotow

  “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.

  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 fe
lt 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.